#( ;; sorry for writing 3 pages of a novel in response. )

[moraxsthrone]

◊ title — scent (phase 2)

◊ pairing — zhongli/morax x f!reader

◊ wc — 3.3k

◊ notes — guys. the way it took so long to write this bc horny. sorry not sorry. hopefully you'll find that it was worth the wait. also, i lied. this will be a 4-part series (not a 3-parter) - the ideas are coming faster than i can get them out. how fitting that i finally finished this on mother's day - just a fortunate coincidence.

◊ be warned — nsfw. mdni. feral!zhongli/morax. heat/rut. dragon features/anatomy/instincts. oral/tongue fucking (f. rcv'ing). squirting. cum drinking. rough, animalistic sex. biting/marking. knotting. breeding. scent marking. light aftercare.

← phase 1 ◊ phase 3 (wip)

...end of phase 2 (48 hours before you ovulate)...

“hey babe!” you greet your husband cheerfully while closing the door with your foot. 

zhongli is sitting at the little breakfast nook that sits adjacent to your kitchen, reading a book and enjoying a cup of his favorite afternoon tea. he’s so engrossed in his novel that he doesn’t look up, just answers you with a low hum as you set the shopping bags down on the countertop. he’s mid-sip when you lean down and give him an innocent little peck on the cheek. his teacup is still pressed to his bottom lip when you twirl around and walk away from him to start putting groceries away. 

he’s still looking at the book that he holds in his ungloved hand, but is oblivious to the words in front of him. his gaze slowly lifts from the pages, looking over the top of the book to watch you move around the kitchen, putting the provisions in their respective places. you’re wearing those cute little shorts and he’s willing to bet mora that you’re not wearing anything underneath if the intensity of your scent is anything to go by. 

you bend over to place a couple of items in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator, unwittingly giving him a little peep show when the crease of your butt cheeks peek out from underneath those scandalous shorts. zhongli is looking closely, and sure enough, you’re not wearing any panties. what began as a small spark of heat at the base of his spine when you gave him that innocent kiss a minute ago has been ignited and is now a raging wildfire that is rapidly spreading to his loins. 

you’re fertile. he can smell it, and the delicious scent of your heat has triggered his rut. it’s not something he has any control over. similarly to how he’s clenching his jaw, he’s only partially cognizant of it. 

he just instinctively knows that you smell of unhad sex.

and he must have you. he must fill you with his musk and scent you. but before he does any of that, the ghost of your earthy scent is haunting the back of his tongue.

first, he must taste you.

you say something but it’s gibberish to him when all he can hear, see, smell, or taste is your heat. it must’ve started somewhere around mid-day. when he woke up next to you this morning, he could faintly smell you, which is typical. but now he is all but drowning in the rich, ripe scent of your pussy. and you aren’t even aroused yet.

but if zhongli has anything to do with it, that’s about to change.

deep down he knows that you need to be wet to receive his cock. more than that, though, he wants to smell your arousal. 

you’re still busying yourself with putting away groceries, humming the song that’s been stuck in your head all afternoon, having no idea that your husband’s dick is hard, his balls are aching, and he’s about .58 seconds away from bending you over the nearest surface. 

“what would you like for dinner tonight, li?” you ask, standing on your tippy toes to reach the top shelf in your pantry. but he’s too ensnared by your creamy thighs to have noticed; he couldn’t hear you over the blood pumping furiously through his veins. when you don’t get a reply, you turn around to look at him. “li?”

he blinks and clears his throat. “wh-what?”

you repeat the question, to which he stammers out a response while loosening his tie. “whatever you want is f- fine with me, dear.”

you close the pantry door and furrow your brow at him, noting his flushed complexion. he appeared to be perfectly fine a minute ago. “zhongli, are you feeling okay?” you fret, making your way over to him. at his age, he could be having a heart attack or something… “darling, you look feverish…are you coming down with something?” 

you bring your hand to his forehead. he’s burning up. you’re close to him again - too close - and you’re ripe for the picking. 

before he fully realizes what he’s doing, he quickly stands up, the legs of his chair skidding across the tiled floor. your eyes go wide when he grabs you by the waist and in one swift movement, your ass and thighs are unceremoniously dropped onto the surface of the small dining table in front of him. your mouth opens, but before you can say anything, it’s filled with the former archon’s tongue. 

his kiss is fierce, raw. animalistic even. there’s no romance behind it, only sheer need and passion. you feel like he’ll eat you alive…but he’s only just begun. as his hot muscle swirls around yours, he wedges himself between your legs, forcing them apart with his hips. his hands are everywhere - groping, pulling, pushing: your neck, your tits, your waist, your thighs. unable to get a word in edgewise, you whine into his mouth and he finally pulls away, mouth still open with a thread of saliva connecting your lips. 

“zh- hahh-” you whimper when you feel his teeth on your neck. 

he’s not biting you (yet). he’s merely keeping you where he wants you while he brands you with his mark. you wonder what’s gotten into him as his hand massages your naked thigh. he’s only like this when you-

oh.

has it been two weeks already? it seems like only yesterday that the two of you were talking about maybe starting a family.

a little mewl escapes your lips as the thought hazily occurs to you that you haven’t kept up with your cycle. but it’s okay…you haven’t had to because he has.

knowing your husband’s draconic rut has been triggered by your heat sends a pang of desire shooting to your core and you moan for him. his mating pheromones go undetected by your human sense of smell; however, the reptilian part of your brain is pinging like crazy, telling your body it’s time to breed. 

you’re frantically working to unbutton his shirt, your bare legs encircling his hips, but he pries them apart again with a low grunt. he hooks his hands behind your knees, making you yelp when you’re jerked forward, his forgotten teacup rattling against its saucer when your back hits the table. he’s looking down at you, lips parted, eyes glowing, dark scales appearing briefly above his open collar before diminishing again - evidence that as feral as he seems right now, he’s still able to hold himself back…for now.

zhongli never breaks eye contact with you when he curls his brilliantly glowing fingers into the waistband of your shorts, his rich amber eyes boring into your very soul as his chest rises and falls. he yanks on the cloth barrier so hard you hear the stitching surrender to his power as your ass is forced upwards off the wooden surface. 

the scent of your pussy is filling every one of his senses…it’s almost all he can even feel. he’s dying to taste you. needs to taste you as though your slick is holy water and he is a sinner. inside his tented pants, zhongli’s cock is glowing, leaking, throbbing. there’s a dark spot forming on the cloth as proof. he needs to shove his readied cock inside you like the desert needs rain, but first he’s dying to drink you. your scent is so palpable he can taste you on the back of his tongue and it’s driving him insane.

beads of sweat are collecting at his hairline as he picks up where you left off with unbuttoning his shirt. but he quickly loses patience and tears it away from his shoulders with a clipped growl, a couple of buttons flying off and landing gods know where in the process. he’s shirtless now, his beautiful arms glowing and carbon black scales emerging on the tops of his shoulders. 

he pushes your thighs back towards your chest and lowers his face to your cunt. he just hovers there for a moment and breathes you in, his eyes rolling back in his head as they flutter closed. the distinct scent of your arousal combined with your readiness to breed sends a new rush of blood to his cock and it jumps in his pants. 

“zhongli…please…” you keen for him, and he drops to his knees to worship at your altar. 

normally, he’d take his time with you - ghost his lips along your inner thighs, kiss around your labia, tease you just a little. but he doesn’t have the patience for that right now. 

he descends on your cunt, his open, watering mouth latching onto your aching clit, his long tongue circling it for a moment before he plunges it inside you. 

gods, your flavor. 

he tongue fucks you, filling you with a long, deep moan because you taste so fucking good to him. your hands fly to his earth-colored hair - something to ground you while he devours you. you can feel the hitch of his hot breath on your labia, not knowing that the golden tip of his cock is glowing and rubbing deliciously against the rough material of his trousers as he rocks his pelvis into nothing. pulling his tongue out, he licks a long, wide stripe up to your clit again. 

you hear your name in his deep, even voice and open your eyes. “look at me when i’m eating your cunt,” he commands, and you comply. far be it from you to go against your husband’s - your god’s - wishes.

zhongli’s diamond-shaped pupils have been replaced by serpentine slits that hold your gaze while he sucks your soul from your hard bud, growling and tugging at it with the suction of his lips as his hips jerk, rubbing the moist head of his cock against the front seam of his slacks. 

“hhhh~ li…fuck, feels so good baby, yes…” you praise him, but he already knows how good he’s making you feel. your husband mastered your body long ago. he knows your tells, the meaning behind every little sound you make. he can anticipate the way your body will move before he even touches you. but more than that, he can smell your growing lust. 

he hums in appreciation and gives your clit several hard flicks with his flexed tongue, making you whine before thrusting his long, wet muscle into your pussy again. you buck your hips against his face, but his strong hands are spread over the backs of your thighs, holding them back. he curls his tongue inside you, pulling it along your walls, lapping at your juices. 

you lightly pinch your nipples, rolling them between your fingers and pulling on them gently as zhongli returns his attention to your throbbing clit. he flicks it then flattens his tongue and drags it up and down, back and forth, the texture of his tastebuds rough against your tight little bundle of nerves. at the same time, you feel two of his fingers press against your hole. 

“ohh- oh fuck, li!” you whine for him as he slips them inside, working them knuckle-deep in search of the spot that he knows so, so well. he finds it quickly with great ease, and begins massaging it with his fingertips while his lips and tongue work your clit over. 

his hair is a mess in your hands; you’re a mess on your dining table. you can feel the cocktail of your need and your husband’s spit trickle down to your ass crack, knowing you’re about to make a mess in his mouth. but that’s exactly what he wants. he doubles down and starts tugging on your g-spot, moaning when he feels you tightening around his fingers. 

zhongli knows you’re close, so close. 

he continues to hump the air reflexively, sucking your clit harder, pulling it deeper between his wet lips as though he’s trying to swallow you whole. 

“haahhh!” you gasp. “fuck, baby!” you fist his dark brown locks between your fingers. “zhongli…ohgodyou’regonnamakemecum!” 

he releases your clit with a wet pop and you feel your abused little pearl being flicked furiously back and forth over the tip of his sinfully skilled tongue. your head rolls back on the table, briefly glimpsing your kitchen behind you before you squeeze your eyes closed. 

your pelvis is rocking helplessly against your husband’s soaked face but his lips are latched securely around your clit when your cum squirts inside his waiting mouth. his brow knits and he groans against you as he swallows again and again, drinking you down to the last drop. it makes him impossibly harder and his aching testicles are heavy, full of his sperm that he needs to release inside you.

with his craving for your juices temporarily sated, the raging need in zhongli's loins is now fueling his prime directive: 

breed. 

he stands and lifts you up, bringing you to your feet before spinning you around and pushing your chest down onto the table. you whimper, pussy clenching at zhongli's show of physical power. your pebbled nipples rake across the surface below when he ruts his hips against your butt, and you can finally appreciate just how hard he is. he could’ve taken you on your back, but he’s primally driven and compelled beyond reason to mount you from behind. 

zhongli the funeral consultant now more closely resembles morax the god of old. he’s even starting to show signs of his dragon form and operating purely on instinct at this point. your scent has become more complex, nuanced - the way you smell when you’re approaching fertility combined with your arousal, and now the mixture of his saliva and your cum…

there’s only one scent missing.

from behind you comes the tinkling of his belt buckle and the sound of his zipper. zhongli pushes his pants down just far enough to free his cock and testicles before he’s bending over you. you know his fangs have emerged when you feel them drag lightly across the back of your neck. his breath is hot and his cock is so hard, bouncing eagerly against your wet folds, drooling precum onto the floor below.

he spreads your ass apart with his strong radiant hands, kneading and pushing and squeezing bruises into your soft, sensitive flesh. you keen, bending lower, arching your back as you fold your arms and rest the side of your face on the hard surface beneath you. 

“zhong- hhhn fuck…” is all you can manage when the tip of his erection bumps against your clit. gods, the way your scent hits him when you beg him to put his cock in. 

his cockhead bounces along your slit a few more times before it finally catches on your hole and he thrusts in hard with a low grunt. the way it glides in, hard and slippery because you’re so ready for your mate to claim you, preening and presenting for him like a cat in heat.

his jaw flexes at the way you choke on your cries when your hip bones dig into the edge of the surface he’s fucking you into. it hurts, and there will be bruises later, but you can’t bring yourself to stop or slow him down. his cock feels too good filling you up so full, tugging at your gushy walls, the ridge of his cockhead peeking out every time he retreats, then splitting you apart when his hips slam against your ass again. 

he hunches over you, fully mounting you, his tail having emerged and wrapping around your leg to hike it up and hold your bent knee out to the side so he can break your pussy off harder, deeper. your cheeks are streaked with wet eyeliner when the fuzzy tip of his tail tickles your clit, your juices getting it wet. 

zhongli isn’t fucking you anymore - morax is the one driving his fat cock into your squelching cunt now. there are those who would clutch their pearls at the idea of being bent over a table and fucked by an archon, but your eyes are rolling back in your head at the feeling of being spread open by his celestial dick. for you, it’s a matter of course. he’s your husband - you’ve been in love with him for years and you adore him in every one of his iterations, even if you have your own special ways of worshiping him. 

your feral god-husband’s vividly glowing arms are wrapped tightly around your sweaty chest, the wooden legs of your dining table scuffing the floor as he grunts in your ear. “fuck, that’s my good girl. taking my cock so well. so ready to take my seed, yeah?…” 

“y-yes! need your cum, morax! breed me, my lord hahh~” 

he loves it when you call him by his ancient name. it reminds him that he’s still got it - the power and virility of his youth. he swears under his breath, digging his talons into your hips as he yanks you back on his cock. it’s too much. it’s too much and he feels his balls pull tighter against his body when he growls and snarls behind you. you whimper at the feeling of his knot swelling deep inside you, knowing it’s forcing your walls open so he can pump you full of his sperm. he opens his mouth and bites down on the back of your neck with a deep, guttural growl. 

you cry out the god’s name again and again, chanting for him, urging him to cum for you as his big, scaly tail tightens around your trembling thigh. the soft tuft of orange fur at the tip is matted with your juices. it licks and lashes against your clit as his humanoid hips dig into the plush of your ass, snapping against you in fits and starts. 

“ohh-oh, morax, gonna cum for you!” 

dark brown scales shimmer and separate along his spine as it curls with every frantic pump of his pelvis. 

“that’s it, my dear. cum on my cock…now!” he orders.

you tense and throw it back on him as you fall apart on his cock. his balls contract in their sac as you milk his ready, sensitive length, choking on your own sobs of his archon name when he throws his head back with a roar and cums hard. the first ribbon of his divine seed splashes against your clenching walls, his cock jerking violently as he empties his full balls deep inside your womb, coating your messy insides with his hot, sticky semen. 

◊ ◊ ◊

his sweaty chest is heaving against your back, his lungs filling and collapsing as the waves of his orgasm slowly fade. you can feel the heat of his labored breath as he licks and kisses the bite marks on the back of your neck, making you coo at him for soothing the pain. your husband can smell the oxytocin as it floods your brain; he instinctively knows to remain close to you in these crucial moments of bonding. dragons mate for life, so he’s biologically coded to crave the loving attachment just as much as you do. 

nuzzling his nose behind your ear, zhongli mutters his love and appreciation for you, making you smile weakly with the side of your face still resting on the table. he leaves lazy kisses on your neck and you feel his smile against your moist skin when you tell him how happy it would make you to be the mother of his young.

he still has a full erection, his balls filling up with more seed. he’ll need to release again soon. he slowly pulls out of you, a mess of his cum and your slick spilling onto the floor below when the bulbous head of his cock pops out of your tight ring.

you’re jolted from your dreamy afterglow, eyes opening wide as you yelp, suddenly finding yourself being carried bridal style towards your bedroom. now that he has scented you with his musk, zhongli wants to take you to your shared nest where he can begin breeding you in earnest. he can sense that you’re still hours away from ovulation, but he’s going to keep your womb so swollen with his seed, so full of billions of his sperm - ready and waiting to swarm your fertile egg the moment it drops.

← phase 1 ◊ phase 3 (wip)

◊ zhongli/morax m.list

this is dedicated to my zhongli sisterwife @crystalflygeo whose utterly fearless, shameless style of writing has filled my morax spank bank inspired me to write with bold and wild abandon. i can't even fully fathom the sheer number of ideas this wonderful human being has filled my head with. we share (1) singular zhongli brain cell and i love her with my whole heart. she literally begged me to write this fic so you all have her to thank for it.

[directdogman]

Hi, I hope you're having a decent day! I'm sorry if this is an invasive set of questions - feel free not to answer - but do you still actively like DSaF as your own creation, or is it more of a "it was fun while it lasted but i outgrew it and it's for the best to leave it behind" kind of project? Do you ever regret making the games? If you knew they would get so popular, is there anything you would have changed about them? Is there anywhere I could read more of your writing.

It fluctuates a bit. These last couple of years, I've really just been sorta nostalgic for it. I've seen a lot of people discuss those games being a source of comfort during bad times in their lives, people talking about how much the characters mean to them and it's hard not to smile when you see that.

It's a funny thing for close friends of yours to see people WITH fanmade DSaF merch out in the wild, or to watch a random youtube video and being hit with a DSaF reference outta nowhere. It happens from time to time, even today. On a few occasions, I've even had a person reference my work to me in real life and not realize who they were talking to, believe it or not. It's really fun to play dumb and get someone to explain your work to you like you don't know what it is.

I certainly didn't think any of that would happen when I first made the series, or even during development. I think the normal assumption would be to look at DSaF as it exists now and assume its release was a peak for it, but believe it or not, the official discord only had 30 people in it shortly before 3 dropped! The archive listing of the series (reposted to a single page after the series ended) is now sitting at over 1.1 MILLION downloads.

People kinda assume the true heyday of something is when it's new, when it's fresh and novel. For instance, some people look back at when FNaF itself was new and see that time as its peak because it had a lot of internet cultural relevance as big new indie thing on the block. But, raw numbers don't lie. The series has been continually growing since its conception and that growth has similarly bled over to its fan projects. This explains why DSaF, despite not having a new series release in almost 6 years, seems to be inexplicably growing.

Just recently, I saw someone post footage of a scene from DSaF 2 on Twitter, which got over 16k likes. People praised its writing and largely celebrated the scene. The ironic thing about that particular scene is that I remembered being unsure if it was good or not, so I showed it off in one of the FNaF community hubs. The response was broadly lukewarm to negative. Now, it's held up as one of the best scenes in those games. That's kind of the point I'm trying to make, my thoughts on the series have certainly changed with everyone's else with years of hindsight.

Heh. I'm not sure if I've talked about this in a long time, but y'know, the very first scene I implemented in-game was actually the very first Phone Guy scene in DSaF 1, more or less exactly how it appears in-game today. This was before I'd even written the bulk of the game. I was pretty unfamiliar with visual novels as a whole, pretty unsure if something like this would be palatable to a fandom that was really just used to sit 'n' survive stuff that were far more gameplay than text. I mean, there wasn't any FNaF fangames really LIKE DSaF before that point. Closest was FNaFb, a jokey turn based RPG made in the same engine.

The engine I made the game in is also not exactly fit for VNs out of the box either, and I wasn't 100% sure the idea would actually work. But, the very first time I added the image of the prize corner, Phone Guy, the audio of that iconic cheesy stock track and booted up a test screen, I had a little moment where I said "Oh. I think I'm onto something interesting here." I kinda remembering instantly realizing in that single moment how much potential the idea had. Over 8 years later, I still remember that moment like it was yesterday.

I think lately, that's the sort of stuff I think of when I see people coming to me and asking about the series. Yes, it's really rough around the edges, yes, there's jokes that've aged poorly. But, it is a source of comfort for people and entertains tens of thousands of people each month. And that's gotta count for something, right?

[penddraig]

drained of almost all his strength and energy as he is,   howl can only watch eivor’s back as she makes her weak way inside.   her hair is scattered all about much like a bird’s nest might be,   strands of hair ripped from her braid and scattered every which way.   she stumbles so clumsily and so off-balance that howl is sure she’ll pitch all the way over and collapse before she can reach the door.   by all account of luck,   calcifer’s had the good sense to stop the castle from moving,   patiently awaiting the pair to move in through its door.   howl thinks,   for now,   that eivor should be the only one through.   he bides his time on the ground,   waiting with exhausted patience to regain enough of his strength to vanish his wings and retract his feathers.   that,   too,   he fears,   will hurt.

calcifer is taken aback at the sight of eivor     and,   while he’s at it,   at the discovering amount of magic still radiating from her body and the runic sacrifice that bleeds its way into the floorboards.   not a few moments later,   michael comes bounding down the stairs,   having heard the commotion and,   on account of his atmospheric delves into magic during his lessons,   felt the shift in calcifer’s limits.   for what it’s worth,   the floorboards aren’t quite as seared through as they could be,   with the demon protecting its integrity.

eivor is out cold before either of them can ask.   the fire and boy exchange a look.   then michael is over to her side,   awkwardly hoisting her up on one of his arms and dragging her to the hearth,   as close as he can take her.   calcifer knows better than to try and reach out for her,   especially in her current state,   so instead,   michael takes to dampening up a rag,   cleaning what blood he can from her stained hair and face.   he's exceedingly cautious as he does it,   occasionally moving back to recover from the magic that sears the very air inside the castle.

a few minutes later,   howl strides in,   looking ragged and dishevelled and tired and bloodied and still taking great care with the weight on one of his ankles.   he shuts the door,   turns the knob blue-down until sunlight streams in from a different part of the country entirely,   and makes his way up the steps,   where he begins to gather crude material to clean the god's surface wounds.   he also grabs a vial from a shelf by the window.   ❝ i’ll need a paper and pen as well,   ❞ he says to michael,   who scurries off without question to find it and bring it to him.

sitting next to the unconscious god,   howl begins the task of wiping down every visible part of her that he can.   once michael brings the material,   he dismisses the boy,   leaving only himself and calcifer in main room as both work in tandem to energise her magic.   her rune he allows to linger,   casting a moderate ward of protection over the floor and ceiling and walls.   when he's through cleaning up what he can on the outside,   then grabs the pen,   marking out a winding symbol on the paper.   he presses the pad of his thumb to his tongue,   wetting the page around the mark, then presses his palm on the paper and mutters a word.   when he lifts his hand,   the symbol is carved into his skin.

❝    she said you were attacked,    ❞    says the fire demon.

❝    we were,    ❞    comes howl's answer,   as he sets his clean hand on the stone edge of calcifer's little furnace.    ❝    and she took the brunt of the attack,   too.   i daresay she was the only one who fended them off.   and don't start,   old thing.   i did plenty myself.   but she's clearly in a worse state than i am,   and i'm in no mood to make jokes about what happened.   wait a week,   at least,   before you start poking fun at me,   and maybe then i won't be so quick to frustrate as i will be for the next few hours.   now,   will you help me with the rest of this ?    ❞

calcifer nods his flickering orange-and-blue head.   they need only share a look before howl sets the hand with the symbol in his palm over eivor's throat,   beneath his chin,   and gently curls his fingers around her neck in a loose hold.   he murmurs a few indecipherable words.   then the spaces between and beneath his fingers glows a gentle blue.   he stifles a grimace,   channeling what vitality he can into eivor.   the amount he and calcifer thread through her skin and ligaments and bones and bloodstream would be enough to kill most regular humans.   in this case,   he feels it's hardly enough to keep a fly alive     if,   of course,   eivor were the fly.

by the time they're finished,   howl has broken a third sweat.   a droplet,   tinged a translucent red from a bit of leftover blood,   runs down his cheek,   and when he removes his hand,   the symbol looks slightly burnt into eivor's skin,   like a brand.   in several hours,   when it's finished trickling out the rest of the energy that howl put into it,   it will fade and vanish.   slowly,   the wizard stands,   and calcifer says something about taking it easy himself.   howl doesn't listen.   he retires up the stairs,   then returns a few minutes later with sheets and a pillow.   those,   he places beneath the staircase.   then he moves eivor from her spot by the hearth,   carrying her carefully to the bed there and placing her down.   he covers her halfway with a sheet,   looking down at her with a pained frown,   then turns away.

this feathered beast, she’s seen before. once in a vision — before they ever met, and once much more recent. then there is now, and it has not lost its splendor. what a magnificent creature howl is ( a different type of beauty than the one he is otherwise. howl is both a saint and a monster, but the god dares to love all forms. she cannot, will not, differentiate between them despite his own feelings ), and just as mysterious. it has taken all the raven’s willpower to not pry when he seems so determined to avoid confession ... but now is not the time for any of it. eivor absorbs what she can as she watches, unblinking, the gruesome metamorphosis. what a violent transformation, borne of blood and groaning pain. this acceptance, she respects. at times there is no avoiding agony, one must simply endure it, and endure it he does. howl seems so accustomed to it his face hardly twitches. at first they run to get a head start, and when she is swept into his feathered arms ( and her breath along with her ), she clings to howl instead. for dear life, she holds him and thinks to herself : i will never forgive you if you drop me, now ! the ground leaves them too quickly. she tries not to look, but coils both her arms and legs around him as though she might die a terrible death if she does not. scarred cheek is reddened by the stain of his life as crimson flings off his feathers in the wind - whip of the skies — and she, cradled flush to this bestial form, finds a kind of intimacy here. not one she would have chosen, but the hum of his magic and the beating of his powerful wings pound in the same way as her heart.

🙶 no. 🙷       wolfsmal tells the honest truth, voice muffled against the spines of his feathers. at times a lie might be better, but there is no benefit to it now.

she does not know for how long they fly. she does not know how she endures the pain, either, as her battle - blood wanes from her muscle like an ebbing tide. with each inch that leaves her, the agony reaches further deep. to her marrow she can feel the tendrils of shadowy claws, though they do not mar her any more, the injury is very real and the violent magic that wrought it has been driven deep. she loses consciousness, at one point ( briefly, head lolling. it lasts but a breath. a heartbeat, before eivor jostles herself out of it to the best of her exhausted ability ). it has been a long time since she has been wounded so severely, and that does not change even as they reach his home. a place the wizard so graciously shares, which keeps her safe and hidden. howl lands ungracefully, and eivor crumples at the same instance her feet touch the ground and fail to support her weight — the harpy collapses not far away, but she still hears the relay of information about the door. gods, it's so far. and eivor groans as she rolls over onto her good arm and uses it to push herself up.

a fine image of clumsiness she is as she stumbles. bloodied fist barely strong enough still to grasp the doorknob and turn it. eivor falls to her knees once more as the threshold swings open, met with the spooked fire in the hearth. the raven god's weight tumbles forward, palm clapping unceremoniously onto the wood as she tries and tries to pick herself up again. crimson handprints stain any surface she touches, but it is a chair, and finally the tabletop that get her up once more, with slick blood dirtying even the prints of her boots and imprinting itself into the memory of this castle. eivor's sacrifice still hums with magic, and it sizzles into the floorboards. it is burning her inside, too.

🙶 cal— calcifer, 🙷    eivor rasps. she is weak, and pale. ghastly. all color has drained from her flesh, leaving only ashen grey and the stark black contrast of her ancient tattoos. 🙶 we were attacked. if you sense any- any disturbance. tell me. 🙷 but that is all eivor has left to muster. strength now sapped, gone.

for the last time, the wolf - kissed falls onto the ground. the light has left her to comforting unconsciousness. she will sleep ... until her body decides once more to wake.

[raginglesbian2006]

hii! could u headcanons of Vox and/or Alastor x Male! Reader who loves to write (poems, novels) and draws most of the time? like, maybe Vox/Alastor is distracted talking to someone else and or doing something and reader is in the back, drawing them?

This is such a good idea! Honestly, I have been meaning to write something for Vox but I love Alastor as well, so why not both?

RadioStatic (separate) with an artistic male! s/o

Alastor:

Alastor has a love for anything creative and artistic and the fact that his boyfriend shared a love for that too? Well, it makes him quite happy

He usually sits with you, sipping on his coffee as jazz plays in the background, enjoying the serenity of it all while you work on your writing or sketches

He also loves reading/reviewing your work. You seeking his advice feeds into his ego, ya know?

Alastor is a great person to go to for honest, yet constructive criticism

I mean, he is an asshole but not that much, ya know? (not me tryna defend this sociopath. The readers and I can change him I swear-)

He was surprised when he stumbled upon your sketchbook, opening to see quite a few drawings of himself.

Some featured him talking to people around the hotel and others captured him hosting his tamer broadcasts.

He'd tease you about it when he finds out, but deep down, he'd be appreciative that you took so much time and effort to draw his likeness

He'd quite sneakily take a page off to keep it for himself

He would advertise your work to Charlie or to other overlords he deemed worthy enough to bask in your expertise, only if you were comfy with it, of course.

If you are shy about showcasing your work to everyone, Alastor would be proud that he is the only one you feel comfortable showing your talents.

He is a total sweetheart behind closed doors. (Don't tell anyone!)

Vox:

He initially didn't care for you or your talents

But hooo boy, when he caught a glimpse at what you could do, you bet this man is all over you.

He likes watching you work when he's free

Since he's in the media biz, he provides surprisingly good critiques on your writing/art. He knows what sells and what doesn't after all.

If you are the shy kind, he'd try to convince you to broadcast your work for all his viewers to see but eventually, he'd settle on being one of the only people with the luxury of seeing your talents.

If you are comfy with showcasing your work to others, you bet he's spending the big bucks on making sure your talents are seen far and wide.

He'd even encourage you to write scripts for the movies he's making, only if you're absolutely ok with it

Vox's screen had glitched slightly when he stumbled upon your drawings of him.

His boyfriend...had drawn...him???

This man is lowkey tearing up, please hold him

The other Vees are kinda fed up with him just chattering on about you and your wonderful writing and drawing skills

You're his pride and joy, after all <3

A/N: Sooo sorry for the late response. I hope this is to your liking! :)

[iikkeee]

Wednesday characters reaction to you kissing them out of appreciation

___________________________________

Includes: Wednesday, Enid, Tyler, Ajax, Bianca

Warnings- none, just pure fluff

A/n- I randomly had this idea, sorry if some of the characters don’t have as much explanation as the others, I did this just out of fun. I kinda want to write the Ajax and Tyler ones into oneshots…..anyways hope you guys enjoy lmao <3

_________________________________________________

Wednesday Addams

When you jumped up and pulled Wednesday into a hug, she thought nothing of it. Her arms resided still as you tightened your grip

“You’re the best Wednesday!” You exclaimed as you pulled away from her moving your hands to caress her cheeks and grab her face between your face

“It was nothing” She sighed her eyes shifting as she noticed the tightened on her face

What she didn’t expect was when you grabbed her face roughly and gave her a kiss, right on the lips

It didn’t last long but it was enough for her eyes to widen at the sudden contact

When you pulled away you were shocked at your actions, not expecting to do such a thing especially to Wednesday who you knew didn’t appreciate physical touch or contact for that matter

“Omg, sorry I didn’t mean to” You said quickly spotting away from the black haired girl and shaking your head and hands frantically

“It’s alright” She said nonchalantly as she turned around and went to her desk

“Huh…really..??” You asked curiously as your eyebrows furrowed at her response, you expected something else completely

Wednesday smiled to her self when she turned around, who knew that just one simple favor would get her crush to kiss her

Of course it wasn’t really romantic, but it still made her heart flutter as she tried to calm herself down by flipping through the pages of her typewriter novel

You sighed as you sat down on Enids bed, sneaking a quick glance to the other girl as you blushed furiously

Why did you do that?? You were going to ruin your chances with her you thought to yourself as you cursed yourself internally

The other girl smirked as she watched your expression turn from flustered to anger, she was going to have too much fun with this

_________________________________________________

Enid Sinclair

When Enid presented you with your favorite colored snood you could not escape your excitement as you jumped up and down grabbing Enids hands in yours

“Thank you so much Enid I love it so much” You gushed, smiling brightly as you held to tightly to your chest

“I could just-“ you cut yourself off as you pulled her into a kiss, your lips meeting perfectly. Your eyes closing as you melted into her lips

“Oh shit I didn’t-“ you said as you pulled away from her your eyes widening in fear

She shifted her eyes before sneaking out her claws and forcing you back into a kiss, your lips moving against each other roughy

To the point of which you were almost flat on the floor, only pulling away to get air.

“Woah…Enid are you sure about this..” you said out of breath in disbelief

“I’ve never been sure of something more in my life she smiled caressing your cheeks in her hands

“You won’t believe how long I’ve been waiting for this” you replied your hand moving to her cheek

“Me too” was all she said before she crashed her lips against yours once more

Once you were done she put the snood on you, you wore a matching pair as you both smiled to one another

“Now everyone will know that we’re a pair” She giggled smoothing out her pink one as she looked towards you

“Hopefully more than just a pair” you said your eyes adverted as you played the yarn

“Oh of course” she giggled her arms behind her back

_________________________________________________

Bianca Barclay

When you pressed your lips against the unsuspecting siren you cursed yourself internally

Not everyone was a fan of her, and you definitely weren’t one. But for some reason you were so happy that you gave her a kiss

“I.—-“ you stuttered as you thought of running away

You shifted your eyes to sue her touch her lips with her fingers before looking into your eyes and giving you a smirk

“Who knew you had it in you Y/n” She chuckled as she walked towards you, your eyes widened as you instinctively stepped back

Little did you know, that the wall was behind you and you hit the cold stone with your back, you eyes shifting at the piercing blue eyed girl

“Don’t think you can run away, you started this” she smirked as she lifted your chin and came close to your lips

You didn’t have anytime to think as she connected her lips with yours, your body feeling like jelly as you melted into it

Your arms moved to her neck and her’s to your waist, only pulling away once you both ran out of air

“Wow” you said breathily as you looked at the girl across from you

“Let’s do that again sometime” She laughed before brushing her self off and walking across the corredor

Leaving you in shock as you slumped down to the floor, who knew Bianca was such a great kisser?

_________________________________________________

Ajax Petropolus

When you kissed the unsuspecting boy, you didn’t even process it as you jumped up and down

You only realized what you had done when you noticed his bright red face

“Oh sorry Ajax I was just so…” You said quickly apologizing and shaking him as to take him out of his trance

“Um, that’s alright…” He said still looking off into space as he rubbed the back of his neck

“Are you alright?” You asked concerned as you noticed how out of it he looked

He replied by giving you thumbs up and walking away presumedly to his dorm

Throughout the days he kept acting weird, always trying to ignore you or hide behind Xaiver when you were present

You sighed as you looked at the empty seat beside you at table outside where Ajax would usually sit, you noticed the beanie wearing boy from the side and quickly went to confront him

You grabbed his arm and took him into an empty classroom

“Y/n” He squeaked as he noticed your angry face

“Ajax please just talk to me, I’m sorry about-“

“Don’t be” he said covering your mouth with his hand

“I like you Y/n” He whispered before kissing you

You had no idea that your unsuspecting kiss would lead up to such a moment but you weren’t complaining as you kissed him back

“I like you too Ajax” you smiled

_________________________________________________

Tyler Galpin

When you kissed the boy, you stopped in your tracks

Not only were you kissing your best friend, but a normie at that. What would everyone worse think if they saw the two of you together

They would totally get the wrong idea, your eyes widened as you realized you still had you arms wrapped around his neck and your lips on his

“Oh shit sorry Tyler!” You said quickly backing away from him

He breathed heavily before giving you a nervous smile

“No…it’s alright” He said shifting his eyes as he placed a coffee mug down

“Shit, what is your dad going to say…I mean it wasn’t an actual kiss…shoot he’s going to get the wrong idea” you said as you paced around the empty coffee shop

“Hey relax, it’s fine. Nobody saw” He chuckled as he grabbed your arm and held your shoulders so you would look at him

“Alright…” you sighed, feeling calmer by his reaction

“Well that is if you want nobody to see…” he said rubbing his neck before looking at yours lips

“Huh?” You asked as you blushed furiously, what did he mean…did he mean he wanted to kiss you again

“I’m just messing with you” He chuckled, as he let go of your shoulders and walked behind the counter

You walked towards the counter, standing in front of him with the wood being what set you apart

Your mind wandered before you grabbed his head and kissed him roughly

He gasped before wrapping his arms around you waist to the best of his ability and kissing you back

“Sorry” you mumbled as you pushed away from him

“It’s fine” he whispered before kissing you again

_________________________________________________

[pricemarshfield]

Writer Interview Game

thank you for the tag @wetcatspellcaster! honestly just this morning was talking about writing and inspiration and motivation so it was super cool to get to dive in-depth with this :) under the cut because uhhh i am chatty as all hell <3

tagging @reallyhatethiswebsite @goldfyshie927 @prettyaveragewhiteshark @pouralaura @atrueneutral @bravestworriers AND anyone else who'd like to! as always, no pressure :)

When did you start writing?

i genuinely have been writing so long that i don't remember when i started. i have distinct memories of being 6 and writing about my oc who was a babylonian priestess raised by alligators and living in antarctica in a compound full of animals, and despite being babylonian she was named athena. honestly a baller concept for me at 6 years old, i kinda still fuck with it (though i'd tweak some things. world-build a little more. probably rename her. read more than one encyclopedia page about mesopotamia)

i wrote a LOT of original stuff (read: knockoffs of whatever novels i'd read at the time) and a bit of fanfiction as a tween, got into a phase where i hated and deleted all of it and wrote WAY less as a teen, and then jumped back into fanfic with requests from my high school friend group and haven't stopped since. even when my posting has slowed, my writing hasn't; i just waffle between "post a chapter as soon as it's done" and "wait until the fic is finished and fully edited before i post a word of it". the former approach definitely works better for me because otherwise it languishes in my drafts forever (i'm sorry pricemarsh longfic. one day i will muster up the motivation to finish you).

i write Some original stuff, but more short stories than longform things. actually someone yell at me to post my molly drew backstory thing because it's one of the best things i've written in years AND fully original! (well. project zomboid. fanfic gray area but it's basically a stand-alone zombie thing, it doesn't pull from the game's lore because i don't know it lmao)

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

hm...i think i read a long more long genfics than i've written or attempted to write, which is funny because longer genfics are definitely some of the best things i've written and that have resulted in the Nicest comments and response i've ever gotten. (the only fic i've ever joined a server and had someone go "i've read this and i loved it" is a 30k genfic, and also is my magnus opus). also, i read MUCH more original fiction stuff than i write these days, even if i DO have a lot of oc ideas these days.

i'm not sure why! i don't think it's coming from a concern of lack of interest...compelled as i am by platonic dynamics, i think i just have more fun writing shippy stuff. also i write a lot of smut, so there's that. thinking about it, there mayyy be a level of spite in my not writing more original stuff, or at least not sharing it? my family is very annoying about the fact i write fic instead of original stuff, and that i am Not interested in being an author as my career. but that's a silly reason so maybe i'll hype myself up about my original stuff more lol

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

not that i can think of? not unless i'm writing something in a very specific genre, anyway. when i wrote my noir au martian thing i was very specifically trying to emulate works from that genre but even then not Authors so much as Works and even then more movies than books...i think there are some fantastic authors (both published and fandom!) that i'm very inspired by and learn from but none that i'd point to as a Style To Emulate. but in terms of writers, both the person who tagged me and everyone i'm tagging have writing i love enough that it makes me want to work on my own stuff. all of y'all use words SO well.

again, not a style i'm trying to emulate BUT in terms of books that got me thinking about words and world-building and writing in such a way that i was inspired to Create (a VASTLY incomplete list): mexican gothic by silvia moreno-garcia, exercises in style by raymond queneau, 253 by geoff ryman, the haunting of hill house by shirley jackson, this is how you lose the time war by amal el-mohtar and max gladstone, the martian by andy weir, and in the dream house by carmen maria machado. ALSO READ MORE CLASSICS AND NONFICTION AND POETRY...get thinking about words in different ways even if it's not the genre you want to write because it WILL help your writing grow...this is getting so far away from the question oops

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

...the amount of fic i've written on my dinky old laptop, in bed at 2am, directly in the ao3 textbox is FAR more than the fic i've written in any other space. (no one should do this btw.) unfortunately i write most when i compelled by ideas at at a time i shouldn't be, and my laptop is convenient

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

stepping away. forcing writing puts me back in a mindset that'll burn me out Longterm, and i won't even be happy with the end result. writing and also any other creative endeavor isn't something to do on its own forever; if you're not inspired, go read something! play something! draw something if you write/write something if you draw! go on a hike! try and fail to learn to crochet!

on top of helping yourself decompress from writer's block and burnout (if you're dealing with either), i feel like the muse always comes easier when i give her space. sometimes she comes back with a vengeance and that's when i write at 2am (that's when most of talk was written, and it haunted me for MONTHS. MONTHSSS. so i guess also you can muster up the muse by being down bad for the devil)

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

all my ocs are autistic women who mask (either well or poorly) and feel fundamentally not in line with the worlds in which they're living. which could mean nothing

but also i don't really think so! i try to very consciously write different genres and themes and ideas; i think i revisit the idea of two characters who are in some way opposed realizing they're more similar than they thought, or else finding compatibility In their differences maybe?? which isn't surprising but also i think indicates more a desire to build up a relationship as part of a plot rather than saying something about Me, Specifically

wait no i lied. in dnd and dnd-related fandoms specifically i write a LOT of stuff vis a vis divinity and expectations and the dichotomy of good/evil in the setting not necessarily matching with any sort of real-world morality/philosophy and the horror inherent to godhood (on both the side of the god and the follower.) i'm not a particularly religious person nor was i raised as such, so not sure Why, but it's very interesting to me!!

What is your reason for writing?

i want to read it and no one's gonna write it exactly like i will!! but also...it's fun. i like getting into a character's head. i like figuring out how to get from scene a to scene b in a way that doesn't take away from the narrative. i LOVE getting to see the ways a story can shift outside its outline (my outlines are very bare-bones, so this happens a lot). it's something that i enjoy and that i can share with people.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

any comment that shares something about my writing that either i was actively trying to do or that i didn't notice at all. the first is a delight because it means someone gets what i'm going for!! hell yes! and then the latter is a look at my writing through someone else's eyes which is just so so nice. either one feels like Connecting with people over my writing which is! the goal! so hell yes!

really though any comment that isn't "write more" is motivating to me. someone once left a keysmash and nothing else in the comment box and it motivated me to pick up another wip for the same pairing and write another chapter

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

i am a human being and not a content machine <3 this doesn't come up a lot anymore but i used to have to deal with a lot of asks and requests that would demand more fic even as all my posts were about the immense grief i was dealing with at the time lol.

but also i want to be seen as a person who can be approached! send me asks about what i've written, dm me, tell me about zines and fanweeks and things like that! i literally live with someone i met in a fandom space, fandom works best when it's a thing you share with people rather than a thing you Consume and expect Recognition for. (not that recognition is BAD, but like...see it as connection first and content second, ykwim? i also say this knowing i'm bad about reaching out first but. yeah. i'm working on it!)

slight tangent but you've already read this far so <3 i also feel like fandom these days has moved to more private spaces rather than public appreciation...like, how many fandom events get shared primarily in discord servers that a new fan might not know to join? how many people only get hyped up by people they've already talked with? how many people gush over a fic in a server and then never mention it to the author? i want to be approachable because i want to actually Engage with people without having to join 80 discord servers for different niche things and hope i find a place i vibe with. (nothing against discord specifically--anyone can ask for mine, and i met some dear friends that i'm tagging through a fan discord server, but i hate social connection in fandom being Limited to that.) okay tangent over

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

this is so specific lol but i think i'm really good at flow and sentence structure. like...i feel like i space out my sentences and paragraphs well to keep things from getting too jarring even while being wordy as all hell in a smut oneshot. (there's a reason my first tav is a bard multiclass with the sage background, and it's because neither of us can or will shut up <3)

How do you feel about your own writing?

honestly? pretty damn good. i'll still go through what every writer does where i reread my own stuff and think it sucks sometimes, but i think i've gotten to a place in my writing where i can enjoy it as it stands even if i notice something i'd edit differently. it helps that i've started writing a lot more SELF-indulgently rather than request-indulgently (though please do still send requests if you want! <3 i just mean that i'm not ONLY writing things for other people)

[dreamyelectronicmusic]

I'm loving your Wilmon fic so very very much! I was feeling mostly done with YR and all related media and ready to let it go - in a happy, pleased-with-season-3, it's all wrapped up and my hectic job is demanding my attention way - and then it was like your fic just broke through my walls and reminded me why I fell in love with the show and its characters. Your Wille and Simon are so good to each other. Their anticipation and nerves and exhilaration as they begin to reconnect - it's everything.

I was surprised to see it's your first YR fic! I'm curious about your story of finding the show - when did that happen for you, when did you first feel inspired to create this beautiful extension of the YR world?

Aw, thank you so much for this lovely ask, I'm so happy you like the fic! 💜💜

I discovered YR literally on day one! Or even before day one, because I remember scrolling through Netflix’s coming soon page and watching the teaser. I remember thinking it looked like an Elite-type trashy teen show but that I would probably watch it because it’s Swedish (I love Nordic languages). Then on July 1, 2021, at like 10 pm, I was looking for something to numb my brain and YR popped up on the Netflix homepage and I thought, oh I think that's the Swedish show I said I’d watch, let’s give it a try. So I watched the first episode and needless to say it did not numb my brain, I was immediately hooked. But I decided to be responsible and go to bed, and I watched eps 2-4 the next day, and then the day after that was a Saturday and beautiful weather so I went on a hike, and all the time I was trudging up hills I kept thinking “omg omg Wilhelm and Simon are so cute and August is such an asshole omg omg what is going to happen I need them to live happily ever after”. So yeah, I’ve been obsessed from the start 😂

I was never inspired to write fic for it before because I tend to prefer canon to be complete before I write anything, but mostly because I have this weird mental block about reading/writing fic in a different language than the one I consumed the original in. It just doesn’t sound right! (I watch the show in Swedish with English subtitles, so I want fics to also be in Swedish with English subtitles. Yes I know it doesn’t make sense). I guess the inspiration for ‘maybe now’ was strong enough for me to overcome that but tbh it still doesn’t sound right and I have to do weird mental gymnastics to write it 😂

Inspiration for the fic struck very shortly after the show, this is a post I made on March 19:

Ok so who's writing a fic where Simon didn't notice Wille running after the car, or noticed him but couldn't bear to talk to him again, and they have no contact for a year until Wille's decision to give up the crown is made public on his 18th birthday, prompting Simon to reach out and tell him how proud and happy for him he is?

And then I guess I didn’t wait for an answer and wrote it myself!

The inspiration came from the fact that while I love the ending we got and I am so happy that we got it, I do agree with people who think that it was rushed. Given what the first 17 episodes were like, we got the best possible episode 18, but in an ideal world, I would have liked another season, or the three seasons to have more episodes, or the episodes that we got to have a different pacing so that there was more time between the breakup and them getting back together. This is what I wrote in a reaction post after the first five episodes:

If this weren't the last season, I think I'd want them to break up now, take some time apart and get back together after some separate personal growth. But there simply isn't time for that.

One thing about me is that I love it when characters go their separate ways, have some separate growth and find out that they can live without each other, but they just really don’t want to. So in a way it’s a kind of fix-it fic for me.

Anyway, thank you for the ask and sorry I wrote a novel in response!

[applesandbannas747]

same anon as before but thank u for the interesting response! and i’m sorry in advance for this long venting lol, but honestly i’m just really frustrated because i think fence could be as popular and mainstream as projects like check please or heartstopper if 1) there was good marketing for it, 2) if the releasing of the issues wasn’t so puzzling, and 3) if the storyline was progressing in a natural way.

rise makes no sense in context of the novels at all and im just? if they were going to have tie-in novels they should have been used to progress character and relationship development, not create an alternate world that’s never going to be addressed. even putting aside gross mischaracterization the novels literally cannot be canon so they’re just published for? no good reason i can see? they could have prequels (seiji and jesse or harvard and aiden pre-series) or been about the team bonding/getting better at fencing, or focused on side characters that won’t get as much focus in the comics (eugene! if he’s mostly being side-lined in the comics the novels could have been his time to shine instead of him being even more sidelined. or even bobby and dante or kally and tanner). there’s definitely a lot of characters in the comics and if it was getting overwhelming the novels could have picked up that slack but they didn’t so their purpose mystifies me — there was also clearly no reason to have nicholas and seiji as pov characters in those books because srb (and i do adore all srb’s other work so this is hard for me to say) was terrible at writing them. when she was good she was good (which makes me think if there had been more editing the novels could have been better) but when she was bad she was very very bad. since she was even worse at writing eugene i guess i should be glad eugene didn’t have a pov. but seriously if the novels were mainly just haiden it could have just been haiden pov.

idk i just used to love fence so much and always noticed there was never a huge following for it, which is okay because the small fence fandom is great!! but i’ve always thought it could have had a bigger audience. there is so much promise in the first issues of fence — kings row competing against exton, the revelation of the truth about nicholas, the reactions and results from that, character development for all the main characters, relationship development for nichoji & haiden, the team actually Becoming a team & the idea of seiji nicholas and eugene being the fencing team after aiden and harvard graduate. but i feel like we’re never going to see any of that. page time is spent on things that aren’t as important instead, and then it takes ages for the next issue/volume and like you said it doesn’t feel coherent or connected to the other issues anymore. it confuses me that all the edges in fence r being sanded down and that the interesting promises in it are constantly being put off.

i’m sorry for talking about this sm i have not been successful in getting anyone into fence irl 😭 i hadn’t read rise or the novels until this month and i reread vol 1-4 before i read the new stuff and it made me very nostalgic

Hi again! lmfao dude no need to ever apologize to me for vents about Fence because I am forever pontificating about it. I agree that Fence has (or, rather, had) the potential to be really popular to a wide audience and I think you hit the nail on the head. And so much of it is just such easy fixes--like putting any effort into marketing lol or when releasing the compiled issues as volumes, giving them all distinct covers and names would have been SO helpful. Reusing the issue covers for the volumes was a mistake (and again, that's something marketing should have been all over!!). and the storyline. oh man. yeah. that ship has sailed and I've had mental breakdowns about it--but if we'd stayed true to the original concept of Fence and BOOM and Pacat put more effort into reaching a wider audience, it could have been big. Another consideration here, of course, is the content-to-hiatus ratio, which loses a ton of fans, but I maintain that if BOOM had their shit together, they could have fixed that problem too! and it's so frustrating

GOD RIGHT??? The novels came in, ruined Fence, and then aren't even actually canon because they don't actually fit in the universe??? My theory is that since Pacat is a SRB superfan, he kind of let her go overboard and realized after the novels were published and he had to move his story forward post-Disarmed that he'd fucked up giving so much freedom to her. Because they called it canon--and he still says it's '80% canon' but it couldn't have happened. So the point of the novels was basically for Pacat to read fanfiction from his favorite author of his OCs--it did nothing positive for the story, the characters, the franchise, or the fans. and LITERALLY!!! I've always thought doing a prequel for the tie-ins made more sense. Like following the fencing team with Harvard, Aiden, Kally, and Tanner would have been so fun, or focusing on Kally and Tanner or Bobby and Dante would have been fun and would have left room for actual plot progression!! It was pure selfishness on the authors' part to do the novels how they did them. And if Pacat would father fangirl over SRB than write a meaningful story, that's his right, but it still bugs me that there was clearly no thought given to the consequences of the novels. So instead of dealing with them, we ignore them and pretend that they're still '80% canon' to make ourselves feel better for our oopsie. hahaaa I have nothing nice to say about SRB or her writing. I don't think she got anything right in Fence--except for hinting Eugesse, which you know she only did because she knew it was popular in the fandom and she wanted the hype and baited us with it lmfao But! I've always had issues with her even before she touched Fence--her blatant sexism in In Other Lands was disturbing to me when I read it (shaming and looking down on feminine traits isn't Woke or Revolutionary just because you assigned those traits to men in your "badass feminist society" and had all the women be grossly sexist and predatory) so it's not just me being an asshole because she ruined my favorite thing in the world <3 But I know she's very beloved among her fans and I'm sorry that she failed you in Fence when you love her other works so much. If there was one mercy from the novels, it was the lack of a Eugene POV even if it further proves he's not really part of the team/a main character...unfortunately that's a fair trade jkdfah

I always thought Fence deserved a bigger following than it ever got--and maybe having a bigger fanbase and more money being thrown at it would have helped BOOM commit to buying enough ahead to let Pacat and Jo actually work on it consistently and put out content more regularly. It really was setting itself up to be so fun and full of tropes the gays LOVE. i mean, sports 'manga' that's actually queer? All the fun tropes with rivals and 'becoming a team'? The classic character archetypes used smartly and effectively? I genuinely think it would have appealed to all the people who love Check Please and Heartstopper and Yuri on Ice. And it still does, I guess, but I feel like if Fence gets popular now, I'd be a bit sad to see all that love centered around a version of Fence I don't like (but that is pure selfishness lmfao I fully admit it). I just so love/d all the edges and conflicts in Fence and it's sad to see them sanded down in canon and resolved of screen.

LMFAO my dude I am sorry for rambling so much at you twice in a row now! Anyway, I'm always here to talk Fence uwu even though i can be harsh and unpleasant about things i don't like jskdfha

[gh0stlymoth]

top 5 newmann moments (canon or headcanon/made up)

U r getting both. Also, this is long bc i have "can't shut up" disease :[

Top 5 Newmann moments (canon)

1. "Say it with me, my man. We are gonna own this bad boy" / "By Jove, we are going to own this thing for sure"- like what can i even say about this scene, the first time i watched it, i had to pause the movie, everything about this scene is just so good, the awkward handshake, the fact that Newt says "my man" and "bad boy", the fact that Hermann smiles at him with a smile rivaling the sunniest of days as he awkwardly holds Newts hand, the fact that they are drift compatible i just. Yeah.

2. Uprising Hug - Hermann breaking his PDA rule to bodily throw himself at Newt, do i need to say more, this was not a normal side hug, this was a "i missed you i missed you so much i am so glad you are back and christ we just did that" hug and newt maybe doesn't even know about it and i bite bite, precursors meet me behind the walmart.

3. Passionate and Fascinating Letters - they had no reason to include this as canon lore but it kills me inside, especially cause i am pretty sure they had emails but these two nerds just decided to do the most yearning thing of writing, assumingly, pages upon pages to eachother, disscussing theories, sharing research, slowly dropping in more private stuff... looking forward to coming home after a day at the labs or wherever they where at the time cause maybe there will be a letter waiting for them in the mail box i am ngh.

4. The choking scene - listen i love angst, i think deKnight or whoever else was responsible for editing out Newts tears in this scene is a coward, but this scene. The emotional impact of it? Hermann not fighting back? Newt looking at him like that in one of the only moments we get to hear and see the real Newt shine thru the Precursors control?? Newt saying "I am sorry, Hermann." Newt in the novel saying: "Help me, Hermann" Yeah. Yeah.

5. In uprising when they pan over Hermanns lab and you see that's it's kinda messy with cups standing everywhere (with. Heavy implication that it's because of the Drift with Newt) and him having a fucking picture of the two of them on his desk even though at this point it's been 10 years, i am ;_; even after Newt left him... he never left Hermanns mind... Aaaa

Honorable mention: the hug cockblocked by Tendos entire body - the little taps on the back, man. The taps.

Headcanonish

1. The little time between Hermann finding Newt seizing on the floor and getting Pentecost bc Newt must have gotten from "unconcious" and "one the floor" to sitting in Hermanns little green shivel chair, concious with a glass of water, also Hermanns quiet "I don't know what to do" when he comes in with Pentecost heavily implies that Hermann did try to comfort him in a Hermann way and listen. Listen.

2. Their first meeting in real life - "they instantly disliked eachother" lives in my head rent free, i want to know what happened, did Newt role up in Kaiju themed shoes while Hermann overdressed because he was nervous? Did they both missread eachothers nonverbal communication things because talking in real life is way different than just writing? What happened that they looked at eachother and mutually went "yo fuck this guy"

3. Newt saying goodbye to Hermann to go to Shao and the build up to that bc i am a glutton for angst, imagine Hermann and Newt after the drift finally figuring some shit out, Hermann maybe thinking no matter what comes they will be together and then Newt slowly starts to pull away. Not that noticable at first, maybe he gets a bit quieter, but then it ramps up, Newt spends more time away from Hermann and then one day he tells him he is leaving for Shao and Hermann has a little crisis over it because how did he missread the signs so bad, ofc Newt would not want to be with him but it hurts watching Newt leave their lab for the last time and i am a big fan of that concept. Bonus points the first few days of Hermann discovering something and wanting to share it with Newt, only to turn around and see that his station is cleaned up and empty and yeah ):

4. I like to think that when the war in the first movie was under full force, they had little moments of vunerability between eachother. Stuff like after a especially tiring day they just wordlessly find their way to the others room and the talk in for them unusual quiet voices and maybe they allow themselves to cry in those moments and it doesn't really matter because they can hold eachother up in these moments. Them learning over time to read eachothers signals. They still yell at eachother and fight but who is gonna call them out if Newt plays his music a little quieter when Hermann is having a bad day or Hermann leaving out food for Newt if he gets too focused on science to take care of himself

5. This is self indulgent but that they have the typical german riveraly of "we come from diffrent regions and we say some words differently and it's common knowledge, but i will fight you because this is not how you say that word, i am correct you are wrong /light hearted" and they tease eachother every chance they get about it

[jodigitaldiary]

(a very belated) no. 3

To my (probably non-existent) readers, I offer my sincere apologies for this most delayed blogpost. My meager attempt to defend my inconsistency is that the past few weeks have ranged from hectic to self-destructive. The plight of a twenty-something in New York City is that the surrounding life often outpaces the individual. Succumbing to the omnipresent social pressures with not a single moment spared for any form of critical thinking, I’ve neglected my commitments to my passions and to myself. For that, I am the most sorry.

But what’s a girl to do in digital-aged New York? Here and now, those aforementioned pressures are heightened to the nth degree. When I’m home alone, I twiddle my thumbs and ponder if my time might be better spent on another East Village escapade, a shopping spree at my favorite Greenpoint vintage stores or, at the very least, sitting alone in an overpriced café to alternate between doomscrolling on instagram and losing myself in a novel. Such is the life of a city girl, as told through the lens of our online profiles. The algorithms that dictate our explore pages suggest that there is little else to do beyond these leisurely activities. This modern variation of live, laugh, love has become nothing short of a gen Z social responsibility.

This, no doubt, is a direct consequence of late-stage capitalism, wherein our time and our very existence have been hypercommodified. Before these dark ages, those most trivial pastimes served a personal purpose, so simple and pure – they relieved us from the demands of the working world. They were rare opportunities to reconnect with oneself and indulge in one’s own pleasures. But I’m afraid that even these sacred moments have been perverted by the woes of corporate America. Wealthy businessmen from coast to coast have realized the demand for leisure and, true to form, have overwhelmed the masses with supply. There’s now a comedic amount of indie coffee shops in New York, for example, alongside the too-many-to-count vintage pop-ups that have transformed sustainable shopping into a designer hoarding competition. This oversaturation has stripped these activities of any sentimental value; now they are just empty and expensive. But perhaps we can find comfort in knowing this phenomenon isn’t specific to me and the other individuals with an on-going existential crisis – it’s a plight against society, at large. <3

Steven Kurutz visualizes this much in his recent features article, Williamsburg. What Happened? A four-decade timeline of total transformation in Brooklyn. This masterful work of photojournalism in The New York Times presents the tale of the gentrification that has absolutely ravaged this charming corner of New York City. His story begins in the late eighties, when the outer-borough enclave was primarily populated by “Hispanic and Hasidic residents,” and the “writers, artists, and musicians” who joined them later (Kurutz). Driven out of Manhattan because of its notoriously expensive rent, an incompatibility of lifestyles, or some other reason, these outcasted communities found a safe haven across the East River. Together, they cultivated a diversity that quickly caught the attention of many a New Yorker, who were migrating eastward for a refreshing change of scenery. Remnants of these organic Williamsburg beginnings can still be found today, and I’m so grateful for these few and fleeting artifacts. But I’m also keenly aware of how billionaires have learned to exploit the neighborhood’s historically hipster culture. The waterfront towers on the north side of Brooklyn are currently occupied by “international hoteliers,” “luxury brands,” and their yuppie patrons; needless to say, the rent has adjusted accordingly (Kurutz). Williamsburg has become a mere simulacrum of the beautiful “bohemia” it was, once upon a time (Kurutz).

As I read through the article, I felt a resounding sense of guilt (and an immediate urgency to write about it). I’ve always chastised gentrification for its inhumane and artificial efforts to “improve” an existing community. But Kurutz accurately implies that I am complicit in it, too. The silly little hobbies that I resort to as an escape from my internal crises are, at once, a cause and effect of the inversion of neighborhoods like Williamsburg. The demand for communal warmth and intimacy necessitates things like a McNally Jackson with a red-brick façade or a tasteful modernization of Marsha P. state park. In return, the corporate giants have completely capitalized on this market. They’ve covered every inch of Williamsburg’s 2.178 square mile area with organic food markets, artisan craft shops, Brooklyn breweries, repurposed fabrics stores, imported plants boutiques, hot yoga studios, specialty hair salons, et cetera et cetera. Their far-from-modest mission to give the people what they want has, inevitably, suffocated us. They’ve deprived an entire community of its simple human ability to desire.

To truly escape is to leave, to disconnect, to seek respite in the bucolic way of life, a la Thoreau. But even in the unlikelihood of such a scenario, I’m still hopeful that people can find it within themselves to detach from this perfectly manufactured world, if just for a moment.

Works Cited

Kurutz, Steven. “Williamsburg. What Happened? A four-decade timeline of total transformation in Brooklyn.” The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2024/01/29/style/williamsburg-brooklyn-history-timeline.html?searchResultPosition=1#_1993-2001. Accessed 30 January 2024.

[yumemiyas-wips]

Tag game time.

In the spirit of 3 words stories, I will use all 3 words in one single short story. In the process it kind of turned into a Book Girl fanfic. Sorry guys.

Kitten, stake, mash.

"Konohaaaa, are you still mad at me?" Tooko asks dejectedly. In front of her is a half-eaten sheaf of papers - her dinner, essentially.

Inoue Tooko, neé Amano, a novel editor and self-proclaimed Literary Girl, who loves-stories-so-much-she-can-eat-them, was guilty of snacking on her husband's copy of "I am a cat" by Natsume Soseki. Not a rare book, by all means, but a special one, the first book that they've bought together as a couple.

"Why would I be mad?" Says her husband and acclaimed novelist, Inoue Konoha, in a deadly cheery voice. "No, I'm not mad at all."

"I'm sowwwyyyy!!!" Whines Tooko, now clinging to her husband's neck like a clingy cat: "Pwease forgive meeeee!!! Don't make me eat these kind of weird stories anymoreeeeee!!!!!"

"And what's so weird about a story where a kitten, having had his canned tuna stolen by another cat, makes a voodoo doll of that cat and then staking it on a torii gate? He smashes, and he smashes, until he realizes he has smashed his paw in as well. It's a perfectly normal story." Konoha says fleetly.

"It's like eating a whole plate of wasabi-filled dangoooo!!!" Cries Tooko, even more loudly this time. "How could you describe the malice in such detail!? The oitside is all soft and fluffy but when you bite down on it there's nothing but hatreeed!!! It's burning my tongueeeee!!!!!!"

"Hai, hai, maybe you should have thought of that before sneaking into the library, no? I could have written up a quick snack for you, you know?" Konoha has never been able to stay mad at his wife for long. "Besides, that book was really special."

"I'm sorry..." Tooko has quietened down quite a bit now. "But you were working so hard on that novel, and I didn't want to have you write something up for me in the meantime..."

"Sigh... Sometimes I wonder where you got that twisted sense of priorities from..." Konoha massages his eyes. "Please prioritize your health for now, for yourself and for the child as well." He sets down his pen and tears off several pages from the notepad: "Here, a little something to hold you over till dinner. It's not a weird story, I promise."

"Really?"

"Pinky promise."

For a moment, there is nothing in the room except for the sound of chewing and tearing paper. Then, Tooko's eyes light up as she always has, the same way her eyes lit up in that dusty book storage room all those years ago, whenever she got to eat a good story.

"The kitten went out camping, but he couldn't set up his tent, so he mashed rice and pounded mochi to call down a moon rabbit to help him drive the stakes into the ground! This story is so sweet! It's like red bean mochi, pounded and folded so many times it became soft and sticky! Mmm! It's so tasty!!!"

Konoha looks upon his wife, chewing on the pages like it was the best delicacy in the world, and his weary gaze softens. The novelist takes out the paper bag underneath his deak and reveals its content: "Do save some room for dinner!" He grins. Tooko, on the other hand, peers over curiously: "Ooh, 'Narihira' volume 13. Isn't that Kaito's book?"

"Yeah. I have a feeling it'll taste like broccoli somehow."

"It does! Beef and broccoli! How could you tell?" Tooko reminisces about the young writer she was responsible for, the last one before she started editing for Konoha exclusively. "Suzumenomiya's novels were always a bit on the extravagant and flashy side. Grilled lobster, beef stroganoff, fried scallops, the kind of food that hardly anyone can prepare. His style did change significantly by volume 12 though..." Tooko's eyes start to drift ans she reminisces, about Kaito and Hisa, talented young writers that she had the brief opportunity to provide guidance, about the night spent badmouthing Konoha in that inn in Izu, about braids, and then, about those days, in the dusty storage room, with the rickety wooden table, with the snarky, sarcastic kid that the man she loves once was...

"Kaito reminds me of you."

"Really? The kid reminds me more of Kotobuki." Muses Konoha.

"Nanase's gonna be really mad if she hears that."

"So you think I wouldn't be mad, huh?"

"I know you wouldn't." Tooko smiles.

"...You cheeky book-goat." Konoha laughs it off. "Speaking of old friends, Akutagawa and Miu are engaged, do you know that?"

"Yes, he called me to announce- wait, who are you calling a book goat!?" Tooko begins to ruffle Konoha's hair as vigorously as she could. Konoha just laughs and playfully fights back. The two kicks up dust into the air, the golden motes dancing in the sunlight from the window, which shines down on the two, like it did eight years prior in the dusty book storage.

Your words are: lunch, stopwatch, confession. Go.

Find the Word tag! @rmgrey-author tagged me! My words are: last, heart, death and cold. I'm drawing from Court Phoenix.

I'm tagging anyone who wants to play! Your words are kitten, stake and mash.

Last

I trudged across the village, my body and mind numb. Hes trailed after me, making worried noises, but I didn’t stop to reassure her. What could I say? I had no job. I had no home. And if I didn’t benefit the village in some way, I knew that sooner or later, they would banish me completely. Hes and I would wander the steppes alone. If we survived at all.

But I wasn’t without hope. When I reached my mother’s door, I knocked until I bruised my knuckles.

She burst out of her house, hands already set on her hips. “What?” she snapped.

I bowed my head to her. This wasn’t the time to be defiant. I said, “Mother, may I move back in? I’ll help fish for birds every morning and watch the children.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she took a long step towards me. “Move in? You have a house.”

Had a house. I swallowed. “The smith threw me out. So please—”

“Threw you out?” she screeched. For a second, hope swelled in my heart. She was outraged on my behalf. She would talk to him, turn this around. Then she said, “You worthless girl! Do you know how hard I worked to arrange an apprenticeship for you? This is because of that bird, isn’t it? Because you won’t kill it and be done.”

I clenched my hands. “Mother, Hes hasn’t done anything to deserve death.”

“That creature is going to burn the town down!” My mother slashed a hand through the air. “Fire will eat our walls and windows. It’ll jump from roof to roof, spreading like a storm. But you don’t care, do you? You don’t care about anything except yourself and your pet.” She spat the last word.

I stood guard in front of Hes, my heart beating desperately. “She won’t! She’s smart and careful. She doesn’t burn things down accidentally.” As a prank was something else.

“And you expect me to believe that thing wouldn’t see us all dead out of spite?”

“She wouldn’t do that,” I insisted.

She snorted. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t move back in. You’re not welcome. Go live by the lake. Maybe your animal will keep you warm.”

Heart

We found the city’s trail long before we saw it. A million hooves had trampled the steppe grasses and flowers, leaving a long path across the plains. Chujulan turned us east to follow it. The sun glared down into my eyes. I wanted to shield my face, but my hands were busy holding Hes and clinging to the saddle. I’d never ridden an animal before, and the galloping deer seemed to wobble beneath me. The saddle, I was certain, would slide off any second and dump us all on the ground, but Damrag ran on, his long bounds effortless.

“There,” Chujulan said in my ear after an eternity on the stag’s back. “Look, fisher, at your glorious new home.”

Skyfire glided across the plains before us, brilliant in its blues and reds and greens. No walls encircled this metropolis, unlike the hotland cities of fable. A taunt to their enemies that said 'we don't need walls to defeat you.'

Row after row of round buildings stretched twenty — fifty — times the width of my own village, sometimes linked together into large complexes, other times split by white stone streets. A palace rose from its heart, a maze of round walls, red as blood, that stretched up and up until they domed into finial-tipped roofs. At this distance the city looked unreal, a series of perfect miniatures. But all around it ran the herd, unmistakably, unignorably, alive.

Deer spread out across the whole eastern horizon, shifting and shying around the moving city like a school of brown and white fish. At this distance, I couldn't tell where one animal began and ended, and their overlapping antlers rose like tangled brush from a field. Men and women rode at the edges of the herd, and immense white dogs ran with them. How many deer did they eat in a day?

As I clung to the saddle, the sun burning holes in my vision, the reality of the city hit me. This place was my new home. I felt a twinge of fear. A people who created this would sneer at a landbound villager, whether she had a phoenix or not. But no. I straightened up in the saddle. I would prove myself indispensable, the perfect phoenix-keeper, so that no one would ever try to send me back to my village.

Death

Chujulan slouched into a chair. I fell into one and thought about closing my eyes and passing out.

“How do you like this house?” my visitor asked. “The last keeper bragged about the plumbing to all who would hear.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “Did you know him well?”

She waved a hand. “In passing. He was of little interest to me.”

And I was of interest to a rial? She kept showing up when she surely had better things to do. Surely I could use that somehow. “How did he die?”

“Oh, that.” She laced her hands together and offered me a sardonic smile. “He died of a heart attack.”

I jabbed a finger at her. “That’s not true! When I came here, the bed was still covered in bloodstains!”

“Was it? Well, the doctors said it was certainly a heart attack. It’s a common diagnosis in these parts for the dead both young and old. We are a sickly bunch, apparently.”

“And I suppose all those dead left behind bloodstains in their beds.”

She rested her chin in her hands. “Not all of them. Some died at the dinner table, after eating something suspicious.”

I scowled at her. “Poison?”

“Around here, we call it all a heart attack.”

Hes called mournfully, and I invited her onto my lap. “Why did he really die? Should I be worried?”

“A heart attack, of course, strikes whomever it choses. But I heard, not long before his death, that he was having an affair with a married woman. And she had a jealous wife. I’m sure there’s nothing for you to worry about unless you intend to do the same.”

Cold

The next evening, the sagan held his court in a bubble of ivory and gold, its stone bones buried under pale tapestries stitched with precious metals. A servant led me inside, and I hurried after him, Hes in my arms, trying to ignore my shaking legs and the sweat that clung to my skin. I rarely sweated, immune to overheating, but today I was clammy and cold. Only my eagerness to prove myself kept me walking.

Embroidered legends, wars and emperors swirled round everything until I felt dizzy and unreal. The room was more dream than architecture.

The lordly swept from one small group to another, and so many factions lined the walls that I stopped counting. But in the middle of that circular room, nothing moved. Some invisible fence marked off a line that could not be crossed, and at the center of it all a narrow throne stretched towards the ceiling that arched high overhead. A massive set of antlers, bigger than any I'd ever imagined, crowned the back. Below, it was draped in a thousand blood-red curtains and veils until it was impossible to tell if wood or metal or bone lay underneath.

Upon the throne sat a white-robed man with Chujulan’s sharp face, Batoktoa’s eyes and Gehiral’s pale skin. Red braids wrapped a crown of gold and silver. He wore the same black and red makeup as his children, but faint wrinkles marked his face and bags marred his eyes. Whatever was involved in ruling the saganum, it had aged him. It occurred to me I did not know his name. He had to have one, but everyone just called him the sagan. Something about that struck me as terribly sad.

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Just chapters and snippets

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[syneilesis]

[fic, wip 2/3] Let It Stand | chapter two

Let It Stand

Ikemen Prince | Chevalier Michel x Main Character (Emma) | T

ao3 link

Emma gets a new editor. This editor doesn’t like her that much.

A/N: Finally, ugh. I tried my best with the novel excerpts. Also, things get slightly serious in this chapter.

chapter one

chapter two

Page 84:

Did the main character waltz into the basement without getting flagged by security?

Why would Chevalier focus on the security of the palace? The scene was the first emotional confrontation between the main character and the male lead; nobody would bother to think about the shifting schedule of the palace guards!

Page 132:

The generals are not doing anything in accordance with their function.

It's a romance novel, not a military novel.

Page 256:

This scene doesn’t contribute to the overall narrative. Either remove this or revise this into something that will strengthen the connection between the main character and the male lead.

… Okay, this one was fair.

Page 401:

Flowery prose in this scene will only take away the quick pace of the action. Rework this.

Tch, fine.

Page 445:

The sacrifices made in defeating the antagonist are not comparable with what I suspect you want to achieve; if you want to highlight their love, you need to find something of equal value—say, his magic, for example.

Oh. This was a good point. A bittersweet approach, but utterly effective. Emma opened her notebook and started to take down notes; she was definitely going to lose a lot of sleep for revisions.

✏︎

from: emma083021@gmail.com

to: cmichel@rhodolitepress.com

subject: Re: Re: Re: Manuscript Editing

Dear C. Michel,

Hello! I hope you’re having a good day.

I am submitting the latest version of my manuscript. I’ve revised it according to your suggestions; however, I feel the need to defend some of my narrative choices, particularly about my decision to have the main character stay with the male lead.

I totally understand your point about the main character doing the most of the concessions, and I do feel that way about it too. But for this novel I want to capture the magic and fantasy of love, that it triumphs despite their being from different worlds. Besides, we all want, at some point, to escape and live within a fantastical world, don’t we?

I hope you let this one go, as it’s central to one of my goals writing this novel.

I’d like to reiterate my sentiment in my previous email: I greatly appreciate your feedback; I feel like I’m learning a lot, even if I already have some experience in writing stories.

Sincerely,

Emma

✏︎

“Any news about Luke?”

This time, Emma could hear a background hum, which she surmised was the photocopying machine. Maybe the same poor intern managed to fix it. Sariel sounded like he was in a good mood today.

“Unfortunately none. He remains elusive to our search.” Sariel paused, then excused himself, his muffled voice indicating that he was speaking to somebody in his office. Emma waited patiently, shifting her groceries on one arm. It was Saturday, and she had to catch up with her chores. She felt bad that Sariel had to work during the weekend because of Luke; she silently hoped that they’d find him as soon as possible.

The thump of something at the other end of the phone call brought Emma back to the matter at hand.

“My apologies,” Sariel resumed. “I had to employ the assistance of the national intelligence. The boy is starting to test my patience. He needs some disciplining once this is over.”

“I’m sorry, Sariel, did you say that the national intelligence is now involved?”

“All for Luke’s sake, of course.”

“And what do you mean by ‘disciplining’?!”

Sariel’s tone was amused, and Emma, again, felt dread for Luke’s well-being. “Oh, you know. I just meant that Luke should learn the importance of responsibility.”

While Emma did agree that it’s important to learn responsibility, Sariel made it sound like it’d be the most grueling thing that Luke would go through in his entire life.

“No funny stuff, Sariel!”

Even if Emma couldn’t see him, the way the incredulous silence that followed was palpable, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine Sariel raising one disbelieving brow at his phone, the corners of his lips quirking slightly. “Oh? Are you seriously warning me?”

Emma gulped. “N-No …”

“Glad to have that cleared up. By the way, how are you?”

The abrupt change of subject gave Emma whiplash. “I’m great?”

“Working with Chevalier.”

Oh. Right.

“I just sent him my revisions,” Emma said. She’d clicked that send button with a slight tremor and immediately closed her laptop once it went through. So far, she hadn’t received any notification of his reply, even if it was just a confirmation that he got the revised manuscript. Emma had to convince herself that Chevalier seemed like a man who would email a writer once he finished reviewing the draft. Waiting should not be treated as an apprehension; it should be seen as an opportunity to let go and relax.

“Good. He works fast, so expect him in a few days.”

Okay. Waiting with apprehension, then. It brought to memory Clavis’s stories of Chevalier as an editor. While a lot of them had been about how intimidating Chevalier was in general—thinking about them now Emma realized that what she wanted to know wasn’t really about Chevalier’s eye for detail and narrative logic or his job as an editor; she wanted to figure out the philosophy that Chevalier was operating under. What he thought were good stories, great stories; his vision, his ideals—what was he looking for whenever he sat down to read manuscripts of different writers?

What was he aiming for when he wrote A Solitary Moon?

“Hey, Sariel,” Emma found herself saying, “how did Chevalier become an editor?”

A beat. “Are you curious about him?”

“I’m just—” How to say this without giving herself away? “He’s quite the character, you know? I’m surprised that a lot of writers rely on him in spite of that attitude.”

“He’s very good at his job, personality notwithstanding.”

“And I agree, but …”

“Ah, so you’re regretting having him as your editor?”

“No, it’s not that. I just wonder …”

“Emma,” to which she startled, nearly dropping her groceries. It was rare that Sariel would call her by her name; most of those times had been during serious moments, so whatever Sariel was going to say now, Emma began to brace herself for it. “Have you developed an interest in our top editor?”

Emma sputtered, the sound overlapping with Sariel’s amused chuckle.

“I don’t mean it that way!” she exclaimed, feeling flustered all of a sudden. The profile picture of Chevalier buzzed in her mind like an unwelcome signal. “I just thought he’s too much of a perfectionist to work well with other writers! But I read things about him and they’re mostly praises. I don’t know if they’re just good at hiding their fear towards Chevalier or what.”

“Maybe they’re just good at masking their fear.” Sariel hummed in thought. “Do you fear him?”

Did she? Emma recalled all her interactions with him. It wasn’t so much fear as it’s irritation with the way he approached editing work. Instead of running for the hills, Emma felt more like clobbering Chevalier with a giant pencil due to how he phrased his comments. No, she never feared Chevalier, because even though his words lanced like a thousand needles, Emma understood that in the end he’s still doing his job. And it’s showing in her manuscript. 

“No.”

“Good,” Sariel said, sounding satisfied. “That’s all you really need to know about Chevalier.”

“Huh?”

“That he's severely competent at his job, and that he will demand the same of his writers.”

But that didn’t really answer her question about Chevalier. About his path in becoming an editor. About what was most important to him when it came to the written word. Was he searching for the greatest novel yet written? Did he want to elevate all the novels he’d edited into great literature?

Maybe the others couldn’t answer Emma’s question. Maybe only Chevalier could.

✏︎

from: cmichel@rhodolitepress.com

to: emma083021@gmail.com

subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Manuscript Editing

Do we.

Read my comments.

✏︎

A few days later, Emma was turning on the lights of her apartment living room, exhausted from work, when it’s revealed that Clavis was lounging on her couch for god knew how long, feet crossed and perched on the coffee table, a paper bag sitting beside him. Emma’s heart leaped out of her body and fled to another country, taking on a different name and identity, never to be seen again.

She screeched.

“Oh my god, you stalker!”

“Now, now,” Clavis said, singsong, like it was totally normal to break into someone's home and scare them to bloody death. “You have a nice apartment. Cute. Needs more fun and color though. Three-and-a-half stars.”

“How did you—you didn’t break the lock—Clavis, I’m calling the police—”

“After I risked my life just to give you this?” He left the couch with the paper bag and presented it to her, smirking all the while. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Emma was still reeling from the scare, palms sweaty and hair on her nape bristling. She eyed the bag suspiciously. Nothing about Clavis was trustworthy anymore; instead, everything about him invited violence. Against him. “What’s that.”

“It’s Chevalier’s novel, of course. Have you forgotten?”

She hadn’t forgotten, but this certainly shouldn’t be within the realm of the possible ways of acquiring Chevalier’s novel. Clavis giving it over coffee or visiting her in the bookstore seemed the more reasonable scenarios in her head; she should’ve known after that stunt he pulled the first time they met. What an unhinged man. She should stay away from him from now on.

Snatching the bag away from his hand, Emma stepped to the side and showed him the door. “Okay, thank you for the novel, Clavis. Now get out.”

Clavis didn’t look bothered at the very least; he even laughed like this was all so funny—and maybe to him, it was. That violent urge resurfaced.  “Enjoy reading Chev’s novel, Miss Writer. I want to hear your thoughts after you finish reading it.”

“Ugh yes fine—don’t ever come back here again.”

Clavis bowed a gentleman’s bow, subtly mocking, and left. His chuckling echoed throughout the hallway. Emma slammed the door shut, double-locked it for good measure.

✏︎

Emma buried the Clavis Incident way, way deep down her mind, never to emerge again if she could help it. She seriously contemplated asking Sariel’s permission to file a restraining order on the man, for the sake of her apartment and her health.

But right now—regardless of whether she’s indebted to Clavis or not (she wasn’t)—Chevalier’s novel was calling to her like a siren, beckoning Emma to pick it up and read it on her bed. She inspected the book: a sturdy hardcover with smooth and creamy pages, the texture of which Emma would enjoy running her fingers on. The front cover depicted a stylistic illustration of a lady sitting as though she was modeling for a painting. Her hands were folded on her lap, her body tilted slightly to the right, but her head remained facing straight ahead, her gaze bright and defiant. She wasn’t smiling, but her rouge lips hinted of it. Her hair cascaded freely down her shoulders and chest, shimmering against the light outside the frame. She was, for all intents and purposes, beautiful. Just like the author, whose picture was printed on the inner flap of the back cover, with a brief blurb that recounted his accomplishments heretofore the novel’s publication. The photo in the book was different from the one displayed in the website. Here, Chevalier sat cross-legged on a rococo chair that almost looked like a throne, a king in repose, with a huge bookshelf in the background. He’s wearing a cream suit jacket over a white shirt, the first two buttons opened, revealing a perfect set of collarbones. Emma squinted; she’s not well-versed in designer brands, but Chevalier’s probably wearing Tom Ford or Dior or something unpronounceable.

She examined the cover further. The visual presentation of the novel gave her the impression that Chevalier writing fiction wouldn’t be a one-time thing. Maybe she could ask Sariel (or even Clavis? … Chevalier himself?) sometime in the future about it. Shrugging, she put those thoughts aside and started reading.

This was how A Solitary Moon opened:

It figures that exactly twenty years after he decided to study art instead of creating it, Claude Allard discovers the most beautiful painting in the world. It happens by chance – as all world-upending discoveries are wont to happen. It’s as if someone has pulled a rug under you, and as you fall your soul remains suspended in air, snapshot glimpse of the above seared behind your eyelids, lines and colors blurry with motion, the taste of shock on your tongue.

The first chapter chronicled how the main character, art historian Claude Allard, stumbled upon a painting of a woman so beautiful he fell in love with her. It was displayed at an indie art gallery, whose gallerist boasted to him that the artwork had once been owned by an archduke three generations ago. The artist was unknown despite the presence of signature, which was believed to be random letters strewn together. The novel narrated Claude’s attempts to determine who the painter was—propelling him to travel the world and meet the most interesting kinds of people with the most poignant experiences—so that he could identify who the lady was in the painting.

It wasn’t the sort of thing to be read from start to finish in one sitting, Emma realized. It’s meant to be read slowly and carefully, savored at lush moments, sighed at others. A Solitary Moon was the kind of novel that you think about during odd moments: right before ordering your favorite coffee blend at a café, crossing a street on a particularly windy day, watching people through the bookshop window. It had that tender quality that filled the silences of lost thoughts.

Even then, Emma didn’t notice that midnight had passed. She was still raptly glued to the book.

✏︎

He’s old – a willowy figure with wizened skin, hunched over as though he’s one cough away from collapsing. His great-granddaughter stands two steps behind him, a sentinel with a hawkish gaze, ready to come alive should a threat fall upon Dimitri. Claude observes them as he sips his tea, allowing the silence to linger and fester.

For years in between his work, his search for Luce’s painter brought him unimaginable adventure and even danger, and now, as he sits across Dimitri who can no longer even lift a brush, Claude thinks that this is a reprieve, in a way. The loud and explosive leaps of his quest thin into a reedy whisper, a bitterly unworthy conclusion. But regardless – he’s finally here and with one question, Claude will know. It doesn’t matter if Luce is already dead; Claude will render her immortal, as all beautiful existences are fated to become. One painting is not enough. The world should know and experience what it’s like to have your whole life, body, and soul seized and upended.

Except even there, he is denied of that. “I forgot,” Dimitri mumbles, repeats them over and over, the words blurring into each other that Claude has to strain his ears to hear them clearly. “I have forgotten.”

The teacup wobbles on his trembling hand.

This is the thing: a great journey doesn’t guarantee a reward at the end. But it is the driving force for all of them. What is hope without direction? A mere fantasy. All goals work towards a destination, and they all need an ideal—something to look forward to. For Claude, it is Luce, and thus he had faced all the challenges that arose in pursuit of his ideal, and he had emerged victorious. 

But this journey only rewarded him with a dead end. Nothing! Not even a full name. Luce, on the brink of immortality, flickers and fades into lonely oblivion. An elegy to the forgotten.

Claude leans back on his seat and closes his eyes. Swallows.

✏︎

It took Emma a whole week to finish A Solitary Moon. All her available time spent in the corners, on the bed, hands and eyes intent on the book. A few instances, she vaguely noticed Rio shooting her worried looks, especially during lunch time, when they usually went out to eat. Food seemed like a distant necessity compared to the pressing need to unravel Claude’s love of Luce. Emma had complicated feelings towards Claude: on the one hand, the idea of falling in love with a person in a painting and searching for them in real life sounded brave and romantic; on the other hand, the love Claude had for Luce was so pure and exhilarating it felt like an illusion. Emma wondered what Chevalier was thinking when he wrote this. Was this how he viewed love?

But in the end, Claude never found out who Luce was. Was she still alive by the time he met the painter Dimitri or was she already dead? Was she even real and not just an idealized vision he created for his art? It would be devastating for Claude if she was just a painter’s dream—to go through so much and all for nothing. What was the point of it all? Why would Chevalier write a story that set up something grand and transcendent only for it to end in a whimper? Or was that his goal all along—the shock of subversion?

To almost taste it—what you’d been searching for most of your life—only to be deprived of it at the end. Reading that chapter, that scene, sent Emma to a floating state of disbelief. She couldn’t believe Chevalier made that narrative choice. The catharsis of the journey was absent; there was no closure. No wonder some of his Goodreads reviews mentioned something along the lines of reader heartbreak (one even wrote Why would you captivate my heart and then crush it?). What was he trying to say—that love might be real but ultimately pointless? Was he reflecting reality in that case?

But Emma refused to believe that. The way Claude’s love was described in the novel read like a nostalgic reminiscence of what was once simple and innocent, a sweet memory filtered through a myth of roses. It was by no means an indictment of such feeling; it’s more like Chevalier wanted to capture that kind of love, the only way he knew how.

Or maybe it’s this: the love was real, even if the person didn’t exist, and that still mattered.

Regardless, Emma finished the book a changed person, heart heavy and hurt and carved out from the inside.

A Solitary Moon ended with this sentence: And as the din of the airport washes over him, Claude continues to stare beyond the glass windows, to the airplane in the sky with its white jetstreak that cuts against the cloudless blue, weightless in flight, like the heart inside his ribcage, beating like a flap of wings, colorless.

Colorless. Did Chevalier think of it that way—the implosion of love?

✏︎

from: cmichel@rhodolitepress.com

to: emma083021@gmail.com

subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Manuscript Editing

Your manuscript is two weeks late. Explain.

from: emma083021@gmail.com

to: cmichel@rhodolitepress.com

subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Manuscript Editing

Dear Mr. Michel,

I sincerely apologize for not submitting my revised manuscript. I know it’s now seventeen days past the deadline, and I still have not attached my manuscript. You must think very unprofessional of me for not honoring our agreed timeframe, and I most certainly agree with you. It’s just that I’ve been struggling with writing lately. I’m trying my best to follow your suggestions, I really do. But lately all I feel about my writing is that they will never amount to anything.

I’m sorry if that reveals a lot more than you probably want, but I swear, I’m working on my manuscript. Please give me a few weeks.

Emma

✏︎

When asked if Emma had ever imagined she and Chevalier meeting in person, she would of course say yes, as all writers and their editors should. Of course, she would never say that she had imagined their meeting with a frequency that might provoke Rio to a nervous fit. She would also never say that she had imagined their meeting in various creative scenarios. That one where their hands brush getting the same book in the library like a meet-cute was her favorite, though somewhat uninspired. Sometimes, she included Chevalier’s nasty personality, but most of the time she’d exercise her creative liberties. It’s her imagination, after all; it’s not like Chevalier would get wind of it and would then savagely edit her fantasies in a fit of petty revenge.

What Emma hadn’t accounted for was the possibility that Chevalier would come to her. 

There’s a new part-timer in the bookstore, and Rio was teaching the kid at the payment counter. A group of high school students was hanging out at the YA section, their excited giggles echoing throughout the small shop. It was another slow day, but that’s all right; the batch of newly released titles would arrive a couple of days later, and the bookstore anticipated an increase of customers and hence sales by then.

Rearranging the philosophy section occupied most of Emma’s afternoon. Her mind, though, was elsewhere. Absently she shoved the books into the shelf, ignoring how Nietzsche stared at her from the book cover looking all sad and monochromatic. Which was why she failed to hear the door chime tinkling, along with Rio’s gasp and the high schoolers’ squeals. All of this went over her head, too absorbed by the anxiety of dealing with writer’s block.

Distinct footsteps—Oxford soles clacking against the polished wooden floor—slid into her awareness, growing louder and louder, then stopping near her. Still, Emma soldiered on her task; if the customer wanted to buy philosophy books, they would have to wait until she finished.

And for a moment she thought they would have, were it not for a harsh, exasperated sigh and a “You.”

Emma startled. The voice was deep, sonorous, the kind that would penetrate your bones and rattle them from the inside. It was also the kind that Emma would like to listen to in audiobooks.

Attention leaving the shelf, Emma pivoted to greet the owner of that gorgeous voice and instead let out a gasp that was even more dramatic than Rio’s.

“Oh my god,” Emma said.

“Oh god, no,” Rio said.

It was Chevalier Michel, in the flesh. And what glorious flesh. His pictures didn’t do him justice at all. The light from the shop and the one filtering through the windows haloed his outline like an angel descended from heaven. Emma could even hear a choir singing in the background. He seemed to be wearing Armani this time—jacket, shirt, and slacks highlighting his tall, lean frame. Was his prior engagement a fashion photoshoot? Emma wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Honestly, he didn’t look like a book editor at all.

“M-Mister Chevalier Michel!” Emma sputtered, afraid that she was gawking at him too much. “What brings you to our humble bookshop?”

Against her will, Clavis’s gleeful voice resurrected and ricocheted around the walls of her mind, his stories of Chevalier eviscerating writers pumping her already accelerating heartbeat.

“Are you really that much of a simpleton to ask why I’m here?” There’s an undercurrent of disdain in Chevalier’s tone and in his eyebrows, which was an impressive feat considering eyebrows were just relatively thick lines plastered on a person’s face.

“No…?” Emma cursed internally; the intonation at the end of the word rose like it was an interrogative sentence. Was that just a rhetorical question? Was she even required to answer it? She knew she should be offended, but truthfully Emma was still stuck on the fact that Chevalier Michel was here. In the bookstore. Standing in front of her, looking all so handsome and otherworldly and expensive.

Chevalier must be a telepath too, because he rolled his eyes as if he’d read Emma’s thoughts and responded accordingly, which was a dangerous thing for her. He must’ve received a lot of comments about his appearance all throughout his life; Emma shouldn’t add herself in the list.

Rio raced towards them, the new kid trailing after him like a confused foal. Meanwhile, the high schoolers encamped around them—understandable, Emma had to admit. Chevalier was objectively a gorgeous man, and there’s no way these high school students would pass up an opportunity to interact with him. A couple of them discreetly whipped out their phones and attempted to take a picture of the man. One even courageously ventured, “Hey, mister, are you a celebrity?”

Rio cut off that poor girl. “Dear customer,” he pronounced, blocking any path the students could verbally take. The distance between the counter and the philosophy section stretched into infinity; Emma could clearly note the hundred varied expressions flitting through Rio’s face as he hastened to approach them. There was shock, alarm, anxiety, dread, and other myriad ones that Emma could sympathize with. She was partial with dread, of course. Anyone would feel dread when confronted with Chevalier’s sword-sharp glare.

But it’s as if Rio didn’t exist; Chevalier paid him no notice and remained judging Emma with his (beautiful! heavenly! heartstopping!) ice-blue eyes.

“It’s eighteen days past your deadline,” he said, like that answered all the questions in the world. Which, to be fair, it did. Emma’s heart started galloping. A part of her, numbed and removed from the immediate situation, felt sorry for Schopenhauer being stuck between her sweaty palms.

“I-I’m sorry!” Emma stuttered and gracelessly thrust Schopenhauer next to Nietzsche. Thank god they’re both hardcovers; she might scream in horror if either cover got ruined in her carelessness. “I know I’m late; I’m working on it, really! I sent an email yesterday—I was hoping you’d grant me that extension.”

But it’s clear that Chevalier had made a different decision. Emma was pretty sure he’s going to castigate her in the middle of her shift with Rio, the new kid, and the high school girls as unfortunate witnesses.

The line of Chevalier’s mouth twitched. Downward it seemed, like he was trying to tamp down the urge to sneer but failing to quell the reaction because Emma screwed up big time. She gulped and braced herself for the inevitable fallout.

Then a strange thing happened: whatever it was Chevalier’s going to do, he stopped himself from doing it and just heaved a long-suffering sigh. It reminded Emma of the countless sighs she’d heard from Sariel, but this one was more along the lines of I’m surrounded by incompetent fools rather than I don’t deserve this level of stress in my life please god almighty make Clavis go away. Hope budded inside Emma’s chest. Was she going to get away with not submitting on time?

But then Chevalier scowled and Emma’s nascent hope died a swift, painful death. He spun towards the direction of the exit and in a voice that brooked no defiance, ordered, “Come with me.”

So this was it, then. Chevalier was leading Emma to her demise. It had been a nice life, all things considered. She read, she wrote, she published. She lived the dream. She was just sorry that she hadn’t written her will yet; she hadn’t settled on whom to bequeath her book collection up till now. Maybe Rio, but knowing him, instead of reading all the books he’d inherit from her he’d just make a shrine out of them.

She threw an apologetic glance at the books. She would’ve wanted to read more, but this was as far as she could go.

Suddenly Rio’s at the door, barricading the exit with his arms akimbo and his face contorted in a way that his customer-service smile looked more seething than cheerful.

“Dear customer!” he repeated, jolly as a rabid dog could be jolly. “If you’re undecided about what books to buy, may I suggest a couple of titles?”

The bookshop fell into a hush. Nobody dared to breathe.

Emma must have a death wish, because she added, helpfully: “I’m on the clock, Mister Michel. I can’t follow you outside right now, much as I want to.”

With her and Rio to intervene in her impending doom, Chevalier would have to yield, right? But they had regrettably proven to be weak adversaries, for Chevalier merely glanced at them both and then strode back to the philosophy section to pull out Nietzche and Schopenhauer, after which he migrated to the—shocking!—romance section and grabbed a Jane Austen novel. (It was Emma; Emma didn’t know what to feel about that, honestly.) He returned in front of Rio and pushed the books into his unprepared arms. “There,” Chevalier declared, tone final. He handed his credit card (Oh my god, Emma inwardly gasped, zeroing in on the card; it was black) to the newbie, who paled upon the sight of such a display of status. “This will suffice, will it not.”

Then he stared emphatically at Emma, who received it with the poise of someone on the verge of diving behind the stacks of self-help books. She had no choice but to say, “Rio, I think I’ll take my c-coffee break now.”

✏︎

So far Chevalier hadn’t murdered her once they went outside. There was no glove-slapping, or surprise-stabbing, or a sidewalk shootout, and that invited further paranoia from Emma. Maybe he derived sick pleasure in pushing his victims to their terrified limits.

He led her to a sleek, blue Chevrolet Camaro, opening the passenger seat and demanding her to get in. Once they’re both inside, seatbelts on, Chevalier huffed. “I’m not taking you somewhere else to kill you.”

Emma’s head whirled so fast her neck cracked. Chevalier’s eyebrow twitched, unimpressed.

She goggled at him. “How did you know what I was thinking?!”

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have already done so the day after your missed deadline.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me?!”

All she got was a derisive snort. Afterwards Chevalier turned the engine on and drove away from the bookshop. For a fleeting second, Emma had the wild thought that it was the last time she’d see it. Rio had begrudgingly allowed Emma’s early coffee break since he had a co-worker staying behind with him and Chevalier had—in addition to Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, and Austen—purchased plenty more books to force him into capitulation. It would be sad if that was her and Rio’s final contact. He hadn’t even yet replaced the skincare set he ‘accidentally’ used up.

They passed through a familiar route that Emma eventually realized was heading towards Rhodolite Press. Perhaps Chevalier was just taking her to his office to talk about her manuscript? Emma sneaked a glance at him. Chevalier appearing at the bookshop was truly something unexpected, and although they should have met long before, Emma still felt unprepared seeing and speaking to Chevalier in person.

Rhodolite Press loomed over them, casting its shadow over the road. It’s a modest building of three storeys, one side transparent glass walls that doubled as windows. Only the first floor had no blinds, so Emma could peek into the interior and make out a spacious lobby decked with modern furnishings. There were a couple of vending machines, Emma recalled; one for drinks and the other for assorted junk food.

The car sped past the building, and Emma made an aborted sound. Not Rhodolite Press, then. So where were they going? A café? A five-star restaurant? His house? … An abandoned area unknown to most people?

Chevalier clucked his tongue as if responding to her rapidly spiraling thoughts. Which he probably might have, for all she knew.

After several turns, they left the main road and continued down a narrower path that appeared to lead to an upper-class neighborhood. Buildings became large houses, the cost of which Emma couldn’t even afford in her lifetime. Another glance at Chevalier, studying him as if his face held the answer to her current burning question. It didn’t, but it was a good face, an amazing face, so that’s a consolation.

A few minutes later they pulled over at a small parking area. Across it was a gated garden; however, nobody seemed to be guarding it.

“Out,” Chevalier said, removing his seatbelt and opening his side of the door. Emma scrambled after him.

Chevalier moved like he’d been here several times before, his strides long and sure. He knew exactly where the entrance was and marched in without hesitation. Emma, worried that they’re trespassing, scanned the area for any onlookers.

She was interrupted by an impatient grunt and a flick to the forehead. “Ow, hey!” Emma rubbed the painful spot—and then froze. She gawped at Chevalier open-mouthed. “Did you just—”

“You’re unnecessarily distracted. Even other simpletons could focus better.”

He resumed walking inside the garden, and Emma valiantly clung to a zen-state instead of surrendering to the temptation of throwing her shoe at Chevalier. She followed him before he could turn around and reprimand her again. 

There’s an isolated part of the garden that housed only roses. All in full bloom, a rich blanket of red that assaulted the senses. Emma inhaled sharply; it’s one of the most beautiful places she’d ever been to. It was like stepping into a dream, one in which she didn’t want to leave.

“I didn’t know there’s such a place like this,” she found herself whispering in reverence.

In her periphery, Chevalier paused and cast her an assessing gaze, to which she returned the favor. Surrounded by the roses, Chevalier looked like he belonged in this garden. The contrast between the crimson hue of the flowers and his pristine figure—cornsilk hair, azure eyes, and ivory skin garbed in white—served to highlight Chevalier’s preternatural beauty. If there were only a painter to immortalize this vision.

Helplessly, she added, “I love it. Here, I mean.”

His implacable expression never faltered. It reminded her of the marble statues exhibited in the museum she visited a couple of months ago—perfectly chiseled, perfectly haunting.

To Emma’s astonishment, it’s Chevalier who dropped the eye contact. But it turned out that he just redirected his scrutiny to the roses on his left. “It’s a good place to read. Quiet, peaceful,” he murmured.

The volunteering of such information caught Emma off-center. “Do you read here?” she asked. When Chevalier stayed tight-lipped about it, her previous concern came to the fore again. “Wait—I got it. This is where you’ll murder me. In this beautiful garden where you like to read. You’re going to use my corpse as fertilizer for the flowers.”

For the entire duration of their walk they never encountered any other people in the garden, which solidified her theory that Chevalier had planned on committing a criminal act, irrespective of his prior statements about the place. It didn’t help that his glower conveyed a definite homicidal inclination. But contrary to conjuring a sword, Chevalier merely crossed the length of the rosebushes that lined the path to a gazebo. He gestured at a bench as he sat on the one at the other side, ankles locked, one hand on his thigh, the other perched on the backrest.  

Emma obeyed; there’s nothing else to do. Nerves still persisting, she blurted, “I’d like to say my last words, if you’ll allow me.”

Chevalier inclined his head, eyes narrowed into slits. “Careful, because I have half a mind to fulfill what your silly imagination dreads happening.”

“Oh.” Emma laughed, high-pitched and tense, ready to bolt if necessary. In that precise moment, Chevalier truly did emit an aura of having killed before and getting away with it. “I’m sorry,” she hastily said when she noticed his hand twitching. “I’m just—why are we here?”

A pause, a breath. Chevalier still as a statue, with a piercing look that had Emma squirming in her seat. 

Before she could do something stupid, like confess to a nonexistent crime, Chevalier spoke.

“Explain,” he said. His tone might be clipped, but it was firm and implied nothing—not even judgment. It threw Emma for a loop; she’d always thought that Chevalier was pretty much a judgmental person, as evidenced by his neverending comments in her manuscript. But then she remembered what Sariel had told her: that Chevalier only demanded the best of everyone, even if others hadn’t the same standards as he had.

Even though it’s only a single word, Emma understood. And suddenly, everything shifted and gained clarity, like a dissipating mist revealing what was concealed. The rose garden was a beautiful place; it elicited the feeling of comfort, of peace. Chevalier brought her here to ease the tension that had built inside her the moment he entered the bookstore—no, maybe even before that: the moment she failed to submit her revision. He had exacting standards, sure, but Chevalier also knew exactly how to improve one’s writing skills (approach notwithstanding), and Emma had been benefiting from that talent. This too was a part of that: Chevalier needed to know what was wrong so he could address the problem. And if he had to resort to this, well—it was his job.

Which was why it was embarrassing to reveal to him the reason for her failure. But it appeared that this confrontation was a game of attrition, and Chevalier played to win. No matter how Emma tried to hedge, digress, and prevaricate, Chevalier would yank her back to the crux of the issue.

So, she capitulated. Hands on her lap, one on top of the other, she took a deep breath, and began. “I read your novel,” she said, slowly, softly. She picked on her skirt, traced the design with her index finger. Refused to lift her head and gauge Chevalier’s reaction. From his side of the gazebo there was neither a shift nor a shuffle, and Emma took that as a cue to keep going. “I was curious in the beginning. You’re very unsparing with your criticisms, you know? Your comments made me want to tear my hair out. And then when I found out that you’ve published something before, I wanted to know how you write. There was a bitter part of me that hoped that you weren’t a great writer, so I’d chalk up your fussiness to your inability to write well. But then I read your novel, and it was so good and so perfect and it left me breathless and heavy with emotions for days. I couldn’t do anything else with all these lingering feelings inside me. The way you write was just—so gorgeous and lovely and all the best adjectives I can think of. Compared with mine, yours is flawless. I can never measure up to your prose. And I guess that got to me. Now, I read my work and all I can think of is that it’s not enough. How can I write like you? I don’t think I ever can. I want to throw my novels and my manuscript away. I should just give up—that’s what I’ve been thinking all this time.”

She trailed off, letting the silence take over. In a way this was an exorcism: expelling what was plaguing her and the shame that came with it. The burden gone like a final sigh. It’s still uncertain whether this would help her writing from then on, but nonetheless it was a welcome development.

Chevalier hadn’t responded. The entire confession, Emma persisted in averting her eyes, afraid that any change in his expression could undermine the strength she’d mustered to talk. And even afterwards—only the distant twittering of birds broke through the quiet. A breeze rolled past and rustled the leaves, susurrus loud in her ears. Her reluctance prolonged and drawn out.

But then:

“Do you know why—even if Clavis meddled with the initial arrangement—I accepted becoming your substitute editor?”

Emma jerked her head up and discovered Chevalier observing her, a pensive look on his face. It boggled her; truth to be told she anticipated a roasting—grousing at how pathetic she was to see herself that way. In fact, she had braced herself for it. This, however, was a tentative surprise. “You knew it was Clavis’s doing?”

Chevalier closed his eyes, pained, and pinched the bridge of his nose, like she asked a stupid question.

“Sorry,” she amended, feeling a rueful smile forming between her lips. “I did wonder about it. Sariel said you have work to last you a decade. What made you accept it? Is it because it’s just temporary?”

“Of course not. I don’t like wasting my time with useless work.” A beat, as though he was debating on what to say next. “You said that you could never measure up to my prose. That I write beautifully and every word in that novel is flawless—”

“Wow, okay, that's right, it’s true, but do you have to rub it in my face—”

“—and it devastates you to compare your work with mine, because you feel like yours is worthless. Why would you compare other people’s writing with yours? It’s foolish and unproductive.”

Easy for him to say. A genius like him would never understand the agony of toiling over words, characterization, and plot. Despite her experience as a fanfiction writer, Emma felt like she bit off more than she could chew. Writing a novel was a different beast. She could still remember with vividness her bedroom walls filled with post-it notes and index cards outlining her story and characters. Her steady diet of caffeine, her near-brush with carpal tunnel syndrome. The anxiety of introducing original characters to new readers and existing readers who were used to transformative fiction.

Emma opened her mouth to argue but Chevalier apparently wasn’t done yet.

“You know where your strengths lie, your readers know where you excel—which is why they keep buying your books. Whereas I may write beautifully, you write with sincerity. Your novels are earnest—naïve at times, true—but that is what makes your books effective and appealing. Rhodolite would not support you if we didn’t think your stories would resonate with readers.”

Oh. Emma’s jaw slackened in shock. She gaped at Chevalier as if he’d revealed an earth-shattering secret—like he’s secretly nice all along (impossible, but a girl could dream)—and it wasn’t too implausible at all. Never in all the time she’d known him that Chevalier had the capacity to give her—even if in a roundabout way—a pep talk of all things. But he did! For her! To get her out of this downward spiral of insecurity! And it was truly an incredible thing: he believed in her and her ability to write. Something warm began to unspool within Emma’s chest, climbing to her cheeks, and the sentiment pulled her attention inward. If it had been from other people, she would have received the words of encouragement with grace and enthusiasm; but coming from Chevalier, whose writing ability could trounce Emma’s emotions in both art and editing, it made her bashful all of a sudden. Shy. Like peeling away her skin and exposing the vulnerabilities beneath.

She might not have known Chevalier for a long time, and taking into account all their exchanges plus Clavis’s and Sariel’s stories it would be safe to say that what Chevalier did today was quite uncharacteristic of him. To bring Emma to a wonderful place and say wonderful words to lift her spirits. Perhaps this was what Chevalier-the-editor would do, for the sake of work. After all, to his eyes, Emma was a job first and the rest a hyperbolically distant second.

Regardless, Chevalier had touched Emma’s heart with his positive words, no matter how awkward and backhanded they were. And because it’s him, it’s the thought and effort that counted. The possibility that Chevalier might have grit his teeth enunciating each encouraging word was hilarious, but Emma was too busy stamping down the swell of tears. She’s acutely aware that she’s telegraphing her emotional state like a large neon sign, but Chevalier was acting like nothing extraordinary happened.

“Do you understand now?” he said.

Emma resisted the urge to cover her face in mortification. “Yes,” she mumbled, sniffling. Three seconds later: “Your approach needs improvement, though.”

It’s a miracle Chevalier’s response was only an eyeroll. “You have a month to pull yourself together. I expect your revised manuscript by then.”

Now this was more like him: in business mode, succinct and demanding. But Emma was beginning to realize something: for Chevalier, one month was already a generous concession. It shouldn’t engender a warm, fuzzy feeling in her, but it did, and she didn’t know whether that was a dangerous thing or not.

But for now, she’s basking in the weightlessness of her writing concerns and in the radiance of roses. And in Chevalier’s steady and steadfast gaze.

“Yes,” she said, smiling sincerely. “Thank you, Chevalier.”

[honeytae]

We both know naps are more romantic in the rain.

first and foremost, i’ve gotta thank @stayjimin for inspiring me to write this. she’s definitely got a little thot in her..and i love it. luna, hopefully this lives up to your expectations! i wouldn’t exactly call this filth..i tried to make it equally soft and dirty?? but i hope you all enjoy <3

tags: @ahgasearmyfan, @hoseokayy, @jjlovr2015

genre: smut

warnings: making out, heavy petting, dry humping, face sitting, cunnilingus, jimin’s a Tease, brief descriptions of a handjob, mentions of cum, hints of condomless sex

word count: 3.0k

The muffled rain pattering against the roof was barely audible through your concentration on the words stretched across the pages of the novel resting in your hand, eyes diligently skimming the pieces of paper in your dimmed bedroom. 

Your other hand was buried in Jimin’s hair, fingers threading through the soft tendrils as he rested his head on your stomach, subtly encouraging your touch as he leaned into your palm. His own hand rested over your ribcage, fingertips soothing over the material of your shirt with a content sigh escaping his lips every few minutes. 

The house was calm. After all, it was a rainy Sunday afternoon, both of you off from work yet lethargic from your countless chores and errands this morning. Moments like these were rare during the week, so you appreciated the needed downtime with him. 

Turning the page with a flick of your wrist, you continued soaking in the script in your hand, arm flinching slightly when you felt a sudden tickling sensation on your skin. Glancing down at the area, you were met with a grinning Jimin, leaning back down to continue pressing gentle kisses up your bicep before stopping at your shoulder. 

“What’s that for?” You smiled, pushing his hair back from where it’d fallen from his hunched-over position.

“Just love you.” He answered, causing you to raise your eyebrows as you hummed in response. 

“And?” You asked, waiting for him to continue with a knowing smile.

“I’m bored.” He informed you, your smile widening at his abruptness, stifling a chuckle as you hummed sympathetically. 

“I’m sorry.” You said teasingly, causing him to roll his eyes before climbing further up your body, resting his face in the crook of your neck and wrapping his arms tighter around your body. 

“Dove.” He whined, you laughing in response as your hand went to the back of his head, affectionately scratching at his scalp. 

“What would you like to do about your boredom?” You asked, Jimin taking a moment to think before glancing up at you with a smirk. 

“I can think of something we can do.” He said with a wiggle of his eyebrows, giggling when you scoffed at him. 

“Gross.” You smiled anyway, the man humming in response before lifting his head up to look at you. 

“I only meant we could take a nap, love. We both know naps are more romantic in the rain.” He said, comically widening his eyes to convince you of the innocence of his statement.

“And naps are meant to be romantic?” You chuckled, Jimin shrugging with a small grin as he let his hand trail underneath your shirt, fingers stroking the warm skin underneath your navel. 

You sighed knowingly, placing your thumb underneath his earlobe to trace your finger over the sensitive skin. 

“Is this the kind of nap where we sleep? Or the kind of nap that involves more activity?” You raised an eyebrow at the return of his smirk, dropping his head to your neck again to press his lips to your throat.

“Probably the latter.” He mumbled, you humming in response before guiding his head back up above yours to steal a kiss, laying back down below him as he smiled at you.

“I love you.” He said softly, brushing your hair back behind your ears with his fingers and gently swiping his thumb over your cheek. 

“I love you too, Chim.”

Leaning down to join your mouths again, he went in with slightly more fervor, capturing your lips with his over and over again. 

Letting your hands roam his chest, you were thankful he always hung out around the house without a shirt, his smooth skin contradicting the ridges of his abdomen. Your touch had him melting into you further, a soft hum of approval coming from his throat when your thumbs soothed over his belly. 

Relaxing back into the pillows as he began pressing kisses to the corners of your lips, trailing them down to your chin before swiftly moving his lips over your jawline and down your throat, you pushed your chest up at him, your boyfriend immediately taking the hint as his hand landed on your covered breast. 

His lips left feather light kisses on your pulse point as he kneaded the flesh in his hand, thumb swiping over your nipple making you let out a sigh.

Nestling your fingers in the hair at the back of his head, you tipped your head back to allow him more access, Jimin easily following your silent instruction as he let his lips travel as he pleased. 

He smirked at the soft moans you responded with when he opened his mouth on your skin, sucking dark enough marks into your complexion that satisfied him yet light enough that it wouldn’t get you ogled by your mother when you went to dinner together this weekend. 

Fingers gathering the hem of your shirt, he tugged the material up over your breasts, groaning at the visual of your cleavage spilling out of your bra before he nodded at you to remove the shirt fully. 

Sitting up slightly, you laughed as Jimin desperately fumbled to get the fabric off of your head, shrieking when he somehow got the shirt stuck on your face. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry, dove.” 

You could hear the smile on his face as he spoke, gently working the material up over your mouth and nose before releasing your head from it entirely. 

Grinning at the feeling of your static-filled hair frizzing up around you from the release of the tight fabric, you raised your eyebrows at your boyfriend, seemingly not noticing the way your hair had blown up from the removal of your shirt. 

“Does this do it for you? This is sexy?” You pointed at your messy hair, Jimin laughing as he once again collapsed with you on the bed, caging your body underneath him as he adoringly swept your hair back behind your ears. 

“Incredibly. The sexiest.” He affirmed, his genuine tone causing you to snort back a laugh as he beamed down at you. 

“Come here.” You held your arms out for him to lower himself, wrapping them around his neck to secure him there when he pressed his chest flat to yours. 

Leaning up to catch his lips, the man instantly hummed in reaction, letting his hand soothingly rub up and down your torso before traveling up to your chest, groping your breast atop the lingerie you still adorned. 

“Hm, you up for that nap?” He mumbled, fondly listening to your chuckle once you felt his not so subtle length poking at your thigh.

“Always.” You simpered, pushing on his chest slightly to get him to roll over onto his back, the man easily complying with a dopey grin on his face as his hair flopped onto the pillow around his head. 

Placing your chest down on his, you cupped his face to cement your lips once again, the kiss lazy and languid, easily matching the pace of the trails of water sliding down the windowpane a mere few feet from you. 

You chuckled at the disappointed noise from his throat when he reached for your chest, discovering the rough fabric of your bra instead of the familiar soft feel of your skin.

“Take this off.” He whined, tugging at the strap of your bra in a desperate attempt to remove it from your skin. 

Giggling, you sat up, Jimin moaning as the action caused your hips to rub down on him as you reached back to unclasp your bra, breasts falling free once you pulled the garment down your arms. 

“Jimin.” You exhaled when he eagerly sat up to take your right nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking at the hardened peak as his other hand appreciatively squeezed at your neglected breast, thumb swiping over your opposite nipple. 

He groaned when you began moving on his lap, rolling your hips down as he eagerly met your movements with a few rather desperate thrusts upward into your core, responding to your needy whine with a hand tucking underneath the waistband of your shorts, quickly bypassing the thin layer of your underwear. 

“Oh fuck.” 

Jimin’s eyes rolled back into his head when his fingertips made contact with your dripping entrance, taking a small breath to regain composure before lazily dipping his fingers inside. 

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you placed your forehead on his shoulder, gasping as you moved your hips to chase more friction from the pads of his fingers against your walls.

“That’s right, baby. Back and forth.” He murmured, watching in amazement at the sight of you rocking your hips to get more stimulation from his hand, purposefully grinding the heel of his palm against your clit to increase the volume of your whimpers. 

With his fingers curling to brush against your g-spot, you helplessly flopped your body down onto his, the man intercepting your frame easily as he locked an arm around your torso. 

Flicking his wrist a bit faster, he set a steady pace, noticing the way your breathing quickened at the action as your hips responsively rutted into his hand. 

“Is that good?” He wondered, pride filling his chest when you desperately nodded your head as an answer. 

Lifting your head from his shoulder, you cupped his jaw once again, bringing your lips down to his in a searing kiss as he continued pumping his fingers into your entrance. 

“Babe, hnngh fuck,” he paused as you clenched around his fingers, effectively stilling their curling motions as he panted against your bottom lip, “sit on my face.”

Your core throbbed harder at his words, eyes catching his own lust-blown pupils as his flushed cheeks glowed in the dim light of your bedroom. 

“I- what?”

“Sit on my face,” he repeated, then seemingly remembering his manners, “please.”

Exhaling shakily, you whined when he removed his fingers from you, instead tucking them into the waistbands of both your shorts and underwear to remove them from your hips. 

Gently guiding your ankles out of the final barriers blocking you from view, he pressed a kiss to your bottom lip before laying down, beckoning you up his body when he was flat on his back. 

“C’mere.” He emphasized with a curl of his fingers toward him, causing you to clamber atop his torso all too eagerly as he caught you by the elbows, guiding you up his frame until your pussy was hovering mere inches above his face. 

Your entire body tingled in desire as his palms trailed up your thighs, greedily groping at the flesh as he smirked up at you. 

“Is this what you wanted?” You asked, smiling a bit when the man nodded in response.

“I’ve got the best view from down here.” He answered smugly, his crudeness making you gasp with a scolding exhale of his name. 

“Ready?” He asked, causing you to hum with a slight raise of your brows, opening your mouth to ask him what exactly he was implying by that before suddenly all breath was stolen from your lungs. 

“Jimin!” you gasped as he picked his head up off the pillow to stick his wet tongue between your folds, traveling up your slit to circle your clit as your mouth gaped open at the sudden stimulation. 

Flicking at the nub with the tip of his tongue, he pulled your hips down for easier access, making you shudder as he sucked your swollen bud into his mouth, his wet muscle continuing to soothe over it causing you to tremble at the lewdness of it all.

Jimin was a fantastic lover in that he always knew what you wanted. He knew precisely what every little gasp or moan meant, taking note of every move you made and the timing of every contortion of your face.

So when you bucked your hips in search of more, he easily moved his fingers that had been latched around your thigh to the area that was begging for attention the most, absentmindedly reacquainting them with your entrance with a gentle prod of his fingers.

You moaned at the sensation, the soft thrusts of his fingers coaxing you along to reach your high as he continued stroking your clit with his tongue. 

Whining when he removed both his fingers and his attention from the bud, you took a glance down at him, scowling when you were met with a shit-eating grin on his face at your obvious frustration. Moving his thumb to swipe back and forth along your inner thigh, he raised his eyebrows challengingly at you, causing you to let out a sigh as you glared down at him.

“Jimin,” you whined, “play nice.”

The man only chuckled beneath you in response, his teasing touch only increasing your pleas as you not so subtly rocked your hips in search of any kind of stimulation. 

“Jim-ah,” Your scolding of the man got cut off by a broken inhale as the tip of his tongue teasingly trailed back down your slit, pushing into your entrance and mercilessly curling to brush up against your walls. 

“Fuck!” You swore at the sudden intrusion, his expert touches forcing your knees to buckle below you, much to his delight. The man had a smug grin on his face as you practically rode his tongue, causing you to scoff as you redirected your eyes to the wall in front of you. 

Reaching out for the headboard, you tried your best to steady yourself, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of Jimin moaning against you. Your knuckles paled with their tight grip on the dark stained wood, rocking your hips onto Jimin’s tongue as he poked it around your entrance, brushing your walls with a calculated curl of his muscle. 

“O-ohh,” you whimpered as his nose nudged at your clit, his face moving along with your hips as you continued grinding down on his soft, sinful lips. You let your eyelids fall shut as Jimin locked your hips down onto his face, subtly nodding his head along with your movements.

You barely had time to register the removal of his tongue before his fingers were plunging back into you, his mouth moving back to your clit to concentrate on the special button.

The combination of his fingertips brushing against your inner walls and his velvet tongue stimulating your tingling nub had you gasping for air, stars erupting behind your eyelids as you clenched your fists on the headboard.

“Gonna cum, fuck.” You warned, trembling when the man hummed against your clit and jerking your hips when he cockily did it again. 

Moaning out his name when you felt the tension in the pit of your abdomen finally snap, you could only focus on the white dizziness you felt as Jimin’s tongue stroked between your folds, lapping up the spill of your release as you panted for air above him.

With a sigh, you leaned your forehead down onto the top of the headboard, blinking down at the man with tired eyes as he sucked his fingers into his mouth. You already felt something stirring inside you once again at the sight, swallowing harshly as you ram a hand through your hair.

Breaths evening out, you remained leaning against the headboard for another moment, Jimin stroking the backs of your thighs with soothing fingers as he lovingly peered up at you. 

“Fuck.” You said once you finally caught your breath, body absolutely spent as you retreated down Jimin’s torso with his hands guiding your hips, settling atop his lap and chuckling at the obvious bulge beneath you. 

“Would you like some help with that?” You raised your eyebrows, letting your hand rest over the tent in his sweatpants, relishing in the whimper he let out when you squeezed it. 

“P-please.” He stuttered when you began palming him over the material, bucking his hips into your touch as he took his bottom lip into his mouth, watching with hooded eyes as you lifted his hips to tug his pants down his thighs. 

His boxers were soon to follow, revealing his erection standing proud and tall, begging to be touched. Deciding to ‘play nice’ yourself, you did exactly that.

Easily wrapping your fingers around his length, you set the pace you knew he liked and squeezed at his base every so often in the way that made him gasp your name, leaning down to lick at the fluid leaking from his tip before you were stopped by one of his whimpers. 

“No, kiss me, baby.” He whined, your brows furrowing at the man as you glanced down between his legs.

“You don’t want my mouth on your-”

“No, fuck, I do, just,”

You raised your eyebrows at his internal conflict, face screwed up in agony as your hand paused it’s motions on his throbbing length.

“Just please come here.” He said breathily, you immediately following instruction as you crawled up his body, letting him guide your lips into a surprisingly gentle kiss. 

Picking up your previous actions on his cock, you moaned in response to his, noises muffled against each other’s mouths as he thrusted into your palm.

You heard the way his breath got caught in his throat when you squeezed him just so, loved the way he hummed from the depths of his chest when you trailed your fingertip up his veins and ridges, and strived for the whimper of your name when you told him to cum.

With a few more jerks of your wrist, you could feel his body tensing, continuing the routine set of actions and swallowing his long moan when the mess of his cum pooled into your palm. 

You imagined you looked much like teenagers, getting off on almost nothing as you desperately made out in your dark bedroom. But it was difficult to care when it was always so easy with Jimin, so easy to feel loved and make each other feel just as so. 

And as you dazedly looked into each other’s eyes, only shutting them at the feeling of him lining up with your entrance, you squeezed at his bicep in silent communication, heart fluttering at the feeling of him squeezing your thigh in response. 

I love you.

[watch-grok-brainrot]

can i enquire your opinion on what i perceive as misuse of the words "zhiji" / "zhiyin" by western authors? it's often translated as soulmates, or even used synonymously, and for wx, often in romantic situations to fulfil non romantic soulmate fic tropes. i often get a bit frustrated by it. zhiji and zhiyin are both bosom friends, people who get you, appreciate you but they are not the western term of soulmates. what do you think? seeking perspectives to shape my opinion!!! thank you!!

nonny! I am so sorry! I meant to answer this the week you sent this and then i kept on getting sidetracked and forgot. >.> this is why i don’t get asks. i’m terrible at answering things. 

First of all, for those who are reading this and not nonny, i’m assuming you are either familiar with chinese or have read the blog post by @/hunxi-guilai by now. If you are not chinese and/or have not read her blog, go to her blog and go to linguistic meta and then read the post titled “ all right guys, let’s have a conversation about soulmates ” (gonna delete the link if i can’t get this to show up in tags since this is a nonny ask i want nonny to be able to find this... )

ok. now that we’re on the same page, let’s talk about translation. translation is messy. cultures don’t have the same concepts. when expressing words as complex as 知己/ 知音, you do what you can. 

do i think soulmates is an acceptable translation? yes. i would not hesitate to call wangxian soulmates. 

Is 知己/ 知音 inherently romantic? no.

do i think the connotations of 知己/知音 and the connotations of soulmates match perfectly? no. 

am i fine with fanfiction authors writing what they want? yeah. if i don’t like it, i just won’t engage with the material. it’s the idgaf of old age that i’m really glad i acquired. i can just nope right out and go find something i prefer. e.g. if i see a baobei in a wangxian fic, i usually nope right now. it’s not worth getting worked up over. lol. 

yes 知己/ 知音 are bosom friends but it’s deeper than that, right? 

Actually, i’m really glad i’ve waited. I’ve just binged Word of Honor (or what eps are currently out) and they toss out 知己/ 知音 a lot -- as they should. The show is spectacular (thus far 25 of 36 eps are out and i am dying at how amazing the main CP interactions are). Basically my heart is full of  知己/ 知音 mood so i think i can do a better job of explaining what it means to me now. 

To me, 知己/ 知音 is knowing someone/hearing someone so deeply that your souls are in sync. It’s being open and vulnerable. The mortifying ordeal of being KNOWN and/or HEARD. it’s joyous to discover that your eccentricities are understood implicitly. it’s stolen cheeky grins and stupid laughs that makes you feel alive again. It’s precious and rare and if you get one person in your life that REALLY knows/hears or tries to know/to hear you, you are lucky. this can be part of a romantic or platonic relationship. 

someone wants to call that a soulmate? sure. by all means. 

But if I were to see it in a novel or show I was trying to translate, I may translate it differently each time. The beauty of translation is, as the translator, I have the power (and the terrible responsibility) to interpret a work. My choices will be the text moving forward. My diction, if the only translation around, could be overanalyzed by a portion of the fandom. So would i always translate  知己/ 知音 as soulmates? no. Sometimes I might say say, “You’re the only person to know me truly.” or “To be truly heard in this life by one person is enough.” or I might say “soulmate” sometimes. 

so, i guess i do agree that soulmates limits the translation of the concept. but if you’re watching a show and there are subs, the subbers have more than meaning to worry about. you have to consider characters per second: 1) physically focusing on words with one’s eyes and then reading them takes time; 2) some people are much slower readers than others. (subbers also have to consider sentence structure and how to breakup a lines. and, depending on the show, sometimes the subs come out at an INSANE pace. it’s approximately 3-4 hrs of translation work once you have the chinese in front of you for a 20ish min ep if you’re being neurotic and probably just as much if not more of timing work to get an episode out. not to mention the translation checks and quality checks. so sometimes shortcuts are required... but i digress...) Is soulmates a good, succinct way to get the message across? yes. so i’m fine with it. and if it captures peoples’ imagination and brings someone joy, then even better. 

fandom should be fun. it should be happy. it should be a place where you grow and meet people that bring you joy. :) so am i upset that it’s the preferred translation of the mdzs/cql fandom? not really. it’s not perfect but it’s good enough for fandom (and horseshoes and hand grenades as people would say). 

[seeyounexttime]

Blank Page Brigade Spotlight: Staff

At the end of volumes of Black Clover is space for the “Blank Page Brigade.” This particular “brigade” is composed of the assistants (you know, those who help with art) and others from the Black Clover manga team, lead by “Captain Tabata.”

In each volume there’s a question that everyone answers. I’ve compiled the answers from all published volumes (1-32), and grouped them together. Previous answers (and drawings from the assistants) can be seen starting with this post here.

However, the rest of the staff didn’t include drawings, but they are each represented by an animal-like self (I don’t know if they drew that for themselves, or if it was Tabata or someone else). In the beginning, sometimes these animal selves would be expressing, but eventually it was just the icon; so I just have their answers since it’s just the same icon again and again.

Now specifically... I’m actually not sure what these particular brigade members do.

The first of these positions is: Comics Editor. This is apparently different than Editor (i’ll cover them in a different post) who is the one who helps with story writing. The Japanese version doesn’t clarify it much either: “editor” is 担当 tantou, and “comics editor” is コミックス担当 komikkusu tantou... literally just the Engrish word ‘comics’ 

I'm not sure what a "Comics Editor" does, but seeing as how this position is always filled I'd assume that Tomiyama was also around from the start, and that it took a while to figure out what the doodle was gonna be?

Comics Editor #1: TOMIYAMA

was present from vol.4-8

a giraffe’s struggle with the baby

by now, his kid would be about...7 years old? good luck with the fam, fam

Comics Editor #2: KOSHIMURA

was present from vol.9-20

behold! Jersey Milk soft-serve!

"soup with lots of wheat gluten"? hmm trying to look up the Japanese she said gets me these pictures... I guess another word for that is seitan?

The afterward for volume 21 translates コミックス担当 as "graphic novel editor" which still doesn't clarify what this position actually does since "graphic novel" refers to the volume itself... Do they double-check for mistakes from the weekly shonen jump versions like a proofreader? what do you guys do

Anyways here's that afterward:

Because I work so slowly, I ended up creating a raging torrent of stress, and right in the middle of that, Ms. Koshimura the graphic novel editor–for whom my raging torrent of stress had caused all sorts of trouble–was transferred elsewhere. Ms. Koshimura, I'm sorry for everything!! Thank you very much!!! Mr. Fujiwara, my new graphic novel editor, let me start apologizing now!! I'm really looking forward to working with you!!!

Comics Editor #3: FUJIWARA

was present from vol.21-28

wth is annin tofu? oh it's almond tofu

well will you look at that, Japan has some sand dunes - the wikipedia page for the Tottori Sand Dunes even shows a camel!

Comics Editor #4: CHIBA

has been present since vol.29-32

I've known that Tokyo Disney exists for a long time, but it wasn't til this response that I learned there's a sister resort: Tokyo DisneySea

Designer: IWAI

was present from vol.5-19 and probably since the beginning but she, like the other staff, didn't start commentating until later

I'm not sure what Iwai was designing... Again, the Japanese version does not help: デザイナー ...dezainaa, so just the Engrish word "designer.”

Iwai what were you designing? grimoires? clothes? characters? volume covers?

and why hasn’t there been a “designer” after volume 19???

from the volume 20 afterword, second paragraph: "Right before this volume, Iwai the designer moved to a different project... I'm really sorry for all the trouble I caused you!! Also, thank you so much!! I'll never forget your enthusiasm for your work, and the impressive way you drank!!"

btw are we sure iwai isn't just vanessa?

Media Editor: TAKAHASHI

has been present from vol.28-32

I do not know what "media editor" is or why a bubble for this position took so long to show up in the blank brigade pages, but... I mean the anime had already ended? Takahashi what do you do and why didn't you say anything before this?

and you guessed it, the Japanese version is unhelpfully just メディア担当 media tantou!

you know what I wonder if this is related to the movie... which raises more questions about the title actually...

like are you in charge of movie marketing? script liaison? merchandise? what do you do dude　

what do any of you do

please, if you know what these titles/positions do, please tell me

Next Part: The Tabatas

[thelittleboyfromloveactually]

Surprise?

Benny Watts x reader

Promt: When Benny leaves for a work trip, you find yourself feeling sick. And after a trip to the doctors your relationship with Benny is tested, will the two of you continue and have a future together? Or will this “surprise” ruin you both forever?

Warnings: Cussing, throwing up, ANGST, fluff

authors note: Here it isss!!!! FINALLY! I’m so sorry for the delay! Also, ok so kinda off topic but i am going to write a series for an actor (actor masterlist), tell me who you guys want it to be for :) Enjoy the fic!

When you where 12 years old you fell in love with chess. You didn’t grow up rich so chess and reading books was your favorite way to pass the time. Chess was like a safe space for you, when your parents would fight, you would go into your room and play chess. You were amazing at it, you entered one tournament went you where 15 and you beat everyone there. But nothing much came of it, you couldn’t really afford to spend hours a day practicing and as you got older your life became more and more busy and complicated. When you were 14 years old your older brother died of a drug over dose and only 3 years later your mom died of stage 4 breast cancer. You and your dad weren’t close, infact once you where old enough to move out, you never really spoke to him again. He was a drunk and a abusive father. But now you were your own person, you were a reporter, a chess reporter.

On your first assignment you met Benny, Benny Watts. He was a charmer, he let you interview him and then the next day he caught you before you checked out of the hotel to ask to take you out sometime. That was 2 years ago. Now you lived with Benny, he wasn’t always the best boyfriend, but you knew he cared. Every once in a while he would buy you something nice or take you out to dinner. You often traveled with Benny to his tournaments, but lately you hadn’t been able too. You were up for a big promotion at work and you weren’t able to travel.

Currently Benny was sitting in the small living room playing a game of chess against himself. He didn’t know of your skill, and it didn’t bother you. Sometimes when he was away you would secretly play some games against yourself. Chess was Bennys thing, and you were ok with that. You were reading Emma by Jane Austen on the couch. It was one of your favorite novels. You flickered your eyes away from the pages to look at Benny, he was very focused on the game. You sighed, it was getting late and you still needed to start dinner.

“Hey Benny, what do you feel like for dinner? I’m kinda hungry” you said putting your book mark in and closing your book.

“Um I don’t care” he said blankly, not even looking away from the board

“Uh ok well how about som-“ you were cut off

“I said I didn’t care Y/N, you eat now I’ll snack on something later” he said firmly

You nodded not daring to say more. You stood up and started to chop some carrots when suddenly the phone rang.

“I’ll get it” you said drying your hands and walking over

“Hello?” You said

“Is this Benny Watts?” The man on the phone asked

“Um no this is his um, girlfriend, would you like me to get him for you?” You asked looking over at Benny

“Yes please, thank you” the man said

“Uh Benny it’s for you” he stood up and grabbed the phone from your hands, you went back to your cooking.

You didn’t really listen to the conversation they were having, probably some interview set up or something. You heard Benny put the phone down

“I have to get packing Y/N, I have to leave for a tournament tomorrow” he said headed toward his room

“Oh ok, do you need help?” You asked sweetly, you really wanted to ask why he found out so late but you didn’t want to bother him

“No” he said plainly, you nodded your head in response and continued on with your task at hand.

The next morning both you and Benny got up early, you wanted to say goodbye to him. You walked Benny to the door and handed him his bags. He kissed you on the cheek

“I’ll be back soon, love you” he said turning to the cab behind him

“Love you too, Benny” you smiled

He got in the cab and drove off.

The rest of your day was mostly just catching up on work. It was Sunday so you didn’t actually have to go in.

You were sitting at the small table in your living room when suddenly you felt the need to throw up. You stood up and threw your hand over your mouth as you quickly ran to the bathroom. You made it just in time to barf your guts out into the toilet. You were there for about 5 minutes, hovering over the toilet throwing up when finally your stomach settled down a little. You growned and stood up, tapping your arms around to stomach and dragging yourself into your bed. Of course you had to get sick when Benny was going to be gone for a week. You sighed and crawled under the covers. It was only 3 minutes before you were sound asleep.

You woke up around 3 in the morning with a sudden need to throw up AGAIN. You ran to the toilet. Jesus why was wrong with you, you had a great immune system and hardly ever got even a cold. As you lay on the bathroom floor you wouldn’t help but think about all the possibilities. Then you realized something. When was the last time you had gotten your period?! You stood up and went to your purse to grab your planner. 7 weeks ago was the last time you saw the red drop of blood that you had drawn to mark the start of your period. You were 3 weeks late. 3 fucking weeks late, how did could I not have noticed this?! You thought to yourself, you quickly went over to the phone and called your friend, praying she was home. As the phone wrang you tried to thing of the last time you had had sex with Benny. You had been so busy and Benny was traveling that it was probably a month ago! You cursed under your breath when she didn’t pick up. You dialed the number of your doctor and waited patiently. You tried to calm yourself down, you needed to make an appointment, then you would know for sure. Then you heard a voice from the other side of the line.

“Hello? Doctor Peterson’s office, how can I help you?” The lady asked

“Oh hi! I’m uh I need to make an appointment, preferably tomorrow, to see Dr. Peterson?” You asked passing back in forth

“We have an opening at 8:30am if you are willing to come then?” She asked

“YES! Yes of course thank you! I will be there!” You said excitedly, or you were nervous, you could exactly tell. You gave her your information and thanked her again. You hung up and started to diale bennys hotel number, but you stopped yourself. He’s probably busy, and I may not even be pregnant, you thought. You sighed and went to sit on the couch, but what if I am, you thought.

Shit. In your hand were your official results, saying that you were in fact pregnant.

“I have great news hun! You're 7 weeks pregnant! Congratulations!!!” Your OB/GYN said

“Uh t-thank you” you weren’t sure why she was so excited, it’s not like you wanted to be pregnant

“Who’s the father?” Geez personal much

“Uh my boyfriend, Benny” you said taking the paper she held out to you

“Well I hope you two the best” she smiled

You folded the paper and put it in your bag and started the car. The entire way home you brain was clouded by one single thought. How where you going to tell Benny. You loved him with all your heart but would he be able to handle this. He barely spends time with you as it is, and with a young child? You would practically raise it by yourself. After a short car ride you arrived at your small house. That was another problem, did you have room for a baby? Could you afford a baby?

After hours of debating and throwing up you decided not to tell Benny just yet. You wanted him to be here in person when you tell him. You were scared and angry. You decided that you would give Benny a choice. All or nothing. You needed to be sure that he still cared for you more than chess and himself. That he too would be a present parent to your child. And if not, then your mother had a guest room and welcoming arms.

Today was the day. The day Benny would be told he was going to be a father. You had cleaned the house so he could come home and not stress. Not that cleaning ever stressed him out. You sat on the couch anxiously awaiting his arrival. Were you nervous? Yes, very. As much dread as you held in you, you also couldn’t help but feel a sense of curiosity, of suspense. You loved Benny and would never want to leave him. But you had to do what was best for you, best for the baby.

You were taken out of your thoughts when the door opened, Benny stepping through it.

“Y/N? I’m home” he said, lucky for you he sounded pretty cheery. It was quite obvious he had won. By now it was almost a guarantee. He put his luggage down and looked around for you, and he smiled when he laid his eyes on you. “Hey” he said walking over to wrap his arms around you

“Hi Benny” you said smiling sweetly, he gave you a quick peck on the lips before letting go of you and heading to sit by his chess board. Of course.

“The guys almost beat me, I’m gonna run the game. He was smart but I was smarter.” Benny said taking off his coat

“I’m actually Benny, there is something I need to tell you” you said now fidgeting with you fingers

“Can it wait Y/N? This is really important” he said already replaying the game

You sighed, “actually it can’t wait Benny, what I have to tell you is really important” you said mimicking him

“Fine but make it quite ok? I’ve got games to go over and my coffee is wearing off” he said turning to you

You were getting angry at how rude he was suddenly, “do you love me?” You asked

Bennys eyes widened, surprised by your sudden question, “of course I love you Y/N” he said

“Well sometimes Benny….sometimes it doesn’t seem like it. You hardly touch me anymore. You never leave the chess board! You are so...so distant! Benny I love you so much! But I wish I could have that love in return. You love the game! I get it! I did once too! But the game doesn't love you! Sure maybe it favors you, but it’s a game Benny! A game! Not a person! Not a baby who needs attention! Don’t get me wrong I love seeing you pursue your dreams so much! It makes me so happy! But it doesn't seem like a dream anymore Benny, it seems like an addiction.” You paused trying to catch your breath and calm yourself down, Bennys face was still. “Benny I’m pregnant, with your kid. And I love you so much, but I can’t raise this kid by myself, it needs its dad to be there, I need its dad to be there. You need to choose Benny, no more halfway in, you're in or you're out. I need to do what’s going to be best for the baby, I hope you can too” you left it at that, heading toward the door and leaving the house. Leaving Benny. Not forever, but leaving him to think about all that you said.

Bennys POV

I stood there. I heard the door shut. What just happened? Did she say she was pregnant? Shit. I was confused to say the least. I never thought be being a great chess player bothered Y/N. Fuck what have I done? I can give up chess. But then again, I can’t give up Y/N. I guess maybe I’m not the best boyfriend, but I need her. She keeps me as close to sane as I can be. I don’t know what I would do without her. I plopped down on the couch and ran my fingers through my hair. I messed up. I should have been there. I know it should have. Dammit. As much as I hate it Y/N was right. Of course she was, she always is. I love chess but I am addicted to winning. And that makes me distant and rude. Fuuuuuck. I grabbed my hat and ran toward the door. I knew where Y/N was going. She always went there when we fought. She was going to where I took her on our first date.

Normal POV

The string lights shone above your head as you walked through the park. Your cheeks were wet from tears. You loved the park at night. It was so….peaceful. The lights allowed you to still see the gorgeous garden flowers that were planted everywhere. The first time you ever kissed Benny was here, in this park. You had gone to this park for a picnic. He had set up flowers, treats and surprisingly very good food that Benny supposedly made. You ate and talked for hours until it got dark. After you put the food away you took a stroll in the park which ended at a bench, the beach under the cherry tree. It bloomed every spring and it was gorgeous. The two of you had sat down on the bench, Benny grabbed your hand and smiled at you, and two seconds later, your lips were connected. Moving in perfect sync. That was then. Now you sat on the bench crying, hoping that Benny would choose to be a dad for your child.

You sat on that bench for 10 minutes, contemplating your life desisions when suddenly you heard foot steps behind you. You turned your head slightly to see Benny walking over, holding his hat in his hand.

You sighed in relief, but then to be out in stress avian when you realized he could be here to say goodbye.

“I’m sorry” he said moving to sit next to you

You tried not to look at him, you avoided eye contact.

“I’m really fucking sorry, Y/N” he said “I-I know I have been distracted and distant and rude and I am sorry. I love you, all of you, including this baby. It’s gonna take time ok? But your gotta let me try, I will make every thing right. I will ok? I promise. I love you Y/N, forever. When you left i realized how much I need you, I don’t think I can live without you. Your my home, my rock, my best friend and the love of my life. I know It doesn’t always seem like that but you are. I’m it good with love and stuff so give me some time to figure it out. But I will be here, I will help you raise this kid…..our kid. I’m all in, forever” he said putting his hand on top of mine. I looked up at him finally, and he turned his head to look at me. And then we kissed, just like our first kiss, but more needy, more passionate, full of love, guilt, and want.

“I love you too Benny” I said smiling

We both let out a laugh and our lips connected again.

4 years later

“Daddy daddy look! I drew your chess board!!! And I can name all the pieces!” Hudson said

“That’s amazing buddy! Show me your skills!” Benny said as Hudson sat on his lap

“That’s a rook, that’s a knight, that’s a bishop, that’s a queen, and then the king, and then the bishop, knight and rook again!” He said pointing to each one

“Great job!!! Soon you're going to be a grandmaster!” Benny said kissing his forehead

You smiled as you watched your son, Hudson chess Watts, yes Benny decided on Chess as his middle name, and your husband smile and play together. You found it incredibly adorable that Benny was already teaching Hudson to play chess. Sometimes you even played. Benny looked up at you and smiled, you smiled back. Benny came around in the end, and is the best husband and father to Hudson that you could have asked for. You were happy with your life. So freaking happy. You had your boys. Who knew that such and unwanted surprise could bring such needed happiness.