#and the aunts all want me to meet their wonderful eligible nephews

[eddis-not-eeddis]

I need some kind of aunt repellent.

[cuquitalocita]

i love you yeah yeah yeah |rowaelin month- day 3|

rowaelin masterlist 

an: i’m not gonna lie, i had so so much fun writing this one! i’m a tennis player and my sister is as well, therefore why i know so much about the junior pro league. for those of you who don’t know, the orange bowl is an actual tournament played internationally for juniors and i’m ranting wow so anyway i hope this isn’t too tennis vocab-y :)

word count: 3,876

~~

It’s the final two days before competition at the International Orange Bowl this year being held in Terrasen and it’s no surprise that tensions between players and academies are more than high. We’re so glad to be here for yet another year of thrilling competition in which the winners will automatically be placed into the first round of the U.S. Open. I, for one, and more than excited to see some new teen faces this year, what about you, Gavriel?

You know Cairn, I completely agree and as someone from Terrasen, you must be more than excited to see some friendly competition on your home turf.

Oh, I sure am excited, but I don’t know if you’d call this competition exactly ‘friendly.’ For those of you unaware, the rivalry between the TAT (Tennis Academy of Terrasen) and the DTC (Doranelle Tennis Center) has been going on for close to ten years now, beginning all the way back to when founders Maeve Vesta and Evalin Galathynius were in college, rivals through and through. Now adults, their children carry on their competitive legacy, taking the nation by storm. If you see the final match of any tournament, you can bet your money it’s a Doranelle kid and a Terrasen kid. 

The stakes sure are high during this tournament, as it isn’t closed, like the academies’ usual ones. Instead, anyone player eighteen years old and younger with the qualifying points was eligible to register. I’m looking forward to seeing some new faces this year. 

Me too, but you can never go wrong with the usual suspects. This year, my money is on eighteen year- old Rowan Whitethorn from Doranelle, ranked second in the country, in the men’s finals. As Maeve’s nephew, Rowan has been put in the spotlight for most of his life, not to mention taking a clear leadership role among the DTC alongside Lorcan Salvaterre. 

That’s a good point, Gavriel, in the past years Rowan has made it to at least the quarter-finals but has always lost before he can truly do. I have a feeling the kid has a lot more in him.  And as for the women, I wouldn’t be too surprised to see the Terrasen seventeen year- old cruising through a few rounds before her tough competition starts. We can’t expect anything less than Evalin Galathynius’ daughter, right?

I for one, am more than excited for pre- first-round interviews. It’s always quite interesting to see each players’ mindset before they set out for blood.

~~

“What do you think our favorite golden girl has in store for us this year, Gavriel? Something tells me she’s a little more than annoyed given what happened at the finals of the last international tournament held in Terassen when Remelle Frost from the Doranelle academy beat her in what was the biggest upset of the season.”

Aelin rolled her eyes and glared at the back of her mother’s seat, the woman in question frowning as the annoying voice of Cairn Rossa rang through the rental car. She reached forward to turn the station off just as Gavriel’s voice rang out once more.

“Let’s not beat around the bush here, Cairn,” the older man was responding. “I’ve been doing this just a bit longer than you enough to know when a player isn’t themselves. One loss isn’t the definition of a player the same way one win isn’t either. I suggest both teams- including Aelin and Remelle themselves- step onto the court, and play.” 

Aelin let out a satisfied huff. She knew she had always liked Gavriel. Aelin liked that the man looked at the players as more than just players in a video game or statistics on a screen. As a former player himself, Aelin knew the man understood the game in and out and was more than qualified to report during the national tournaments, no matter where he was born and what side he was essentially placed on. 

The station was snapped off as her mother’s finger found the correct button, earning an annoyed glare from the Uber driver next to her that she promptly ignored in favor of turning back to her daughter, opening her mouth to say something. Aelin’s own eyes stared back at her before shifting down to the phone she held in her hand. It had just buzzed signaling a new notification that had her mother lifting her brows. 

Aelin immediately shifted forward in an attempt to look over her mother’s should before her hand was on her face, batting her daughter away with a motherly ‘leave me alone’ look. She relented, leaning back into her seat with slumped shoulders. Finally, her mother huffed but remained with her back facing Aelin. 

She knew it was different this year, she could practically feel it in the air. Without her father with the two women in the car, the tournament atmosphere was a different universe. 

It was getting dark outside, the sun setting behind them as they drove through the dazzling city. The car came to an abrupt stop in front of the hotel that sent Aelin jerking out of her own thoughts. Her mother turned back to her with a sad knowing smile and patted her daughter’s knee.

“We’re here. Try to get some sleep- you have a long day tomorrow.”

~~

“What’s the plan for today?” Aelin asked her mother around a mouthful of bagel the next morning. It wasn’t every day the founder of the University came to watch her players in a tournament, but whoever won this won would be fed into the first round of an official professional tournament. It would be amazing PR for the academy, Aelin knew, but she also knew her mother felt bad that her father had escorted Aelin to all of her tournaments in prior years. And now that he wasn’t here anymore… 

“Eat up- after you’re done I’ve reserved three courts at the complex and we’ll get together with everyone.” ‘Everyone’ being every other players from the academy who had enough points to enter the qualifiers. Not all of them were as highly ranked as Aelin, but she found it helpful to train with them all the same. They were her friends. “We do need to pick Lysandra up from the airport first though,” she said as she frowned at her phone. “Her flight was supposed to have landed a few minutes ago but she hasn’t reached out…”

Aelin rolled her eyes at her mother, she always did have a thing with protectiveness over her best friend. 

“Mom, don’t worry about it,” Aelin assured her. “Aed said he would pick her up and then meet us at the courts. I wouldn’t want to be in that car if I were you.” She faked a gag, causing her mother to laugh. 

“Alright then. Eat, find your rackets, and take the rental to the courts. It was just delivered this morning. I have some business to finish here at the hotel.” She left Aelin with a kiss to the head. 

~~

It didn’t take long for Aelin to pull up to the familiar yet daunting tennis complex bigger than even the academy, and she pushed the car into park, simply staring for a moment. 

This was it. 

Three years she had come close to winning as the youngest person in history. So close. But this was the year. This was her year. She could do this. She would do this. 

And so Aelin Galathynius pushed her shoulders back and raised her chin as she grabbed her massive tennis bag from the trunk and slung it over her shoulders. The weight was heavy and familiar as she walked through the glass double doors and to the front desk, only to halt in her tracks when she came face to face with a familiar head of silver hair. 

Rowan Whitethorn.

She had quite often mused about how unfair it was that her essential biggest rival was so attractive. It didn’t really make hating him very fair, now did it? But there he stood, green eyes shining and teeth flashing as he snapped something at the young man at the desk. The poor boy looked ready to pee himself and Aelin couldn’t help but release a sharp laugh, causing both Rowan and the blonde next to him to whip around.

Aelin watched as Rowan’s eyes sparked and his mouth curved into a sneer as he took her in from head to toe. She forced herself still and kept her eyes on his face. It was all she could do. Rowan opened his mouth and Aelin prepared her hackles to rise instantly.

“Aelin. Good to see you here.” But it wasn’t Rowan who spoke. No, it was Remelle Frost, her least favorite bottle blonde on the planet that spoke as she curled a possessive hand over Rowan’s bicep. Aelin simply rolled her eyes, never one to beat around the bush. It was common knowledge that the blondes didn’t like each other. And after the Adarlan tournament, Aelin wouldn’t hide her disdain for the girl.

“Wish I could say the same,” she replied dismissively as she shouldered past Rowan and made for the front desk. One charming smile and the boy seemed to handle her much better than Rowan. She gave him her mother’s name, him quickly nodding a confirmation and giving her the court numbers, saying they would be available in just a moment.

She turned around, unsurprised to see Rowan glaring at the back of her head. It had been almost eight years of this rivalry. At least for them. Aelin thought it might’ve been a little ridiculous, considering that it started with her mother and his aunt, but the Doranelle kids just made it so easy to hate them. So easy to want to pound them on and off the court. She wouldn’t apologize for the adrenaline the rivalry provided her with.

Aelin smirked, cocking her hip. “Like what you see?”

“Hardly,” he growled. “Just wondering whether or not you actually came to play this time.” 

Aelin recognized the comment for what it was- a direct jab to the last tournament where she had lost to Remelle. If the comment hadn’t pissed her off so much she would’ve recognized the compliment for what it was. 

“Well, that depends which game you’re talking about, Whitethorn.” Her voice was just teasing enough to annoy him once more, and Aelin’s grin grew. 

“Don’t you have a court to go find?” Remelle cut in from beside Rowan, who had distanced himself from her. Aelin didn’t blame him. She wanted to do the same thing.

“And here I was enjoying our little chat. I’ll see you guys tomorrow, mar sin leat.”

“This isn’t Terrasen,” Remelle hissed. “We say ‘good luck’ here. Gods, you Terrasen kids are pieces of-” 

Someone caught her by the waist as Aelin attempted to throw herself at the girl and she was soon spun around in their arms, coming face to face with her own eyes. Aedion’s were flashing too as his eyes were fixed behind her, no doubt at Rowan. 

“Leave it, Ace, it’s not worth it.” 

“It’s true, princess,” Rowan finally spoke with a sneer. “You’re gonna need those pretty little hands tomorrow. Wouldn’t want you to have an excuse when you get your ass kicked.”  

“Oh, I’ll show you-” 

Aedion dragged her away before she could get another word out, her fists clenched and her teeth bared. She shoved him when he put her down.

“Fucking Doranelle,” Aedion spat under his breath as he shook his head. 

He merely gestured to a figure behind her, causing Aelin to whip around with wide eyes. Shit. Duke Perrington grinned at her through the snake-eyed lens of his camera and gave her a tiny wave as she bared her teeth at him

Perfect. Now it would look like Terrasen had begun a fight before the tournament even began. 

Her mother was going to kill her. 

~~

Aelin felt like the stadium had never been bigger. She had known this year she would be playing where the professionals themselves did, including Maeve and her mother, but never in a million years had it looked so daunting or made her feel so small. 

The tournament had been, well needless to say, easy for Aelin so far. She had breezed through her first few matches, absolutely destroying the poor girls, and her third had been straight sets as well. But now it was the semis. And she would have to face Remelle on center court. It seemed the gods liked playing jokes on Aelin Galathynius. 

She could feel every pair of eyes snap to hers the moment she stepped onto the court but she looked forward. Maybe she was a crowd favorite- but that would do her no favors in the upcoming match. Aelin thought she was going to hurl all over her new shoes and she let the deafening cheering of the audience cover the sound of her pounding heart. 

Remelle walked in not long after she and Aelin met her in the middle of the court, racket in hand. Showtime. 

Aelin might have been paying attention when the coin had been flipped, might have been minimally involved when she called heads or when she won the call and opted to serve first. She might have been only slightly aware of her surroundings as she took a small sip of her water and walked to the back of the court. 

And then it was movement.

It was backward and forwards, side to side, low and high, and it was the same dance Aelin knew better than anything. The same feeling in her feet when she sprinted to the ball and the same stretch of muscles when she reached for a shot. This was who she was- this was the pattern she had lived for ten years. 

But it didn’t seem to matter, not as the score continued to tip less and less in her favor with every passing point. She was playing well- but Remelle was playing better. And there was nothing Aelin could do but survive and ignore the satisfied smirks the other girl would throw her during their side changes. 

Think, Aelin, think. 

Nothing was coming to her head. All she could hear was the pounding adrenaline through her body telling her to play. To cross each bridge when she came to it. There was nothing more she could do than play.

It was then, when Aelin threw herself at a particularly difficult ball, that she felt something shift. And she knew she was screwed. 

Aelin was a tennis player- she had rolled her ankle before. But this was different. It had never hurt this bad. And as the rest of her body came down with her ankle, she thought that it could be it. That it was the end of the match all due to a stupid ankle injury. 

With her heart in her throat, Aelin signaled to the red- headed umpire. 

Injury, she mouthed to her, and the woman- Ansel, it seemed her name was- simply nodded. She was in the massive locker room without a second thought, dragging out a spare bucket of ice held in one of the corners of the room and shoved her foot it. Might as well get it over with.

Aelin winced as the ice on her foot began to take effect and her muscles began to ache, her breathing beginning to lose its consistency. Gods, she hated this. She hated the useless feeling that came over her at the thought of possibly being unable to finish the match. At the thought of all the people, she would be letting down. 

She was tired. Aelin was so, so tired.

Gods, she just needed-

The door to the locker room burst open with a loud and abrupt clang, causing Aelin to jerk forward, spilling water on the ground as she opened her mouth. She was ready to tell them that she needed some privacy before her eyes locked onto a familiar figure that sent her heart pounding for a different reason. 

“Rowan, you can’t be in here!” 

The hulking boy ignored her protests, striding over her in no more than a few steps, both of his hands immediately going to the base of her neck to search her gaze with his own worried one, clearly not caring that he was in the girl’s locker room and would be kicked out of the tournament if he was found. 

“Are you alright?” he insisted, his voice low and hoarse, forest eyes intense.

The gentleness in which he touched her had Aelin sighing and her hands reached up to lightly take hold of his wrists, bringing them down and gathering them in her own hands to hold to her chest. 

She hadn’t meant to fall for Rowan Whitethorn.

But like everything in her life, it had happened quickly and unexpectedly, and Aelin had dealt with it head-on. It had been a year now. An entire year of playing tournaments in each other’s home’s just so they could see each other. Just so no suspicion was be aroused by the tabloids. 

And Aelin hated it. 

All she wanted to do was be able to link her hand through Rowan’s in public without causing a public scandal about a decade-long rivalry. 

“I’m okay, you fussy buzzard,” she teased as she looked at him, pleased to see when the frown on his lips twitched the slightest bit upward. “It was just a little fall. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 

But because he knew her so well, he had heard the uncertainty and fear in her voice as she spoke. So saying nothing, he pulled Aelin to his chest and allowed his arms to wrap around her completely, enveloping her in the scent that she had considered home for months.

And as she breathed him in, she wished home wasn’t always so godsdamned far. 

Rowan let her breathe shakily into his chest, constantly running a soothing hand up and down her back as he hummed a small melody that he often did to get her to sleep over the phone at night. Aelin was the first person to admit it was much better in person.

“You don’t have to do it, Aelin,” he said finally, his movements never ceasing. “You don’t owe them anything.” 

She knew who he was referring to of course, of the people who had come to watch the new ‘upcoming star’ in action and were expecting to see quite the show. They were the people Aelin had been trained to want to impress. 

Aelin pulled back to tilt her chin up and look him in the eyes. 

“I can’t just quit, Rowan. I won’t.”

“You have nothing to prove, Fireheart.” And Aelin almost broke as he used the nickname her father had. “Not to anyone.” 

She shook her head, helplessness seeping through her body more and more as she looked at the boy in front of her. The pain in her ankle was even worse now. Unsurprisingly, he noticed, and his calloused hands moved to her wrists as he lead her back over to the bucket of ice water.

He kneeled down in front of the bench as she sat down and placed her foot in the water, wincing along with her even after she threw a glare at him.

I don’t see you with a foot in ice.

Seeing you in pain is enough to hurt me, his eyes gazed back playfully. Aelin rolled her eyes, quickly shutting them as another shock of pain rushed through her body, making her inhale sharply. 

Her boyfriend frowned once more, clearly upset he could do nothing to help her. So he gathered her hands in his own, bringing them to his face to place a gentle kiss on them, pulling an unwitting smile from Aelin. 

“I love you,” she said quietly. Rowan met her soft gaze for a moment before Aelin leaned forward, capturing his lips with hers in a kiss she hoped said everything she couldn’t. Thank you, I don’t know what I would do without you. I wish we weren’t a secret. 

“I love you too, Fireheart.” 

She would never get sick of hearing him say that. Of hearing the utter truth in his words. 

Rowan was watching her with that adoring look he reserved only for her, his face open so she could see every emotion playing across his face. It only made her want to kiss him again.

So she did, although this time he met her halfway, taking her chin lightly between two fingers and tilting it up so he could kiss her thoroughly as her hands rested at the base of his neck, lightly twirling the pieces of soft hair she found there.

They sat there for a while, simply kissing, enjoying the feeling of each other’s lips and proximity when it was so few and far between, and Aelin relished in the feeling of loving someone who loved her back. In the feeling of not having to act. 

When she accidentally tugged at a knot in his hair, Rowan pulled away with a painful groan and a nip to her bottom lip, causing Aelin to laugh and push his cheek away with two fingers.

“Sorry, Buzzard,” she laughed as Rowan stood up, with a playful glare. He folded his arms in front of him and it was only then that Aelin remembered she had a foot inside of a bucket of ice. And her medical time out was running out. “Shit. I have to go.” 

Aelin jumped into action, taking her foot out of the ice with a hiss and grabbing a towel as Rowan maneuvered himself around her to find her shoes and socks. Apparently he had understood her message loud and clear about her intentions on forfeiting the match or not- he wasn’t stupid enough to argue with her.

Quickly enough, Aelin was good as new- well, as new as she could be with a half swollen ankle.

“Well,” she dropped her arms to her sides and turned to her boyfriend. “How do I look?”

“Like an idiot who shouldn’t be playing.”

“Or…?” she arched a brow. Rowan sighed and stepped toward her, his hands bracing both of her arms as he leaned forward to press an earnest kiss to her forehead. 

“Or Terrasen’s champion,” he murmured against her skin. 

Aelin grinned, a wicked and feral smile that meant she was ready to raise hell.

“Now that’s more like it.” 

~~

If someone had asked Aelin to regale the crowd with details of her match after she had come out victorious, she would have been unable to do so. Because all she remembered was the pounding of her feet on the ground, and the neon color of the tennis ball, and the feeling of her heart palpitating in her chest. 

Oh, and of course she couldn’t forget the moment after her match- winning shot, when every care and inhibition had left her in one foul swoop. When she had sprinted over to the stands and thrown herself into the arms of the silver- haired enemy, delighting in his deep laughter.. 

And kissed him in the middle of the stadium for all to see.

~~

this prompt was: secret dating 

taglist:

@story-scribbler

@rowaelinismyotp

@live-the-fangirl-life

@claralady

@surielandiareendgame

[recurring-polynya]

Hello! To start, I absolutely love all of your stories!! I found your fanfiction only recently and it is so good! I was wondering if you could write a Drabble where Hisana is alive and has a baby with Byakuya? With Renji and Rukia in the story? Thank you so much! I can’t even tell you how much I enjoy your stories :)

My first reaction, of course, why would I ever need to write this, when you could just go read @proceedwithcaution ​’s A Thin Red Line again?, but maybe my valiant asker just read it and needs more? One of the major tenets of fanfiction is, just because it’s already been done (and better) doesn’t mean you can’t write your own. Also, I’ve always wanted to write Renji and Hisana in the same story and this seemed like a fun opportunity.

These sorts of requests are actually much harder for me than it would appear, because I’m not the sort of person that can just write a story in a vacuum. If Hisana is alive, what AU is this? What’s different? When does it take place? What is everyone’s relationship to one another? It’s too much!

So, I sat back and said, what is the tiniest possible AU I can make? In A Thin Red Line, Hisana makes sure that Rukia and Renji never have to be separated, so everyone’s relationships get all mangled, but what if she never found out that Renji existed? What if Rukia and Byakuya, stubborn and emotionally constipated as they are, just never mentioned him until he shows up 40 years later? In other words, what if this timeline is exactly like the regular one, except Rukia has a much cooler older sis and Byakuya is, like, 3% more chill, and maybe tried to help Rukia not get executed, instead of ::waves hand vaguely at canon::

Anyway, I got charmed by this idea, and inspiration isn’t something I’ve had a lot of lately, so I just decided to go for it. It’s not so much a drabble as a series of drabbles-- I have 5 of them in various drafty states, I may or may not write more, depending on inspiration and if anyone cares about this, so if you like this and want more, lemme know! I’m just gonna leave this one with a ? number of chapters, which is not usually my way, but it’s not really a story, it’s just some stream of consciousness scenes.

Takes place shortly after the end of the Soul Society Arc. Warning: I have been reading a lot of Jane Austen lately, and also, my mind has been completely poisoned by this prophetic @unohanadaydreams take on what Byakuya’s kid would be like. The title comes from Pride and Prejudice.

a little in love now and then | ao3 | ff.net |

Summary: Abarai Renji doesn't have a fortune, but he does appear to be in want of a wife, at least in Lady Kuchiki's opinion. Fortunately, Lady Kuchiki also has a sister, and a woefully eligible one, at that. (itty bitty Hisana Lived! AU)

Rating: T, because Hisana drops a curse in some later part

More chapters coming over the next few days

It was going to be really hard to defeat Kuchiki Byakuya in combat, Renji realized. Not because the man was absolute perfection in battle-- insanely fast, ridiculously strong, utterly unflappable. No, what was going to make it really, really difficult was the fact that the man’s wife was incredibly nice and very, very beautiful, and also Renji was terrified of her.

“Good morning, Lieutenant Abarai!” Hisana trilled cheerfully as she barged into the Squad 6 captains’ offices. “Oh, Byakuya isn’t here?”

“He’s at a captains’ meeting, ma’am,” Renji explained. “My Lady.” He couldn’t remember which was correct.

“No matter, I’ll find it myself! Here, hold this!”

Byakuya hated people touching his things, especially his desk, and Renji should probably have stopped her, but he had two armfuls of the 18-month old heir to the Kuchiki Clan and if his reflexes hadn’t been so good, he would also have had a small wooden top up his nose.

“Settle down, Future Lieutenant Kuchiki,” Renji murmured, extracting the top from Touma’s slightly sticky hand, and settling the boy on his lap. He pushed the half-done paperwork on his desk to one side and set the top a-spin. Out of all the skills he had spent 40 years honing, he did not expect throwing tops with Momo’s bratty brother on school vacations to be one that he would find useful as a vice-captain. He had found there to be very little about being a vice-captain that had aligned with his expectations.

Young Touma squealed with delight, and his mother briefly looked up from the mess she was making of Byakuya’s desk (she had moved one pile of mission reports 3 cm to the right, and Renji expected to hear about it all afternoon.) “He likes you,” she observed simply.

“He likes anyone who’ll spin his top for him,” Renji corrected.

“That is categorically untrue,” Hisana informed him, and started in on the drawers.

Regardless of Touma’s feelings for Renji, the kid was yet another reason Renji felt like he might hesitate before punching Captain Kuchiki’s ticket. Touma was a sweet kid, if perpetually sticky, and more importantly, he was Rukia’s nephew, her own blood. The little guy mostly took after his pop, but Renji kept finding things-- the way his hair curled at the back of his neck, the bossy look he got on his face when he wanted something-- that reminded him of Rukia in her youth. Not that he was all that familiar with Rukia-of-late. She was practically a stranger, to be honest.

“Aha!” Hisana announced, waving a folded piece of correspondence. “Invitation to Aunt Etsu’s 475th birthday party. I knew she sent him one!” She tucked it in her sleeve smugly. “Sometimes, I think people send letters to him at the office just so that he’ll forget to bring them home.” She narrowed her eyes at Renji. “You don’t happen to open his mail for him, do you?”

“I don’t touch his mail, ma’am.”

Hisana’s face fell.

Renji had watched his captain read his mail, though. “If I put another letter tray on his desk,” he offered hesitantly, “and label it ‘Home’, I bet he’d stick stuff like that in it as he’s opening it, and I’m sure he’d bring it home at the end of the day. He loves empty trays.”

Hisana jabbed a finger at him. “I like you.” She marched over and retrieved her son, who was not very happy to be retrieved.

Ignoring the tearful child getting snot and tears all over a kimono that was worth more than everything Renji owned, Hisana took a moment to regard the Lieutenant of the Sixth. Her gaze was penetrating, stripping him down to his bones. “You’ve met my sister before, yes? Rukia? You helped Byakuya stay her execution?”

That was one way to put it, Renji supposed. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

Hisana nodded definitively. "You should come to dinner,” she declared.

“Dinner?” Renji echoed, his voice hollow.

“At the Manor,” she clarified. “It will be at six.”

“Ma’am, I can’t,” Renji excused reflexively. Of course, he wanted to see Rukia again, that was part of the whole plan, but Kuchiki Manor was not a place where Renji belonged, not yet, anyway. Byakuya didn’t want Renji in his house. Rukia probably didn’t want him in her house, either. Renji had this under control. He was working up to it. He was currently in the process of writing Rukia a letter. He had been working on it for a week. It currently consisted of a single sentence, which he was considering re-writing.

“We’re having grilled unagi,” Hisana added, before disappearing in a swish of silk.

“I must regretfully decline?” Renji called after her.

- - -

Byakuya stared at his desk. “My wife has been here.”

“I am sorry, sir. I couldn’t stop her.”

“No, she is not your responsibility,” Byakuya sighed. He settled himself behind his desk, then looked up. “Did she have Touma with her?”

“Yes, he was very cheerful, right up until he had to leave.”

Captain Kuchiki considered this, and nodded. “He loves the Sixth already. A fortuitous sign.”

Sure, why not? Renji saw no reason to argue. “Er, sir?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

Renji winced. There was no easy way to put this. “Your wife invited me over to dinner. I tried to turn her down, sir, politely, of course, but she… ignored me.”

“You cannot decline,” Byakuya stated simply. “When my wife invites you to dinner, you remain invited until she decides otherwise.”

“Oh.”

There was a long silence. Byakuya contemplated his new mail tray, which he did not recognize, but approved of, in principle.

Renji swallowed. “Sir, I am sorry to have to ask but… does Lady Hisana know about me and Rukia?”

Byakuya had been trying to get his pile of mission reports back to its exact previous position. He looked up, horrified. “What is there to know about you and Rukia?”

Renji waved his hands frantically. “Nothing! Nothing, sir! Just us growing up in Rukongai together, remember I told you about that? When you asked me to commit treason with you by destroying the Soukyoku and keeping her from getting executed?”

“Ah, yes, I do remember.” Captain Kuchiki paused for a moment to consider whether or not this information had reached his wife's ear. “I have no idea.”

Renji changed his mind. He could probably find it in himself to kill this man after all.

[everlarkficexchange]

Unmasked ~ Three

Written by: M

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; references to non consensual sexual situations.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. Please enjoy the third chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

~~ Chapter 3 ~~

As a child, my father used to set me in front of him on his horse. Astride with my skirts flapping in the breeze like a bird’s wings as we rode across the farm. When my mother complained of his habit of treating me like a son, Papa found a pair of breeches that would fit me to wear when we rode or moved about the farm, seeing to the needs of the land and our people. One day when he felt I was old enough, he took me into the woods, teaching me to hunt. It wasn’t a skill that I necessarily needed. We were wealthy enough to hire someone else to hunt meat for us, but my father insisted that I learn where everything we relied on to survive originated. He wanted me to have an understanding and a respect for all living beings, a humility found in the knowledge that in taking a life to sustain our bodies, we owed the earth a debt to care for her soil as she has cared for us.

Perhaps he intended it, perhaps not, but the lesson he taught me that now burns in my mind is that nothing comes from nowhere. I cannot sit in my damask chair and expect the world to care for me or to see to my needs, nor to those of the people depending on me. I must take care of that myself. Food does not appear on the table simply because I feel hunger.

“Are we going to stare at it or dare we go in?” Madge asks with a soft teasing lilt and I thrust myself from the carriage and towards the gaudy city dwelling I am now faced with, ignoring the outstretched gloved hand offering assistance. I am used to hunting in the quiet of the woods, in isolation surrounded by nature. Not in this stone and smoke urban jungle. I march boldly up the stairs and prepare to knock. Uncle Haymitch reaches my side then and pulls my lifted fist away from the door.

“This is not the country, and Effie would never forgive me if you knocked on the door for your first dinner party.” I glance over my shoulder at Effie as she fusses over Madge.

“Do I stand here and sing for entrance then?”

“No,” Haymitch says with a deep chuckle. “I do the knocking. You do the hunting.”

The first step of hunting is to stalk your prey, which requires silence and observation. We are welcomed and ushered into a parlor where we are handed a small glass of something that fizzes and makes my head spin a little. We already know the hostess, having spent at least a week squandering our time in teas and salons and parlors meeting every woman of Aunt Effie’s acquaintance and many who were not until recently.

“Darlings!” Effia had greeted us when arrived at her and Haymitch’s town home, before I could even knock on the door. Clearly I was unaware of this societal rule forbidding me to knock. At the time, Effie’s embrace had been welcome if a touch effusive. After several days of travel, all Madge and I wanted was a nice bath and a good nap. It wasn’t to be. “You came to your uncle and I for assistance in finding a husband and that is precisely what we shall be doing. He can provide introductions to gentleman, I can provide a thousand other things. A foot in the door through the ladies, a fabulous wardrobe. Alicia! Send word to Cinna that we shall need an appointment post haste! And Margaret, my dear… We’ll have Cinna whip up a few dresses for you as well. I won’t hear any arguments! Mourning is no excuse for a countess to dress…” Her eyes dragged over Madge’s plain grey woolen travel habit and she shuddered. “So…so…”

“Drab?” Uncle Haymitch had suggested and then protested as Madge and I both imposed upon him for embraces. He pretended to be annoyed, but I know him better. He was happy to see us both.

That began our week of parlor visits and stiff high collared tea dresses while I waited to be unleashed on the real marriage market. A steady stream of women with their daughters or nieces and even a handful of ladies came to call, drawn by the rumors of a heretofore unheard of eligible young woman and her widowed friend. I’ve learned all about the eligible sons of these women and have yet to see a single one of them.

Father always did say that before laying a snare, one needed to know what sort of beast you planned to trap. A snare meant for a rabbit would never hold a wild boar. This is what I tell myself every time I balk at the guidance or instructions Aunt Effie doles out to me. While I attempted to follow Effie’s example and instructions that first week, I did not care for how much time I spent seated in her parlor, sipping tea and hearing the same gossip on endless loop, answering the same questions about who my parents are and how long I plan to stay in town. I have a husband to shop for and do not appreciate being restricted to the parlor. Everyone knows that one cannot hunt from inside the parlor. You might spill blood on the carpets and then Aunt Effie would die of apoplexy.

I also do not appreciate meeting the mothers, and sisters, and widowed aunts, and fourth cousins twice removed of every potential suitor on Haymitch’s list in addition to a few who are not on his list, but not the suitors themselves.

“How can I select a husband if I never meet any men?” I had asked an exasperated Aunt Effie as I stood still for her dressmaker, a lovely woman named Cinna who worked quietly and seemed to see things in my face that I didn’t know existed.

“Good bone structure. Lovely eyes and hair…you carry yourself with regal bearing and strength. If I didn’t know better, I might have mistaken you for a duchess. My dear we shall be showcasing your spirit,” she murmured as she circled me and examined my body and face.

I still have no idea what she meant by that. While Effie’s wardrobe with it’s excess of ruffles and shimmering fabrics leaves me in physical pain sometimes, the day dresses and dinner dresses Cinna has already managed to finish for me are quite lovely. Still, I see no real show of spirit in their delicate folds. I haven’t worn breeches in years – at my mother’s insistence after the vicar’s son wrote a rather explicit poem for me shortly after I turned fifteen – and dresses like these do not make me miss it, yet I still worry about the ball gowns that will expose my shoulders and back to the world. Perhaps a shawl would work to cover my scars and it might become my signature accessory. I don’t have much time to devote to such thoughts, however. There are still a few days before we have a fitting in our ball gowns. I also have a farm to protect and a husband to ensnare.

“We are spreading the word, darling,” Effie insisted about all our parlor visits and teas. “You cannot meet a suitable husband without a proper introduction.”

Unlike the woods, I cannot simply saunter into a ballroom, select a groom, and drag him to the altar. This type of hunt requires more finesse, I am told several times a day. Which is where Madge enters the picture apparently, because I lack finesse on my own, although I would argue that stalking prey in the woods requires a certain level of finesse. What good is hunting if you announce to your prey that they are your target? None.

“Euphegenia, so glad you could join us tonight. And I see you’ve brought your lovely niece and her friend. I don’t believe you’ve met my nephew. Mr. Cato Baxter. Cato, darling, this is Miss Katniss Everdeen of Southeast Panem and her dear friend, recently widowed the Countess Hargrove, Lady Margaret Charmaigne.”

The introductions and small talk continue as guests arrive and while Effie insists there will be several eligible bachelors in attendance tonight, I find myself restless and disappointed with the offerings. Mr. Baxter seems arrogant, although he supposedly fits the requirements on my list. Mr. Marvel annoys me within seconds of conversation.

“Green does not fare well with your complexion. Perhaps you should wear more of a rosy shade, Miss Everdeen,” he says with what I imagine he thinks is a helpful smile.

“How unfortunate that my favorite color does not fare well with my complexion,” I say with a tight smile in return. “At least in your esteemed opinion. I however find men wearing burgundy to be quite ostentatious.” Madge coughs quietly at that and Effie hisses to me to watch my tone. Altogether, the dinner party turns out unremarkable.

It’s the same all week. The guests vary little and I start to wonder if perhaps this task of mine will not be so simple. Everyone who seemed so kind over tea in Effie’s parlors now seems amused by the comments their relations – all supposed gentlemen. Comments on my dress, my lack of style, my brash tones, my outspoken demeanor, or even my age.

I begin to miss my home. I miss my father even more, although Prim reports no change in his health.

“A walk in the gardens,” Madge insists one day after another string of fruitless parlor visits. Mr. Thresh Jermaine appears interested in courting me, and he seems pleasant enough if a little quiet. He radiates force and intimidation, the sort of person whose will becomes law, and yet there is a gentleness about him whenever his young cousin, Miss Rue Beauchamp is about. And yet, something about him keeps me from pursuing more than a cursory acquaintance. I feel as though we might be good friends and not work as a couple.

Madge leads me outside to the gardens as I smile gratefully at her.

“I shall need to marry a prince simply to pay for the dresses.” Several more arrived earlier today and tomorrow we have an appointment for a first fitting with our ball gowns, for an upcoming masquerade party.

“They didn’t cost as much as all that,” Madge says softly. “Besides, the surest way to scare off prospective grooms is with the rumor that you’re seeking a fortune. And the best way to allay that rumor is with dresses that shout to your financial well being.”

“But I am seeking a fortune,” I remind her.

“Better he not know that.”

“Is that not dishonest?”

“Perhaps a little,” Madge concedes. “But what recourse do we have?”

I suppose in a way, she is right. We talk of Maysilee for nearly the entire time we walk. I can see the struggle in my friend’s eyes, the battle waging in her heart. She wishes more than anything to be at home with her child. While I have no claim of motherhood over my sister, I understand the fear I sometimes see in her eyes, at least a little. The fear of responsibility and the effects of absence. I worry about Prim at home with our absent minded and preoccupied mother. At least Prim has Maysilee and Sae to keep her company. I fear I am little comfort to Madge. It does her good to speak of her daughter, though, I think. Even more good when a letter arrives from Prim, detailing their adventures.

We are going to be the best of friends, Maysilee and I, when you return. Take care of Katniss for me and be sure she does not land herself into too much trouble.

Prim wrote in her last letter, making Madge smile and relax at least for half a day.

My letters from home come from Prim but mostly from our steward, Thom. He can manage most issues, but I still cautioned Prim to write me of any emergencies that might require me to return early. I did not need to say it, but she understood that I spoke of Father.

“We shall be fine,” Prim assured me with a smile as we left. “We shall see you when you succeed. You are the best huntress in Southeast Panem. Who would think that one day you would use that skill to catch a husband?”

I laughed at the time, but the hunt grows long and I grow impatient.

“You are hoping to find him, are you not?”

“Who?” I ask and Madge shakes her head.

“Your Peeta Mellark. He has piqued your interest.”

“I just wonder why Haymitch did not include him on the list of potential suitors. He was dressed in wealth, which is my top requirement. Mother indicated that his father is a marquis so his bloodline is respectable. He claimed to have been in the military which means he’s likely a second or later son, not in line for the title.”

Madge hums and bends over to sniff a sprouting bloom. “Perhaps another reason then. His father may not be generous enough to settle money on him. He was in the military after all, and you did say you would not consider gamblers, womanizers, rakes, invalids, or reprobates. Perhaps he has a reputation.”

I did say that, and I did call him a brute. The gift of the shoes confused me after his abrupt treatment of me in the mud, however, tardy or not, it was appreciated. He remembered the destruction caused in his haste and thought to correct a slight. Kindness such as that has always intrigued me. And I suppose in a way, I am hoping for a friendly familiar face at some of these social functions, even if it is a face I cannot stand to see again since it is linked to my humiliation. How can I face him in a drawing room let alone a crowded ballroom when he has seen me at my worst and his hands have ventured up my skirts before we knew one another’s full names? I am certain to blush horribly and give away my thoughts. That won’t do.

“Nor anyone who wishes to add to his land holdings through matrimony. Or perhaps Haymitch determined that I am not even suitable for a second son of a Marquis,” I add. I come with little to no dowry and none of the holdings variety. I am…disfigured in a way that would likely offend a high born gentleman, although I say that makes him a prat. Before Madge can refute me, I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders. “It is best then that I not find him again. ‘Twould be embarrassing to relive the circumstances of our first meeting.”

************************

A month and still no luck in the husband hunt. I’ve opened my mouth one too many times and the number of potential suitors has dwindled drastically. Mr. Cato Baxter in all his glorious arrogance is the only one still visiting or bringing flowers. Awful roses grown in a hot house and stinking of an overpowering perfume. They are lovely to look at, and yet as soon as I get close to touching them, their scent makes me wish to claw out my nostrils.

Effie insists that my luck will turn with our first ball next week, but I am not so sure.

“I’ve never been away from her overnight, let alone for this long,” Madge says as we sit at the table for dinner. We are rarely placed next to one another, a tactic meant to encourage socializing with new acquaintances. However a few of the guests tonight appear to have not shown and the hostess shuffled the seating arrangement to avoid large empty spaces at her table.

“Prim and Sae are taking good care of her,” I assure my friend.

“I know,” she whispers and then faces me with sadness in her eyes. “Would you think me insane if I told you it is myself that I fear for more during this separation?”

I shake my head in confusion and Madge wrings a napkin in her hands.

“It is a fear that…she will be just fine without me. What then do I mean to her life if she barely misses me? It is selfish, I know, but for the past five years no one has loved me or needed me save for Maysilee. From the moment she opened her eyes, I knew that she loved me as I love her.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” I ask. “You love her and she returns that love naturally. You’ve already taught her to love. She misses you, Madge. Perhaps it will not cripple her, but I think you don’t want that either.”

“Of course not! I suppose in a way, I am also afraid that I don’t know who I am without her anymore. Ever since she was born, every choice that I made was for Maysilee.”

“Well,” I suggest with a cheeky smile. “Now you can mother me. You are one of my chaperones, after all, Countess.” And tonight, she is acting without Haymitch and Effie. My aunt and uncle had a prior engagement and were unable to join us this evening.

Madge groans at her title but a rosy blush stains her cheeks as she smiles. We both know that her title demands a certain level of respect and affords us a kind of protection during this venture. We’ve already seen it’s effects. Doors opened and invitations issued that might not ever be extended to simply Miss Katniss Everdeen.

Not to mention several gentlemen have noticed Madge’s sunny charms over my surly demeanor. It may only be a matter of time before she is wed again, this time perhaps happily so. Once her time of mourning has passed, of course.

The dinner is more enjoyable with Madge at my side, although the seat to my left remains empty. It is the first evening in a long time that I have not had to smile for a man and feign interest in his prattle while already marking him off the list of potential suitors.

“Apologies! Lady Roth, please, accept my apologies for my tardiness,” a male voice proclaims as a man hurries into the dining room, interrupting all conversation.

“Of course! Robert, my dear I am simply glad that you could make it after all. We were a few short on gentlemen this evening.” Lady Roth stands to greet the new arrival.

“You are too kind, cousin. I heard that quail was on the menu and cancelled all other engagements! Your cook’s quail demands my attention,” he declares as he enters my field of view and I nearly choke. Madge elbows me and I turn my head to whisper to her.

“He looks just like him!”

“Who?”

“I don’t believe you know all of our guests, Robert. Please. These charming ladies here.” Lady Roth rattles off Madge’s name and mine as he smiles down at me and I’m a little stunned at how handsome he is when he’s not soaking wet or showing the fatigue of travel. I have to remind myself that this is not the same man who plucked me from the mud. The word brother rings in my head for surely there’s no other explanation and I am certain it is confirmed when Lady Roth finally reaches the point of giving us his name. “My dears this is Sir Robert Mellark. Third son of the Marquis de Vale.”

Madge now coughs at the name, although we both manage to nod at him in greeting. Sir Robert snatches my hand off the table and bows low over it with a charming smile.

“Enchanted. Miss Everdeen.”

“Robert we’ve already rearranged the seats but there is a vacancy next to Miss Everdeen if that is agreeable.”

“More than agreeable,” he says, eyes never leaving mine as my cheeks heat and my heart seems to have grown wings in my chest, beating wildly against its flesh and bone cage.

Warnings ring in my head at his smooth flattery, but I silence them within seconds of him sweeping his chair back and sitting next to me.

Sir Robert speeds through the necessary pleasantries with breathtaking speed, which I appreciate as I am tired of repeating them on end, and he soon has both Madge and I laughing at his tales of searching for the perfect plums at market that morning. It seems so strange. The son of a Marquis searching for his own plums, but the way he speaks to everyone at the table, I form the impression that he wears his nobility carelessly, as though it were merely a speck of dust and not something that defines him.

“They were an excellent fruit and I wish I had some to share with the party,” he says and Madge smiles before turning to speak to someone across the table from her. My attention, however is drawn to Sir Robert, leaning in close to me and speaking softly, so that only I can hear. “Have you had the joy of sinking your teeth into an especially tart plum recently, Miss Everdeen?”

I am not sure what sort of innuendo the man intends, but his voice caresses and teases. And then I’m not thinking of Sir Robert’s plums but of Peeta’s hands on my ankles. A thrill slithers up my thigh and I draw my ankles close together, as though someone might see beneath the table and my skirts and somehow guess at my thoughts. A sinner’s touch, a sinner’s voice. Yes I am almost certain they must be brothers.

“Not lately, although you shall be the first to learn if I do,” I say and am rewarded with a dazzling smile. I wonder if my mother felt so bewitched by my father and turn to focus on my soup after that.

After dinner, the ladies gather in the drawing room while the gentlemen abscond to the study with Lord Roth.

“That isn’t him, is it?” Madge hisses as we sit down to play cards.

“No,” I whisper back. “Brothers perhaps. Though the features are almost identical.”

“Then your Peeta is quite handsome.”

“He is not my Peeta,” I hiss. Madge nods and we continue on, although I notice a gleam in her eyes. It’s not until the men rejoin us and Sir Robert occupies a vacant seat at the card table that I discover what mischief she has planned.

“Sir Robert, I believe my dear friend has already had the pleasure of meeting your brother,” Madge says with a bright smile. I for one, do not appreciate the direction of the conversation. I told her I did not wish to relive my humiliation in the mud. I only wound up there through a series of unwise decisions, after all. And I cannot seem to stop thinking about it while I would rather forget the entire thing.

“Oh? Which brother? There are several of us, I am afraid.” He says with a slight laugh that draws attention to our conversation.

“He gave his name as Peeta,” I explain since I’ve little choice. Madge has dragged me into this fiasco and I cannot be rude. Effie reminds me almost daily that my lack of polished manners drove away Mr. Marvel and Mr. Thresh Jermaine as suitors for my hand. I argue that they were not truly interested.

“Ah so you met my twin.”

“Twin?” Madge asks with real curiosity in her voice. Our fourth at the table, a Miss Davenport, snorts indelicately at this.

“Can you really call him that, Sir Robert?”

“We share a father, were born on the same day, any number of people confuse us for one another–”

“Yes but I don’t believe this is a proper conversation for polite company.”

“Miss Davenport is scandalized. I apologize Countess. Miss Everdeen.”

I am about to ask him why his speaking of his brother would be considered improper when something in what he said seems to click into place, like a tumbler in a lock. I share a look with Madge, her eyes wide as she purses her lips and shakes her head slightly. Before I can confirm, Sir Robert deftly moves the conversation to the masquerade ball the Duchess of Cashmere will be throwing in a little over a week. It is all that anyone can speak of these days.

“Will you be in attendance, Miss Everdeen?” Sir Robert asks quietly. “At the masquerade?”

“I believe we planned on it,” I tell him and he smiles.

“I am glad to hear it.”

He moves on from the card games after that, leaving me with a hundred questions and a fluttering pulse. The fluttering thankfully only lasts a moment or two and I am able to enjoy the fresh night air on the drive home. A rain cleared the sky this afternoon and now the scents of early summer abound. I miss my home. The thought causes me to withdraw further into my own musings.

“So then. Sir Robert is a cheeky flirt and the mysterious Peeta is an illegitimate son,” Madge says as we prepare for bed that night. They share a birth date and a father, Sir Robert had said, implying that they do not share a mother. “Perhaps that is why Haymitch kept him off the list?”

I say nothing, still too lost in the quagmire of my thoughts to formulate an intelligent response.

************************

Sir Robert visits for tea. He sends flowers and asks for a dance at my first ball of the season. The Duchess of Cashmere’s masquerade. Aunt Effie is thrilled.

“I told Haymitch he should expand the list a little higher. After all, a third son–”

“Does not usually stand to inherit a thing,” Haymitch reminds her.

“Yes except everyone knows the Marquis has settled a healthy income on all his sons and lands of some sort on most of them. And why shouldn’t he? The man can afford it.” Haymitch opens his mouth to argue and Effie snaps open a fan, fluttering it madly in front of her face. Madge speaks up to avoid the fight brewing.

“What of a fourth son?” I glare at her.

“There is no fourth son,” Effie says with a click of her tongue that closes the conversation and answers the question of why Peeta was left off the list. Or perhaps I am wrong. Haymitch’s mood takes a turn for the worse and I wonder at it. He is my mother’s half brother after all. He must know of her history with the Marquis. Perhaps there are more sinister secrets lurking in that family beyond a slightly ruthless nature and a bastard son.

I avoid the parlor that afternoon in favor of walking in the garden behind the house. What I truly wish to do is ride Sagittaria, but Haymitch insists riding in the park is not something unmarried ladies do alone and he no longer rides. That is surely why I accept Mr. Baxter’s invitation to ride in the park, despite how much his pompous demeanor annoys me.

[misscecil]

How To Be A Great Art Ally to your Creative Friends.

Slightly tweaked from my 2015 post How To Be A Great ART ALLY

I’ve been having a lot of heart to hearts lately with my friends who are authors and artists and we’re all saying the same thing: It is getting harder and harder for everyone who isn’t in the top 5% of their industry to get the word out about work they are doing.

Because of the way the industries are now, many artists are not getting the marketing and push that they deserve or need. Much of that promotion and publicity now falls on the artist’s shoulder. Your artist friend may have a good career, but unless they are crazy lucky, or have the “it” thing of the moment, your artist friend is probably really struggling.

“What. But they have so many books out! They are on tour all the time! They are always doing some wacky play!”

Sadly, about 90% of artists are struggling and barely making a living wage. According to the NY Times (1/5/19) The median wage for most authors is $20,300 

Most of your creative friends have full-time day jobs on top of their full-time art careers. Or they are taking a lot of side speaking gigs, lecturing or school visits and other supplemental work to add to their income to meet basic needs. 

Remember, every new project that they do is like starting from scratch. 

For example, many of the people who I know who are not artists see all the stuff that I am doing and think that it’s going so great for me that I don’t need their help to get the word out about my books. But I do. All of your artist friends (even the most famous ones) need your support all the time.

To be a great Art Ally for any of your author/artist friends I’ve drummed up a list of things that you can do. I’ve focused on books, since I’m an author, but I’ve added helpful tips within to give you ideas on how to help your music, performer, filmmaker, comic book, visual artist and indie game maker friends.

1) Pre-order their stuff. Seriously. If your friend has a book (or CD or DVD or indie game or comic book) coming out pre-order it. Pre-orders give the publishing company an indication of interest and can help with print runs. Good pre-orders sometimes help a book because the publishing company may give a book a little push with extra marketing money and publicity based on those numbers.

2) Show up. If your friend has a reading or something, go to it. “But I went to it once for another book!” That’s great! You are a supporter! But, every book is a whole new thing! (Go to their rock show! Play! Art gallery opening! If your friend is in a film/made a film go opening weekend, that’s when the box office counts. Or order it on VOD the week it drops. Or buy the game the week it comes out. You get the idea.)

3) When you are there, buy the book. “But I already pre-ordered it!” Yeah, I know. But buying it at the store or the reading helps the bookstore and the numbers and will help your friend do another reading there the next time. This is especially important if your friend is doing a reading not in their hometown. (If your friend is a musician, buy merch because that might be how they are paying for gas. If your friend is an artist, buy a piece of art because that might equal a bag of groceries.) (comics peeps put your pals book on your pull list) (etc)

3a) “But argh! This is not my kind of book. I don’t read that genre. It’s not for me. I’m not a kid/teen.” Sure, that’s fair. The book might not be for you. But I bet you one million dollars that you know somebody that the book (or other thing) would be perfect for. Maybe a strange aunt? Maybe your weird nephew? Maybe your co-worker? And remember the holidays are always just around the corner! Why not get it signed? Think of it as a back up present. You can give it at a white elephant exchange. If all else fails, get a copy and donate it to your local library or if it’s a kids book, to the school library nearest you.

4) Signal boost their work. While it may look to you like everybody knows about your friend’s book, they probably don’t. Remember that we are all kind of in a bubble when it comes to social media. Authors (and artists of all kinds) are always looking for new readers/audience and you totally have a bunch of friends that your author/artist friend doesn’t know. And those friends might have never heard of your friend’s book, movie, game, music and it might be right up their alley. And those friends have friends that you don’t know. And so on. And so on. So every once in a while, if you like and in a way that you are comfortable with, an easy Art Ally action is to Tweet, Instagram, Pintrest or Facebook (or repost) something about that person’s art thing on the social medias! This signal boosting helps to get new eyeballs on the book (or art thing) that your friend is doing.

5) Review it / Rate it. Perhaps you are on Goodreads? Or perhaps you frequent Amazon or B&N or Powells? If you really are a fan of the book (or art thing), a simple way to help boost your friend’s work is by giving it a star rating or a review. (For musicians you can do this at those places as well. Also you can add their album to your streaming site and rate it! For films rate it on Netflix if it’s there! For games there are places to do this too!)

5a) For books, on Goodreads it’s also helpful if you add it to your to read shelf. It’s both helpful before the book comes out and when the book comes out. So if you haven’t done it already, go to it! Add all your friends books to your to read shelf. It’s not too late!

6) Make sure that it is in your local library branch! Libraries are the biggest purchasers of books! An author wants their book to be read! Libraries help with that! Maybe you are librarian? Or someone super close to you is a librarian? This is where you can really help to get it on the library radar by making sure that it is on the order list for your branch or for your system. Sidenote: Many libraries are too poor to purchase books this is a great place for you to donate that extra book!

7) Consider using it in your class! Many books have reader guides or teacher guides. Are you a teacher? Or is someone super close to you a teacher? If you love the book, Or if not that, you can donate the book to your (or your teacher pal’s) school library or classroom library for students to enjoy.

8) Book Club it. If you have a book club, suggest your group read your friend’s book. Or maybe just have a one-off book club and get a group of your friends together to read your friend’s book. If your friend writes for kids, do a mother/ daughter or father /son book club with a group of people. I’m 100% certain that your author friend would be delighted to come over (or if they live far, Skype) to discuss their book with your book club. (for musicians you could host a living room show at your house)

9) Ask your art pal to come in and speak! Maybe your school or library has a budget to bring in a variety of guest speakers for classrooms or assemblies? Your friend would be perfect for this. If your institution has no budget, you can still ask your friend to come and speak! Lots of authors have sliding scales and can organize a way to sell their own books and that can offset a pro bono visit. Also, it will help them to get new readers. Being an art ally is all about getting new audiences for your arty friends. (Your other artist pals would make great classroom / assembly visitors as well.)

10) Vote and Nominate. It’s possible that there are lists that you can vote on or nominate your friends for that they may be eligible for and deserving. This could be anything from your local publicly voted on thing to a list that is for professionals which you might be. It’s easy for everyone to remember to nominate the big best sellers of the year or the debut books that are getting the big pushes. But there are many midlist books that are wonderful and get lost in that shuffle. Make sure to champion the midlist! They really need help to be seen! (This is the same for all of your artist friends. There is always a thing that is going on where they can use your vote or nomination. You’ve gotten those emails / updates.)

11) Hand sell. Maybe you are a bookseller? Make sure that the book is on the shelf. And then, when and if you love it, hand sell it! You can also help by making sure that the book is still on the shelf once it’s sold. Many stores don’t automatically re-order a book if it doesn’t sell more than a certain amount. If you are not a bookseller, you can still hand sell by just talking up the book to people. (Talk up their music, game, comic, play, and movie.)

11a) If you work in retail anywhere and your pal is a musician and you like their music: Try putting their album on at work! Who knows? Maybe someone will ask you who that swell band is? Your pal may gain a new listener!

12) Be a Microphilanthropist. Support their Patreon/Kickstarter/Go Fund me.  It really helps to get that support whether it be a small patreon contribution or a small contribution to getting that dream project done. Support their Indiegogo or Kickstarter or Patreon. For your other artist friends who are making movies, plays, albums, comics, indie video games support their crowdfunding or patreon effort. Really. You can totally afford the $5-10 level (even if you think the project is lame.) for a crowdfunding and $1 for patron. And it will really help them and boost morale.

13) Be a good literary citizen. If you are an author, remember to be a good literary citizen. Promote yourself, but also do stuff for the larger literary community. Participate and include others. There are many things you can do. You can organize events. You can pitch panels. You can show up to things. You can volunteer to be a judge for things or to moderate panels (be a good moderator if you do.) You can write essays about other works. Remember to extend past your own inner circle of friends to include people who you might not know. Being an artist is very hard. There are many ups and downs in a career. At some point everyone goes through a hard time and needs help. Avoid the cool kids table mentality. Be kind. When you are on the top, don’t forget to keep helping your community. Diversify your literary and artistic world. (Other artists, you know what this is in your own field. Art citizens for the win!)

14) Invite your friend over to dinner. Or buy them dinner. Or have a potluck. Everyone could use a good night out with friends and conversation. It’s a spirit booster. No lie.