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monstersandmaw · 5 years ago

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Male lizardfolk x female reader (nsfw) *Commission*

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

A commission for @ivymemnoch, featuring a nerdy lizardfolk boy (colouring/design based on a European green lizard) and a tall reader. This is the first of my five commissions to be completed and posted on here, and since it’s a paid commission, it doesn’t get early release on Patreon. Enjoy!

8144 words, no warnings, only fluff, some geekery, and some nsfw at the end. I will add though that I discovered that snakes aren’t the only reptiles to have two penises... lizards do too.

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After a draining, all-day session in the recording studio, the last thing you wanted was to step out of the soundproofed booth and hear the relentless thrumming of raindrops on the windows.

The producer called over to you, briefly drawing your attention away from the foul weather, and grinned. “That was great! You really nailed her character. I think we can press on with the next section on Monday.” The sphinx smiled at you and stretched slightly before adding, “You have a good weekend now. Rest that voice of yours!”

You smiled and turned to look out of the nearest window with a grimace sliding onto your face. “Ugh. What a day to leave my umbrella behind,” you muttered. “Anyway, see you.”

Lingering just a moment more in the doorway of the recording studio, you eyed the rain and then - resigned to smelling like a wet werewolf - made a dash for it. Three seconds after you’d left the building, it doubled in strength and began to thrash down. Up ahead, still illuminated despite the fact that it was after five o’clock, was a shop you’d often thought about going in, but had never made time to venture inside. With an indignant squawk as the universe nudged you not-so-gently towards the comic book store by dripping water down your collar, you hurtled across the empty street, splashing through rapidly-forming puddles, and shot inside, soaked.

Standing on the mat for a moment, you shivered and gazed around at the room beyond. The walls were lined with bookshelves containing relatively ordinary looking books, and in the centre of the room was a lower stand displaying comics. On the top of this shelf, however, was a small army of figurines from a plethora of games and movies, and as you spotted a favourite of yours, you grinned. This place was nerd nirvana.

At the back of the room, surrounded as if in a shrine by a small alcove dedicated to arts and crafts and prop-making supplies for tabletop games, was the counter and cash register. The figure sitting behind it had looked up as you burst into his slice of peaceful heaven and the movement of his colourful head drew your eye over to him. Tall, slim but clearly muscular, with lime green skin speckled with gold and a wash of vibrant blue across his throat and up his cheeks towards friendly, golden eyes, the lizardfolk looking at you in mild surprise was frankly gorgeous.

You blinked stupidly for a second and then blurted, “I promise not to drip on any of the books.”

He grinned, a wide, warm smile that showed a row of pointed white teeth. “Appreciate it,” he said. His amber, unblinking gaze shifted to the rain and he said, “Gods, it’s really throwing it down out there.”

“Yup. I didn’t make it more than a hundred yards from work before bolting for cover. Nice place to duck into though,” you added, eyeing the figurines and graphic novels around you.

“You work near here?” he asked, setting down the tiny model he’d been painting. His clawed fingers were surprisingly slender and delicate.

You nodded. “Currently, at least. I’m a voice actor. The recording studio is just round the corner.”

“Sweet!” he exclaimed. “You voiced any characters I might know?”

You shrugged. “Maybe? I mean, Eliana from Ice Dragon Chronicles is probably the one I’m most known for? Mostly it’s just small parts for all sorts of things though. She was a rare break…”

“No way!” he breathed, “That’s awesome! Oh wow…” and he practically giggled with delight. His blue throat flushed a darker, more vibrant colour too. “That’s so cool. I’m sorry - you probably just wanted to browse in peace, or even just stay out of the rain. I’m sorry.”

Laughing softly, you said, “You know what? I’ve always wanted to check this place out, but I don’t really know where I’d start… I’ve read a few Manga, but I’d like to try a graphic novel…”

He stood, revealing just how tall he was. You were pretty tall yourself, for a human, but he stood easily a head higher than you. He blinked slowly and grinned, twitching his head towards the shelves along the walls. “Here’s one I always recommend to get people started. I warn you though, it’s a slippery slope… If you like this one, you’ll be obsessed in no time. I’m Bik, by the way.”

“I think I can handle it,” you smiled and he chuckled, handing you a slim but beautifully designed book with a dragon on the front and a female knight on a chestnut charger.

The art style was gorgeous and the writing seemed pretty good quality too, and as you leafed through the first few pages, you found yourself drawn in to the story about the female knight and the dragon. Finally you glanced up at him and said, “I’m assuming you don’t want me to read it all here right now…”

“It’d be nice if you bought it,” he grinned playfully.

He’d just reached out to take it from you when the door opened and a hunch-shouldered werewolf pushed inside, having just shaken the worst of the weather off on the doorstep all over their companion. The person behind her was a tiny, slender, and extraordinarily pretty young woman with pastel lilac hair that for some reason looked natural rather than dyed. Despite her almost innocent, childlike looks, she seemed decidedly furious about the soggy insult from the werewolf. In turn behind them came a figure who would have blotted out the daylight in the doorway had there been any to speak of outside.

You’d never met a hobgoblin before, and you tried not to stare as he lumbered in after the other two who had come to an abrupt halt at the sight of Bik and you standing together with your new graphic novel between you. The grin on the werewolf’s face made you think of feeding time at the zoo, and Bik clearly noticed it because his lithe tail swished a few times behind him in annoyance.

“Shall I take that for you?” Bik asked, offering his elegant hand again for the book and leading you over to the till so that you could pay for it.

You smiled and nodded, aware that the small group behind you were muttering between themselves. Bik was obviously aware of it as well, and seemed irritated by it, though you weren’t sure why. As you fished out the right money from your wallet, he muttered, “My D&D group… We meet every Friday. I’m sorry about them.”

“They seem nice,” you smiled, trying to reassure him. “You know, I’ve never played.”

“Really?” he asked, his golden eyes flashing brightly for an instant.

You shook your head and took the book from him, sliding it into your bag to keep it dry. “One thing at a time, eh?” you grinned before he could invite you to join in and he laughed.

“Hope to see you back again,” he added sheepishly. “There are some others I can recommend to you, whether you like that one or not.”

You nodded. He seemed so cute with the way he tilted his head and blinked his big eyes every now and again. His colouring was also astonishingly pretty, looking like a mosaic of gold and green all along his back, with that vibrant zing of blue around his throat. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” you said as you turned to go, and you really meant it.

While you were walking down the row of books towards the door, grateful that the rain seemed to have lessened considerably, you heard the werewolf dig her friend in the ribs and mutter, “Talk about your type!”

“Shut up,” Bik hissed. “Or she won’t come back.”

Of course, you did find yourself returning to his shop, though not on a Friday evening. You were sure his friends were nice, but you weren’t really there to meet them; at least, not just yet.

Bik’s face lit up when you stepped inside and he hopped down off the counter where he’d been sitting like a naughty schoolboy, swinging his legs and reading a comic which sat in his lap. “You came back!” he chirruped as he set it aside and came over. He wore tight-fitting jeans with a big hole tailored in the back for the thick root of his tail, and a blue t-shirt with a faded print on.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” you asked, aiming for playful but still coming across as a little shy, perhaps even coy. “You said you had more recommendations for me…”

“You liked it then?”

“Loved it! The twist at the end was amazing.”

His toothy grin made your stomach flip over and you glanced away as a blush rose up your cheeks.

You spent the next half an hour dissecting every detail about the first book he’d recommended, and from there, he chose three others that might suit.

Over the next few weeks, you returned to the shop regularly, and on one blustery August afternoon, you found him preparing some props for his next D&D session. Instead of talking books, you asked him about them, and he tilted his head in that adorable way he had, glancing over the half-finished figurines and what looked like a maquette of an old castle ruin or something.

“Did you make that too?” you asked, and he nodded.

“Yeah. It helps with the game, but honestly I just enjoy making stuff…”

“They’re beautiful! You could work in the props department at a film company or something.”

His blue throat became so vibrant in contrast with his lime green skin that it almost hurt to look at him, and he half turned away. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I get a lot of free time in the shop; fellow nerds aren’t too thick on the ground here, if you know what I mean. Hey, listen,” he added, scratching the back of his head with a clawed finger. “I’ve… uh… I’ve been wondering if maybe you’d like to come along to a session one day? You don’t have to take part or anything if you don’t want to, and we are, like, halfway through this campaign, but if you wanted to you could fill in for one of the NPCs or something… But… uh…” He trailed off, embarrassed and picked up one of the half-finished mimic chests on the counter top.

You watched as he turned it over in his delicate fingers and then chuckled. “You know what? I’d love to.”

At that, he dropped it and spun back around. “You’re serious?”

“Sure! Why not?” you asked, stooping to pick it up and handing it back to him. “Should I bring snacks?”

“Oh my god, could you get any more perfect!” he blurted and then laughed, staring down at the miniature mimic in his hands as if hoping that it might just eat him up on the spot. “Snacks would be amazing, but you don’t have to. Usually we take it in turns to bring something. It’s Oleander’s turn this Friday.”

“Oleander?”

“I don’t know if you remember her, but she’s the tiny one with the purple hair. She’s half fae and all sass. She bakes the most amazing sugar cookies though…”

“Got a sweet tooth then?” you asked and he nodded.

“Duly noted. Tell me about the others? Was the big one a hobgoblin?”

Bik nodded. “Yeah, that’s Jos. He’s kind of shy, but he’s great once you get to know him. He’s playing this tiny elven bard, and she’s -” he broke off, realising he was about to go off on a long and potentially quite boring waffle about their characters. Clearing his throat, he said instead, “Anyway, so yeah, that’s Jos. The werewolf is Emma. She’s… a bit brash and loud at times, but she means well.”

“How do you guys all know each other?” you asked, moving over to examine the figurines on the counter while he talked.

“From school, actually,” he laughed, setting the mimic back down. “It’s the typical - stereotypical I guess - thing of a bunch of rejects forming a bit of a ragtag band, and we’ve just been best mates ever since.”

With a fond smile, you firmly agreed to come to their next session.

You showed up with a bag of cookies, not wanting to seem tight but equally not wanting to try and one-up the resident baker in the group. You were also running a tad late after the recording session had run over, and the door was locked when you arrived at quarter past seven, and you had to bang on the glass repeatedly until Bik scuttled out to rescue you.

“I’m so sorry!” he said as he stepped to one side and let you in. “I thought I left it off the latch for you! I should also have given you my number. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine!” you laughed as he cringed. “But I wouldn’t say no to having your number…”

He went still and then smiled.

You followed him into a storage room at the back of the shop which had been decked out with flickering LED candles, and in the centre of the room was a round table set up for their game. They hadn’t really started yet, and Oleander was, to your surprise, sitting in Jos’ lap. He pecked her affectionately on the top of the head and picked her up, setting her back down on the ground. The werewolf, Emma, snuffed at the air and turned around, tail wagging from between the slats of her chair.

“Hey!” she grinned, leaping up and stepping over to hug you. “I’m sorry. I’m a hugger. You made it though! And…” and she sniffed ostentatiously, “And you brought goodies!”

“I couldn’t not bring goodies,” you chuckled, handing the modest bag of cookies to Bik.

“Tibikthio,” Emma said in a mock-formal tone to Bik, “You picked a good one.”

You turned slowly to the lizardfolk who had closed his eyes in semi-horror. “I hate it when you use my full name,” he groaned.

“Tibikthio…” you repeated. “I like it…”

You caught the tiniest flicker of something cross his face but it was gone a second later.

“Well he hates it!” Emma barked. “Come on, pull up a chair.” She adopted a silly accent, like some old crone, and added, “There’s plenty of room, m’dear!”

Smiling, you glanced at Bik, who still looked a bit embarrassed about the whole name thing, and then you settled in between him and Emma as the game began.

To start with, you stayed on the periphery, letting them tell their story and act it out. Some of them would have made good voice actors, though Oleander tried a bit too hard in places. But they were having an absolute blast. Bik was the dungeon master, weaving elements of improv and story-crafting seamlessly into one narrative, though there were some gaffes and hilarious moments when it all fell apart. By the end of the session, you had cried tears of laughter until your stomach hurt, and had had your heart in your mouth for the entirety of one fight in a long-lost temple.

It was past ten when they wrapped up, and Bik insisted that they just leave everything there for next time. “It’s late,” he said, “And who wants to tidy up now anyway…?” He was met with a chorus of nods and yawns.

Your stomach growled though as you stood and you felt a bit light-headed.

“You ok?” Bik asked, head tilting quizzically. “You look a bit squiffy… Didn’t make you queasy with all the guts and goop at the end of the fight, did I?”

Reassuring him, you told him you had just missed supper that night because of work, and he looked horrified. “There’s a place round the corner that’s open til midnight. You want to grab something?”

Your initial reaction was to refuse politely and say you’d rustle something up when you got home, but you happened to catch Oleander’s violet eyes as she looked from Bik to you with what could only have been described as a look of hope on her face, so you took a gamble and nodded. “Sure, I’d like that.”

Bik shut up the shop and bid his friends goodnight. Oleander winked at him but offered no comment before demanding that Jos carry her home, which he dutifully did. Bik caught you looking at them and smiled. “They’ve been together since they were sixteen. Real high school sweethearts.”

“They’re adorable,” you offered. “I mean, they’re kind of polar opposites, but… it’s nice.”

“There’s hope for those of us who tend to prefer other species…” Bik muttered playfully. “Come on, it’s not far.” As you walked along the empty street, he asked, “Did you have fun?”

“I did,” you replied honestly. “I had no idea it was so…” you waved your hand while you searched for exactly the right word.

“Nerdy?”

You snorted a laugh and corrected him. “Complicated… involved… complex…”

He shrugged casually and shivered. “It’s what you make of it, I guess. We’ve been plotting this particular campaign for months. It’s nice to be able to play it finally!” He shivered again and hugged his bare arms around himself, claws scratching slightly on his rough skin.

“Are you cold?”

He nodded. “I forgot my jacket. I’m not very good with the cold. It’s a lizardy thing.”

The evening wasn’t particularly chilly, but you supposed he was cold-blooded.

“You want my jacket?” you asked. “I think your shoulders are slim enough that it’d probably fit you.”

He shot you an odd look. “Isn't the guy supposed to be the one to offer that to the girl?”

“Only if you stick to stuffy old gender roles,” you grinned. “You want it or not?”

“Yes please,” he mumbled and took it off you with a grateful smile. He looked odd wearing it, but he burrowed into it for the remainder of the short walk to the late-night restaurant.

The two of you sat down and chatted, and you remarked on just how relaxed it felt.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s… It’s nice. I’m glad you got rained on all those weeks ago…”

“Me too,” you laughed. He was a dork, but you liked that he felt genuine, and that his sense of humour was a bit off the wall.

The restaurant wasn’t fancy by any stretch of the imagination, but the food they served looked amazing. Run by a big Highland minotaur with a massive belly and a hearty laugh, it offered exactly the kind of meal you needed after not having had much all day, and the two of you took a seat in a quiet corner on some comfortable, diner-style benches.

The lizardfolk who took your order reminded you of a gecko, and had pinkish colouring and large, blue eyes. While you had always been drawn to lizardfolk, somehow no one seemed to compare to Bik lately.

While you waited for your food, Bik interrupted your musing and asked, “What made you get into voice acting? Maybe next time you can voice some of the other characters they meet…?”

“I think I’d like that,” you admitted. “Normally everyone just asks me to do impressions of famous people, you know, because I have an ear for accents and all that.”

He smiled and rested his chin in his hands, staring at you unblinkingly. It might have made anyone else seem a bit intense, but with him it just seemed endearing. As much as he loved to tell a story, he seemed just as happy to listen to one too.

“Honestly, I kind of fell into it. I did music and drama at college and was all set to go down the ‘traditional’ acting line, but I found I was more comfortable bringing characters to life with my voice than my entire body. It’s still really hard work though. Most people reckon that if you can do a few accents or a funny voice, that’s it, but it’s so much more than that.”

He nodded in agreement. “Oh absolutely! I mean, I think I gathered as much just from what we do in our little amateur group. We all sit round a table and we say our ‘lines’, and we all bring our characters to life as convincingly as we can. We’ve been doing it for years, but we’re still not very good!” Bik grinned at you, showing all his teeth, and you smiled back. A moment later he added, a bit dreamily, “I still can’t believe you voiced Eliana. She’s one of my favourite characters ever! I love that game. I wish she’d been a playable character…”

You laughed, honestly a bit bashful.

Before it could become awkward, your food arrived and the two of you chatted some more around mouthfuls of delicious, humble, homely food until you thought you were going to burst.

“Oh man,” you groaned, sitting back in your seat. “I won’t need to eat for a week!”

Bik smiled and said, “I actually probably won’t eat for a week.”

“Wow, that’s…”

“Economically beneficial?” he snickered. “True. I’d rather be like that than like Jos. He has to eat six meals a day just to fuel his body.” He leaned on the table and added in a conspiratorial stage whisper, “And you know what? Oleander eats just as much as he does.”

“No way!” you gasped. “But she’s tiny! How does she do it?”

“She’s half Fae,” he said. “There’s probably magic involved.”

“Lucky her,” you muttered. “Though on second thoughts, grubbing up six meals a day sounds like a lot of effort. But seriously though, I am so full.”

The minotaur who owned the place came out at that moment and said in a heavily accented rumble, “Ach, too bad! I was gonna offer you’s some dessert!” He waggled a pair of menus at you hopefully.

“We’ll just have to come back next week,” you said and the minotaur laughed heartily.

Bik seemed sleepy after the heavy meal, but he walked you back to your place and you exchanged an awkward hug on the threshold. You got the sense that it wasn’t just you who wished it had been more, but neither of you was ready to make that leap just yet.

That first Friday was the first of many trips to the shop to watch them play D&D together, and after only a few weeks, you began to join in more activelyn. And so you found yourself lending your vocal cords to street merchants and beggars, high nobles and sea captains as the unlikely group made their way across their fictional land. The tables had turned a bit, and now it was you who made them helpless with laughter, even mimicking Oleander’s very particular speech patterns when the group ran into a mimic.

“That’s amazing!” she said. “Are you sure you’re not Fae?”

“No,” you said, “I mean, I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I’m very ordinary…”

“You’re not ordinary at all!” Bik blurted and everyone burst out laughing.

“We all know that Bik’s got the hots for you!” Emma grinned.

Oleander chimed in with, “Well, as much as a cold-blooder can have the ‘hots’ for anyone…”

“Oi,” Bik grunted. “I’m sitting right here you know!”

“Better speak up more often,” Oleander teased playfully, chucking him affectionately under the chin like he was a favourite hunting hound or something, “Or she won’t notice you…”

“I’m going to write you all into a jail cell next week,” the dungeon master grumped. “Then you’ll be sorry.”

After that session, he claimed he was tired and begged off going to supper with you. Of course you said it was fine, but you had grown used to your private suppers together and fought off the lump of disappointment that lodged itself unexpectedly in your throat. He waved and slouched off down the street, leaving the rest of you outside the dark and empty shop.

“I think you went a little far this time,” Jos commented in his deep, gravelly voice to the two girls and they sighed. “He’s always been very sensitive about… you know, ‘matters of the heart’…”

“Yeah. Poor thing,” Oleander said and she looked at you with her large purple eyes. “The more he likes someone, the more awkward he can get. I’m sorry we butchered it tonight for you though. I’ll make it up to you. Fae’s honour.” After a pause, she added, “You do like him, right?”

“Very much,” you admitted quietly. “He’s very gentle. It’s nice.”

“He used to play lacrosse back in high school,” Jos grinned. “He wasn’t gentle then! But he’s sweet when it comes to people he cares about. He looked out for me at school.”

You shot him a surprised look and he laughed. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “You just don’t look much like the type who needs anyone to look out for them…”

Oleander patted his colossal forearm and cooed, “Ol’ Jos here wouldn’t say boo to a housefly, would you darling?” He smiled affectionately at her and said nothing. “We’ve always been the outcasts and misfits I guess. Bik’s the most normal one of the lot of us, all things considered.”

Emma announced with a sudden curse that she was running late to meet her girlfriend, and loped off into the night on all fours with an accompanying farewell howl, her backpack bouncing around on her shoulders, and Oleander and Jos bid you goodnight and headed off towards the bus stop, leaving you to make your own way back. It was strange not to have Bik by your side that night, and it made you realise how close you’d become to him over the last few weeks.

Back home, you curled up on the sofa, not ready to start thinking about bed just yet, and had just got your phone out to drop him a text when your message tone chimed at you. The way your heart clenched with excitement at the sight of Bik’s name on the notification made you pause a moment and wonder just what this affection for him was turning into. Images of his bright green skin and golden eyes darted across your mind; the sound of his laugh, the way his tail coiled itself off the ground when he walked, the way his clawed hands held the little props he liked to make… You’d been telling the truth when you’d admitted to Oleander just how much you liked him.

‘Hey’, his text began. ‘Sorry I bailed like that. Did you get home ok?’

‘:) yeah,’ you replied. ‘And it’s fine. I get it, but they meant well. And I’m looking forward to the next session already!”

Jos was the one who finally insisted that you had to become a permanent member of their fictional gang. Casting a look at Bik as you all loitered in the main shop after the session, you saw the way he bit his thin lips and coiled his tail around one ankle. “Should I?” you asked.

You’d grown in confidence around them, glad to have been welcomed into their group, and he nodded mutely.

“That doesn’t seem very enthusiastic…” you shot with tongue-in-cheek humour dancing in your eyes.

“Obviously he’d love that,” Emma said. That day she wasn’t in her wolf form, and it was one of the few times you’d ever seen her as such. She had ash blonde hair with a harsh side-shave above her left ear while the rest was long, tied back in a ponytail. Her body was strong and muscular, and honestly she was utterly gorgeous.

You cocked an eyebrow at him and adopted the tone of one of the temple guardians you’d voiced for them earlier that evening. “Come now,” you said with mock sternness, “Speak the truth, young dragonling…”

Bik immediately caught on and followed the joke as he spoke in the voice of his dragonborn bard, quavering and simpering. “Please… oh Great One, don’t make me speak more on the subject… I’m only a worthless wyrm…”

You closed the short distance between the two of you and leaned in close. His jaw slackened slightly, his throat bobbing, and his beady, amber eye locked onto your face. “You are no such thing,” you smiled. Biko’s throat worked nervously. Drawing back, you added, “And I’d love to join the group. You’ll have to help me think of a character.”

Bik still looked like he’d suffered a minor heart attack, but Jos whooped and Oleander giggled. “Great!” they said as one.

You turned to Bik and said, “Maybe you and I can chat it over after dinner, if you’re still up for our usual post-session snack?”

“Definitely,” he croaked, voice sounding thick and slightly awestruck. He looked a bit stunned, but you decided it was in a good way.

He held the door open for you and you stepped close to him as you headed out into the late evening, pressing a hand flat against his chest as you passed, and murmured, “Thanks.”

He recovered quickly, though he did seem to be concentrating very hard on the task of locking up the shop, and as the two of you walked away from the others, he kept glancing down at you.

“What?” you finally asked with a giggle.

“Nothing.”

“It’s clearly something…” you pressed, turning and walking backwards so you could look at his face. “Regretting your decision to let me join the gang?”

“Not at all!” he replied, apparently horrified that your thoughts had gone there. “No… The opposite actually…”

“Oh,” you sighed.

He breathed your name and then stopped. You drew to a halt as well, watching him with a hammering heart. Starting to talk again seemed tricky, but he managed it. “I… Uh… I’m really glad you’re… you know… around… Ah, shit… I’m so bad at this…”

“I’m glad I’m around too,” you said, and you slid your hand into his. His skin was rough and cool, and your first thought was that you would very much like it against other parts of your body.

Bik tightened his grip on your fingers briefly and let out a breathy, nervous laugh. “I’ve never, uh… courted a human before… Is that even the right term for it?”

“You can call it what you like,” you said. “And you don’t have to do anything special or different. Just… keep hanging out with me. Maybe we could watch a movie or something some time?”

“Ok,” he said, swallowing thickly again. “Let’s go somewhere different for dinner?”

You turned your eyes from his to the restaurant sign just up ahead. “But we always go here,” you said. “And we’re almost there… Where else is going to be open at this time of night?”

“You could… come back to my place?” he asked. “I mean, it’s nothing special, but… I’m a tidy reptile, I promise! No hoards of strange things either. I’m not a dragon…”

You had to laugh at his oddball sense of humour that only got quirkier the more apprehensive he got. He also couldn’t stop his throat from fanning slightly too, the reptilian version of sweating nervously you supposed. “Alight. I’d like that.”

The upper storey of the old house where he lived was open plan, with beautiful bare rafters and sloping ceilings, and hardwood floors. His claws clacked adorably on them when he moved about. He also had the heating on stupendously warm, and you took your coat and jumper off immediately. “Sorry,” he said when he saw what you were doing.

You reassured him, and started to look about a little bit while he busied himself in the kitchen and poured you both a drink.

There were bookshelves on practically every available space, and as well as containing a collection of rare first editions and hard-to-come-by novels, they also sported photos, some in battered frames and others just propped up here and there. Most of them featured lizardfolk who looked a lot like him. “Family?” you asked and he came over to stand beside you.

“Yeah. We were a big clutch,” he said as he held the glass out for you. “Poor mum! There are twelve of us.”

He told you the names of each of his siblings, and what they were up to now, but you were really only half listening to the words. There was something magical about his voice, some unearthly quality it took on when he began to tell a story, regardless whether that was a story about his own life or a fantasy tale made up with his friends.

“What?” he asked softly.

“I… I like the sound of your voice,” you said honestly, and you reached your fingers tentatively up to touch the blue of his throat. He drew in a shaky breath, eyes closing as his reptilian head tilted upwards to allow you better access to him. “You’re very beautiful,” you whispered. “The colour of your skin is incredible… I like this bit too,” you added, running a finger down his cheek where it blended from green speckled with gold to intense blue.

Bik brought his hands to your shoulders and looked down at you, blinking slowly. “Really?” he asked. “It’s not very… I mean… most males of my species have much deeper blue… I mean, just look at my brothers,” he added awkwardly, nodding at a picture behind you.

“I like your blue,” you chuckled without turning around.

Embarrassed, but obviously deeply flattered, he brushed his knuckle against your cheek and said, “Would you like that supper or do you have other things on your mind?”

With a grin, you said, “I suppose I could be distracted by food…” you admitted grudgingly as your stomach rumbled.

You watched him walk away to the kitchen area of the loft apartment, and sighed. This was turning into exactly what you’d hoped it might - a friendship blossoming into something deeper.

Wanting to test that theory, you crossed to join him and, while he still had his back to you, you slid your arms around his slender waist and hugged him. “You need a hand?” you asked, pressing your cheek against his back.

“I… I was going to suggest takeout,” he said bashfully, glancing back over his shoulder at you. “But if you want me to cook, I can?”

You shook your head. “It’s getting late,” you said, releasing him. “Another time. Let’s get takeout.”

While you waited for the food to arrive, you bickered playfully over movie choices, finally settling on some cheesy old film about a dragon who shared his heart with a selfish boy. It was actually pretty good, but it was still horrendously dated in places. It didn’t matter to you though. The food was really good, and the two of you snuggled up on the sofa to eat, with you leaning against his side.

“I couldn’t do this with many people,” you said, nudging him gently with your elbow.

“Do what?”

“Cosy up under someone’s arm. I’m usually too tall.”

He chuckled and swallowed. “Never dated an orc then, I take it.”

You shook your head. “Not dated all that much at all to be honest.”

“What? But your gorgeous,” he blurted and his skin flushed a much darker green. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” you said and put your hand reassuringly on his thigh. He jumped and then slid his arm around your shoulders, setting his empty takeout box down on the coffee table beside the sofa.

He gazed at you, a more serious look in his eyes, and said, “You know, I couldn’t help noticing your choices of media…” You flicked him a frown and he went on. “Ok, the first graphic novel with the dragon was on me, but everything else has also had dragons or lizards in…”

“You detecting a preference here?” you sassed gently.

“Am I?”

With an ostentatious roll of your eyes, you said, “I mean, I’ve always thought your kind extremely beautiful, but my interest in you is to do with you. It’s not some empty kink. You know that, right?”

He nodded slowly. “Just checking.”

“And what about you?” you said, also setting your empty food box down and shifting your position so that you came to rest astride his lap, the film almost over, forgotten and playing in the background. “I have to admit that your dragonborn seems to like humans rather a lot… Have you got a thing for us warmbloods?”

His throat worked and he didn’t meet your eye for a moment. “I mean… yes…” he said, and his clawed hands found your wide hips. He ran a circle carefully over them and moaned, his own hips shifting a little beneath you. “But when you walked into my shop, all bedraggled and soaking wet, I’d honestly never seen anyone more beautiful in my whole life.”

You laughed and kissed his cheek. He turned his head slightly as you moved away and drew you back for a proper kiss. His claws raked gently through your hair, messing it up as he gripped you firmly but tenderly, and his tongue slid slowly out to taste you, savouring the kiss. It wasn’t a conventional kiss like those you were used to, but it worked perfectly well. You rolled your hips against him once again and he broke the contact, letting his head fall back against the sofa cushions. His tail coiled and uncoiled beside you on the sofa and you reached for it.

“Can I touch you here?” you asked and he nodded breathlessly.

He gasped as you stroked your fingertips along the slightly rough skin of his tail and he brought the tip of it up to caress the back of your hand.

“Kinky,” you grinned and he snickered.

Bik, somewhat slack-jawed and clearly aroused, brought his blunt muzzle to the curve where your neck met your collarbones, and inhaled the scent of you deeply. His tail coiled tightly around your wrist for a moment before unravelling and falling limply onto the sofa again. “I want you,” he rasped.

You let your hips grind into him again and he gasped and uttered a soft curse under his breath as he stared almost reverently up at you. You nodded, and his claws hooked the hem of your top and lifted it up carefully, revealing your bra and he made short work of the clasp. Taking the weight of each breast in his hands, he caressed you and then, with pupils blown wide and dark so that his irises were a mere halo of gold, he took your nipple delicately between his sharp teeth and very gently sucked, moaning softly as he repeated the gesture on the other one. His rasping tongue curled around them too as they hardened under his attentions and you gave a shaky exhale.

“So beautiful,” he whispered as he let go, leaving you throbbing and tingling. “Gods, you’re so beautiful.”

“Bik…” you groaned when he stopped touching you so that he could simply stare at your half-naked body in his lap.

He smiled and to your immense surprise, simply stood up, hooking his arms under your thighs as you gripped his waist instinctively with your legs. He was a lot stronger than he looked and you nearly yelped in surprise. “I’ve got you,” he said as he carried you towards his open bedroom door, nudging it shut behind him with his tail.

He laid you down on top of the duvet and undressed the rest of you slowly, savouring the sight of you as he gradually revealed your body. You looked up at him dazedly and saw the tent straining against his jeans. “Bik… Not fair,” you said. “You’re still dressed.”

More nervously now that the attention was on him, he took off his own t-shirt to reveal a pale, creamy green stomach and chest. He was still stippled with other hues of green and even a few freckles of black, but his front was mostly pale. His lean waist and narrow hips looked deliciously inviting and you sat up and ran your fingers around the inside of his waistband just to watch him shiver beneath your touch.

His hands hung quietly by his sides as you undid the button of his jeans and he stepped out of them carefully. His taloned feet were as delicate as his hands, and you marvelled at them too before letting your gaze sweep up his slim, strong calves to his thicker and more muscular thighs and to the tight, black boxer-briefs that hugged every single curve of his body.

Bik lay down beside you without taking them off and raked his claws up the length of your legs and, applying a little pressure to your hip, pushed you onto your back. With his tail, he tugged your right ankle close to his body and parted your legs enough for him to run the pad of his thumb in a slow, teasing circle around the soft, sensitive skin above your clit.

Your body lurched joyously at his touch and you sucked in a breath. You began to tingle all over, heat prickling beneath your skin as he woke your whole body up with reverent kisses and touches.

“Can I taste you?” he asked a while later after he’d reduced you to a writhing, whimpering mess, and you nodded.

After you moved further up the bed to give him more room, he reverently placed both palms on your hip bones and nosed gently at your sex. His tongue licked a long, slow stripe and you cried out and arched your back as he laved over your lips and just flicked your clit with the tip of his tongue.

“You taste so beautiful,” he said before returning his attention to your body. He circled and nudged at you, dipping his tongue deep inside you as well, always coming back to your clit until you were almost screaming with want.

“Bik, please… Please make me come,” you panted. “I’m so close…”

“Can humans only come once then?” he asked with over-accentuated ignorance, and you knew from the tone of his voice that he knew the answer to that already. You growled inarticulately at him and he pulled back. “I’d better stop then.”

“No!” you half sobbed. “Please…”

Smiling softly, he stared at you and moved his thumb back to your swollen clit. His claws were too sharp for him to work you inside, but the pattern he made on your skin with his tongue was enough to drive you right to the edge, and then as the white heat built inside you, you felt your orgasm rolling over you like a great ocean breaker and you cried out, grasping at the sheets. As you came, he pressed his tongue hard against you, savouring you as you came against him.

When you eventually slumped back against the pillows, breathing hard and almost dizzy with how good you felt, you half opened one eye to find that he had lain down on his back and was palming his erection through the fabric of his boxers.

“Bik?” you asked in a slightly slurred whisper. Your fingers moved to the waistband and he tensed slightly. “Bik?”

Licking his lips nervously, he nodded and you drew his boxers off. At the top of his legs was a mounded sheath which quite obviously contained not one but two cocks. Neither was necessarily all that large, but they were very beautiful, and fully erect.

“We’re not exactly built like humans,” he said bashfully as you stared openly at him. “I… I was worried that -” he cut off with a deep grunt as you trailed your fingers around the edges of his sheath. His twin cocks - both a bright vibrant green tipped with blue - writhed slightly, coiling around one another and glistening with the same clear fluid that slicked his sheath.

“You’re beautiful, remember?” you reminded him, shakily propping yourself upright on one elbow to get a better look at him. You repeated the gesture, running your fingers tips around his sensitive sheath, and he accepted your words as truth as you started to worship him with the same careful tenderness he’d just shown you.

As you lavished attention on him, he started to unravel.

Soon his spine bowed up off the bed and his hips squirmed as you worked his twin cocks in one hand. The tighter you gripped him, the more noise he made as they twisted together beneath your fingers, and you finally wrung a deep, guttural, low-frequency rumble out of him that reminded you more of an alligator than the more delicate lizards he resembled.

“Gods,” he rasped, “You make it feel like spring…” and you knew he was referring to the traditional lizardfolk mating season. You’d just lowered your mouth to the tip of one of his cocks and given it a tentative suck when he blurted, “Can I come inside you?”

You nodded, and he switched positions with you so that he was on top. The heat of his cocks was a delicious contrast to the constant coolness of the rest of him and you bucked upwards against him just to feel them pressing against your sensitive clit.

“Both?” he asked warily and you nodded again, shifting so that he could line himself up. He kissed down your neck and between your breasts again before he nudged the tips of his cocks to your entrance. As he slid into you, slowly stretching you full, you watched his face carefully. Again, he began to rumble softly and he almost couldn’t speak as he hissed, “So tight… so hot… gods, you’re so hot…”

With a final push of his hips, he slid all the way inside you and paused a moment, clearly fighting the instinct to come almost immediately. Recovered, breathing steadily, he began to slide in and out, his rhythm increasing in tempo as he lost himself in the sensations of your body. The way his cocks felt inside you, twisting together and shifting in a way that no toy could ever hope to replicate, was unlike anything you’d ever experienced and you knew you were going to come again in no time.

“I’m…” he grunted.

“Me too,” you said, grabbing his rough-skinned arms and pulling yourself even further onto his cocks. “Bik, I’m going to come again.”

“Fuck,” he croaked as you clenched tight around him with a cry.

You wrenched his orgasm from him with the force of your own and he arched his spine, hips driving him deep inside you as he released, and he yelled out, voice hoarse, the sound cracked and broken. His jaws parted to reveal his sharp teeth and you kept your grip on his arms as you came a second time.

He shuddered violently, grunting and breathing hard through flared nostrils, and then fell forwards, barely catching himself in time on his forearms. He was spent and exhausted and so beautiful. His blue colouring shone in the dim light of his bedroom and you trailed your fingers lazily along the bridge of his nose towards his lips.

“That was incredible,” he whispered when he’d got his breath back. “I didn’t hurt you did I?”

“No,” you smiled and he hugged you briefly, lapping a little lizardy kiss on your forehead before pushing himself up on shaking arms and sliding free of you. His cocks coiled briefly in the warm air and he rolled onto his back beside you. With your thighs still slick with his release, you tucked yourself up beside him and took your time in exploring his relaxed body. Where before he had been tense, almost nervous, worried that his non-human body would be too strange for you, now he seemed to have fallen peacefully into a haze of bliss, and he let your hands roam all over his torso and down to his hips while wearing a soft smile the whole time.

His cocks lay soft across his skin, occasionally twitching and drooling a little, but eventually they began to shift back into his sheath. He slid his hand down and adjusted them, and shot you a look. “You really do like lizardfolk, huh?”

With a wry grin, you shook your head and said, “I really do just like you.”

—

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

For all early releases, character art and bios, upcoming story info, and much, much more, join me over on Patreon!

You’ll have access to stories before anyone else, and you’ll get instant access Patreon-only content as well, including polls and an exclusive monthly story for those on the Pixies and Goblins tier or higher!

#exophilia #lizardfolk #lizard man #lizard monster #reptile monster #male monster #male monster x female reader #female reader #lemon

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theuniversitychallengereview · 4 years ago

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UC 50.33 - Durham vs Imperial

I’m going to start this post of with a shout-out. Usually I save the advertisement and self-promotion for the end, and the start is like hotel bedisde tables used to be before the ubiquity of the one-charge-a-day smartphone - completely free of plugs (I’m workshopping a stand-up routine about this. *Michael McIntyre voice* “D’you remember when hotel rooms had no sockets for charging your phone. You’d be checking Twitter while falling asleep but you’d be dangling face-first out the bed like a deranged sloth. Very difficult to get to sleep at a 45 degree angle in the wrong direction”).

But this plug is something a little bit different, and as such it gets top billing. I have mentioned the game #UniversityChallenge Klaxon on here before, along with the sister podcast ‘Enjoyably Futile’. Well, reader, you’ve got yourselves a crossover episode.

Andy Keegan, host of both the game and podcast, was nice enough to have me on last week and we discussed the past few episodes of The Challenge, along with my historic forays into the world of TV quizzing. If you have a strange sense of what I sound like and don’t want that spoiled then probably avoid, but otherwise, give it a listen! I had a blast recording it and hopefully at least some of that transfers itself into the audio experience.

Here’s a link to the episode and you can follow Andy @andykeegan or @enjoyablyfutile over on Twitter.

Anyway, thus ends the plug, and we can move onto tonight’s episode. Here’s your first starter for ten...

Both of these teams have won and lost a quarter-final match already, so the victors of this contest will make it through to the semis to join Warwick and Balliol. Durham are looking to make it to that stage for the third time in a row while Imperial are hoping that they can do what no one has done since 2013 and retain the title that their erstwhile colleagues won so impressively last year.

The Imperial captain has arguably been the best player of the restarted series, coming back after lockdown had delayed the second round of recordings with greatly improved knowledge and buzzer speed. Four impressive performances culminated in him running riot against King’s last time out.

Cryptically, he posted a tweet before the match saying that ‘people who think that I'm carrying the Imperial team are either going to look very smart or very dumb next week...’. This echoes a tweet made by Brandon last year before the final, in which his teammates had crushed it on their way to victory. One thinks it would be a dick-move to copy this tweet if he means the opposite to his fellow Imperialites.

Durham, meanwhile, have blown a bit hot and cold in the quarter finals, with a solid win over Strathclyde followed by a limp loss to Balliol. However, last week I said I thought Strathclyde had no chance against Birkbeck and look how that turned out, so I don’t think I’m going to try and call this one either way. There have been plenty of tight matches this series, that could have gone either way, and I think this might be one of them

Off we go, and both sides miss Iris Murdoch’s definition of Love. Kohn, wearing an excellent wasitcoat, gets us back on track with the second starter, and Imperial grab a couple of bonuses to open up a twenty point lead. This is quickly halved as Wilkening gets Durham into the game. A fun bonus set on the monarchs who were reigning in the years of various ratios from the field of sub-atomic physics.

A neg from Kohn then allowed Wilkening in to pick up his second, and now Durham had the lead. A guess of Kant from Regan extended this next time around, but they could only manage a single bonus again.

Wong stopped the mini-rot for Imperial with the first picture starter, and Rahman grins as he pronounces Uranus on the next ten-pointer, having beaten Kohn to the buzzer. They struggle on the bonuses, and at this point have answered the same number of starters as they have bonus questions correctly. This changes quickly, as they grabbed a full set off the back of another Wong buzz. They have the lead now.

Marrow takes her first of the evening, meaning that all of Imperial’s four players have answered at least one starter question correctly. Kohn’s prophecy is coming true. Marrow beams her face off (like Rey when she realises she’s on the Millennium Falcon with Han Solo in The Force Awakens. A very specific reference I know, but there are definite Daisy Ridley vibes) when she gives her answer, starch, which is delightful to watch. I dont know if she’s so happy simply because she got the answer right, or if she’s laughing at the irony of her, Marrow, a non-starchy vegetable, giving starch as an answer. Based on the smile she has when giving Buttercup correctly later on, I think its the former.

The music round goes the way Imperial as well, and they appear to be taking control of the game. Kohn gives Faure for one of the bonuses so quickly that Paxman just stops and admires his gumption for a few seconds, grinning. He jumps the gun on the second picture starter though, buzzing in before, it seems, he’s decided on an answer. The one he gives is wrong, and Durham pick it up. They manage to close the gap to 40 points.

A physics starter is then left dangling for quite a while. Marrow, Rahman and Parkinson all study the subject, and it is Rahman who manages to dredge the required knowledge up the quickest. Had Parkinson managed to get this, Durham may have had a chance, but Imperial run away with it once again.

Kohn starts firing out the answers to the bonus questions so rapidly that the show almost becomes the opposite of that Two Ronnies Mastermind sketch where they answer the previous question, and when the gong comes they have managed to double their opponents’ score.

Final Score: Durham 100 - 200 Imperial

A close match at the start, which threatened to be so again towards the end, but a blitz from Imperial resulted in their second dominant win in a row.

Commiserations to Durham, who certainly played their part today. And Kohn was right, his teammates did help him out, but my jove he didn’t half help them too.

Now for the end-of-blog plugs. If you liked reading this then I have a Patreon where you can get Retro Reviews of the 2015/16 series. I’ve actually got the next post locked and loaded for release this week, along with a review of a book written by our very own Jeremy Paxman. You can sign up for as little as £1/month.

https://www.patreon.com/user?u=16447756&fan_landing=true

And while we’re at it, I may as well plug my appearance on the Enjoyably Futile Podcast a second time. You can listen to that here.

Phew, its like an extension cable with too small an amperage in here - overloaded with plugs...

Thanks for reading, I’ll see you next time.

#University challenge #bbc2 #imperial #london #durham #jeremy paxman #enjoyably futile #university challenge klaxon

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justsome-di · 5 years ago

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Class

This was posted on the second tier of my patreon last week! At the moment, I post a bit of Good Omens fics, but I also post original stories. By becoming a patron, you can access all of my writing content. Some works are posted here and on my AO3 a week after they’re up on Patreon, but there are still a good chunk that are exclusive to patrons!

It was a dreary day that made a person hide away in her room with her best friend, pressing a puff to her cheeks lackadaisically as she sat at her vanity.

I was that person. It was my vanity, my best friend, and it was my puff I was pressing to my own cheeks in the aforementioned lackadaisical fashion.

It was a day that was dreary not because of the weather—I find no weather dreary because the weather is only doing its best and can’t always be expected to be sunny and warm. Sometimes the weather needs breaks—like people. We can’t always wear smiles. Sometimes we have to sit in our rooms and mope for a bit as I was doing. A little rain never hurt anyone. Except for maybe that Noah fellow in the Bible. Or, I suppose, all of the people who weren’t Noah. But I’m neither Noah nor the people who weren’t Noah at that specific point in time, and the rain had never wronged me. What had wronged me was my parent’s insistence that I marry.

I’d been very fed up with hearing my father say You’re not going to stay young forever. Pretty women need a good man, and women like you especially need a good man. But I’d always put on a brave face for my parents and nodded along as they listed men that they thought could work for me. I had met a few. I didn’t like any of them. They were too serious for my tastes, and they didn’t understand me. I needed someone who could listen to my gossip and read the same fashion magazines that I studied night and day. But many men don’t read fashion magazines, and that’s all fine and dandy in the end. They would just have to be able to listen to me talk about my studies and carry my bags as I shopped for what the magazines had told me to buy. A good woman, in my opinion, is always in need of a good man who will carry her bags. It’s symbolic or what have you. A smarter person would be able to explain it, but I still carry my firm belief that a man should be supportive in his wife’s shopping.

“I really don’t want to meet this gentleman today,” I said. I didn’t want to meet him any day. “I’m not feeling adventurous enough. I wish I could just be his pen pal for a little bit before we rush into dinner and marriage.”

“No matter what, Mr. Kingsley can’t be the worst,” Stella said, though she said it with a grimace. “Just remember that egg Agatha was briefly engaged to in May. He was a nightmare. I don’t think a man worse than that could exist. Remember how he told her uncle how often he had been sent to bed without supper while away at school? What was it that he would do? Put thumbtacks on the teachers’ chairs and pour milk into inkwells so the rooms would smell sour without anyone being able to tell where it was coming from? He was awful. She deserved so much better, the poor thing. I’ve told her over and over, though, that she needs to take a break from relationships and fill her time with education or something of the sort. Just to build her independence. Women have a lot to learn.”

Stella sat on my armchair. Occasionally, she caught a glance of herself in my mirror and maybe pressed a hand to a flyaway hair sticking up from her bob cut or ran the tip of her finger along her lipstick. She wasn’t always so vain (as I had sometimes been called every time I looked at myself passing by a mirror or particularly reflective window). She usually had her nose shoved in books or had her hands in paint. But she had taken a special interest in her makeup and hair ever since returning to America a few months ago. I had taught her everything I had learned over the years. I passed down old pencils and paints and helped trim up her hair. She was still the woman I had grown up with. Just prettier. Not that she wasn’t pretty before. She was just able to draw attention to the features I had begged her to draw attention to forever—her dainty nose and lips, her almond-shaped eyes. I was glad she had gotten over her silly idea that makeup didn’t do anything to make a woman feel better.

Stella and I were as similar as two peas in different pods.

She was as smart and cultured as anyone could ever get. Over the summer, she had gone to Paris to study art. In her letters, she told me how she spent her mornings in museums, her afternoons in cafés chatting with people of similar intelligence, and her evenings painting under the instruction of a young, French bohemian man. It sounded fairly boring to me, but she wrote such beautiful letters and occasionally included little sketches on cardstock. She told me about the people she met—all fancy writers that she insisted I read as soon as possible. I bought all of the books she told me about, but they only served to fill my bookshelf that had remained empty since my childhood. They looked beautiful, and I encouraged Stella to recommend me more while she was abroad.

Meanwhile, I had accompanied my father to work every day over the summer, going to his office and watching him write down numbers and tell people Yes, I think we can make that work or No, there’s no room in our budget. We cut that department by 40% last quarter, don’t you remember? I ought to fire you for nearly doing so stupid. The executives and I will discuss it in our board meeting with the president and CEO or something businessy of that sort. To be honest, I never really listened all that closely. I mostly stared at his pencil sharpener, dreaming about eating the lunch my mother and I would have made that morning that always sat next to my father’s desk. I would wonder if the bread was getting too hard or if I would enjoy the fruit after it had set outside the icebox for so long. My father could have been saying anything. I didn’t even know his position. He had told me that I should watch him at the family business so that one day I would be prepared to watch my future husband take over. He said that whenever I asked my husband for money—as I did with my father and as my mother did with him, too—I should know where that money comes from. I would write Stella pages and pages of rambling letters before dinner every day. At night, I would have to find any party to go to just shake off the grimy feeling the business had left on me.

My mother would occasionally listen to my retellings of the drama of the workplace, and she nodded with the utmost sympathy and petted my hair. She would say something in her high, mousey voice that would do little to comfort me. Her talk was always about how we had to do what’s best for our men. Even if that meant watching them do boring work. Stella was really the one who would do well to make me feel better in her letters. She was grounded, and she always knew what to say. She would recommend me even more books to empower my female spirit. They weren’t as attractive as the prettier ones she talked about. The titles themselves put me to sleep and the authors were usually dead, but I took her word that they were very good. I just couldn’t have old books in my possession.

Before I go any further with this story, I don’t want you thinking that Stella is any sort of drag. I’ll have you know that she knows a good time when she sees one. While in Paris—the city of art and love and such romantic stuff—she took good advantage of the alcohol. The Good Samaritans such as myself hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in America since the prohibition. Stella missed it sorely and drank the finest wine she could get her hands on while abroad. I had imagined that her Bohemian lover had whisked her away to his little apartment every night after a bottle and shown her what men from the city had to offer. She didn’t really say it to me, but I understood the twinkle in her eyes and the blush on her cheeks when she talked about him. She was going to go back to Paris and take me with her to meet her artist. I was thrilled to meet him and see what kind of influence he had on my Stella.

Stella had her whole life planned ahead of her. She would marry an intelligent artist, they would have little artist children, and she could spend all her time reading the novels she loved so much and painting because her children would be little, wonderfully well-behaved creatures that would obey every word their fair parents would tell them. When she got tired of painting, she would turn to writing essays about—what does she call it? Feminism? She could write essay upon essay about that. She would have a lovely cook in her home and a delightful maid that never snatched an earring or couple of coins when no one was around. I once had a maid who took one of my favorite bracelets, and I had the hardest time asking for it back. I eventually told my father, and she was fired the next day.

I hadn’t the foggiest clue what my future would be like.

“What do you think he’s like?” I asked.

“Mr. Kingsley?”

“Of course.”

“I think he’ll be nice,” Stella said.

She shrugged. A sign of indifference. She looked away as well, and I wondered if she was hiding something that was ruffling her feathers.

“Nice?” I asked

“Nice enough. I can imagine the man your parents would find for you. He’s probably the same type of egg as your father.”

She was doing her best to avoid my eyes, and she frowned so heavily. I pushed on with the conversation anyways.

“That’s what I’m worried about. Maybe I don’t want to marry a paternal-imitating egg. Maybe I’d like to be with a poet.”

“A poet?”

“Or someone like that. Someone not involved in business. Maybe a film actor would suit me better?”

Stella almost laughed. “How are you going to meet a film actor? Your family isn’t that important.”

“I could become an actress.”

“You?”

“I think I could make a career in the movies. Be a sweetheart. You know, like Mary Pickford.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s not as though they talk much. I wouldn’t have any lines to learn.”

Stella hummed. She was amused by my plan, I could tell, but she didn’t realize that I was being absolutely serious. I had dabbled in theatre in school—as she very well knew—and had gotten the role of one of the maids in Hamlet. And theatre, I’ve heard, is much more challenging than films. If I was an astounding maid, then I would be phenomenal in films. As I had just said to Stella, film actors have no lines. No one would ever know what my voice sounded like.

“Think of how little we know about how good these actors are at delivering lines. I have it on good authority that that Chaplin fellow has an English accent,” I said. “Can you believe that? An English accent!”

“Most people from England, I believe, have English accents. And I’m not sure if an accent dictates how well someone is at acting.”

Stella wasn’t keeping up. Of course, the accent didn’t mean anything to his acting. It was the fact that we didn’t know he had an accent. If we couldn’t even place something so big as his country of origin then how would we know if he was any good at monologues? It was as if she didn’t want to have this conversation.

“As I was saying,” I said, putting my nose in the air. “I think I would make a fine film actress. All I would have to do is make those poses and move my mouth a bit. Mary Pickford is so glamorous, wouldn’t you say? And Douglas Fairbanks.”

“Of course.”

“I could be glamorous. I could go to those parties and premieres. I’m just as pretty as the rest of them.”

“You really want to be known as just pretty? Darling, you wouldn’t have a voice. You’d just be a face. Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

“It’s more than just being a pretty face on screen. I’d have to be in the public. I’d have to play tennis!”

“Tennis?”

“Yes! Haven’t you seen those pictures of Charles Chaplin and Douglas Fairbanks playing tennis? All movie stars must do it.”

“I’m not sure where your mind goes sometimes.”

“Stella keep up! This is important. This is my future.”

I felt bad for the dear. She had such a one-track mind. It made conversations with her so hard at times.

“Do you think Mr. Kingsley plays tennis?” I asked. “It would be delightful if he did.”

Stella didn’t answer. Her face had taken on a somber look—the same look my mother had when she had told me that my pet fish had to go to the country to soothe his nerves. I never saw him again. My mother told me that he had found a better life, and he would be healthier with his new family. I always suspected that he had really died.

I worried about Stella’s face. She pressed her lips together in a thin line and drew her eyebrows together. She looked nervous to speak. The conversation wasn’t about tennis or movies anymore.

“Can I be frank?” Stella asked.

“You can be anything you want to be.”

I was ashamed that my voice wasn’t stronger, but, you see, I’m not a fan of serious conversations. My parents always avoided them, and I never learned how to cope when presented with one.

“It doesn’t matter if he plays tennis or not,” Stella began. “I don’t think you want to meet any man for dinner that your father chooses for you. It doesn’t matter if Mr. Kingsley is exactly like you, your relationship isn’t going to work because it’s forced. And furthermore, I don’t think it’s right for your father to do this. You should be able to find a man on your own. I have no doubt that your father has your best interest in heart, but for God’s sake, it’s 1927. We’re free.”

I smiled as well as I could. For Stella’s sake. I think she relied on my happy demeanor a lot.

“This is how things are,” I said, trying to sound casual. “My parents are depending on this.”

“I’m being serious,” she snapped. “It’s not right for you to marry whoever they want while other girls are going out, voting, getting jobs, and driving! You still haven’t learned to drive even though you promised me you would!”

“That’s different!” My voice was rising, and I suppose it sounded a bit like my mother’s. “Driving is scary! I’m not sure how you do it. I can’t sit behind a hunk of metal and not hit anyone—”

“Because your parents have told you that you shouldn’t drive. I told you I would teach you.”

“I don’t have to drive to embrace these womanly rights you’re always on about.”

“Maybe not, but it’s more than driving. You freeze in any situation. Driving would teach you how to take control. To take yourself to where you need—want—to go with no one else able to stop you. To feel yourself leave behind your home for just a little bit.” Stella looked at her lap for a moment and took a deep breath. When she spoke again, her voice was calm again. “You at least need to stand up to your parents. You need to tell them that you’re going to find someone for yourself.”

I didn’t want to fight. I hated fights. I believed I was allergic to them and had been meaning to talk to a doctor about it.

I crossed the room to sit on the ottoman in front of her chair. My mother had picked out all the furniture in the room. I sat forward a little bit. I could feel my dress riding up my thigh as it caught on the ottoman. The first time I had come out of my room in a short dress, my parents had thrown a fit. They said that showing knees didn’t get a woman respect. My mother even called me a harlot, and I was offended when I looked it up in the dictionary later that evening. I was also surprised (and a little impressed) that my mother knew such a big word. Stella would have been proud of me if she had seen me lifting my chin and telling them It’s fashionable, and I’m not going to caught dead in something that looks like it’s from the War. She would have clapped and told me that the suffragettes had a similar attitude over lunch. Instead, she embraced me when she saw me that same day and said We’re liberated—knees and all. While she wasn’t the most up-to-date on fashion, her bare knees were the first I saw. I never told her what my parents thought about it.

“It’s not that easy,” I said to Stella. I couldn’t be angry. It wasn’t an emotion I was very keen on. “I have a responsibility. You can meet French artists and paint sunsets. You have a brother who’s taking care of the family. I’m all my parents have, and I have to do this for them.”

“You don’t owe anyone anything.”

“I do. I owe my parents a son-in-law and an heir, and I owe Mr. Kingsley dinner in an hour.”

My chest felt tight. I grabbed my necklace that hung so low that it almost rested in my lap. I would have to change into jewelry more conservative before I left. But before then, I would roll the pearls closest to my chest between my fingers. My mother would have told me that ladies didn’t fidget like she always did when I played with jewelry. Ladies are statues, she would tell me. I always asked her about our relationship with pigeons when I saw them gather on grey stone in the city, and she would only answer Just do your best to be polite to them.

“Think about who are you,” Stella said. “Because I don’t think you know who that is.”

“I know who I am.”

“Yeah? Then who are you?”

It wasn’t a fair question. No one would know how to answer that. I knew who I was as well as anyone else. Stella wouldn’t go up to a random person on the streets and ask them as sternly as she asked me without getting an odd look or a business card.

“You used to tell me that doing whatever your parents wanted infuriated you. What happened to that girl?”

She grew up.

I wasn’t a little girl anymore, kicking rocks because my parents made me go to a stuffy dinner while Stella was never forced to meet her parents’ drab friends. I was an adult, and I was realizing that a lot more compromises had to be made. The more I learned about the world, the more I realized how much I was missing out on.

“If you want to be Mrs. Kingsley or Mrs. Whoever-Your-Parents-Find, then I won’t hold you back. You know I’d support you in whatever you choose to do. But I’m scared for you. Don’t convince yourself that you want this. I know you have a brain in there somewhere.” She smiled a little. “You can use it to think for yourself.”

“I don’t use it for much else, I suppose.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not sure about this. I don’t want to disappoint my parents. Or Mr. Kingsley. He’s done nothing wrong.”

“Would you rather disappoint yourself? Make a life with a man you hardly know and have his children and spend your days with a stranger? You can go to dinner with him tonight, or I can take you out. It’ll be just the two of us. We haven’t had dinner together in a while, have we? I still haven’t told you about my last letter from Victor.”

Victor was her Bohemian artist. She was crazy for him, and they had found each other on their own.

“Let me think about this. It’s making my head ache.”

I looked to my vanity only to avoid Stella’s eyes. I had my makeup sitting out, ready to touch up what was already on my face. My hairbrush was next to the powders and lipsticks for when I had to pull out tangles before I left. I even had my outfit hanging on my wardrobe door. It was the only outfit my mother had approved of. It was the longest skirt I owned, and the blouse with the highest neck. It was such a bland color. Light blue. Close to grey like an old woman’s hair. I was fond of black dresses and bright blouses. I should have thrown it out a year ago. My mother was making me wear my lowest heels, as well, and I had wanted to vomit over how old I looked. I looked as old as the women that gave me dirty looks when I went into town. I looked as old as my mother. I could have been going to church in that outfit, for Christ’s sake! No respectable girl of my age should have been forced into that.

I took great care to read about the newest fashions and trends from everywhere—England, France, Japan, etc. I had cut off my hair at 17 when I realized (way too late I confess) that long hair in up-dos had been out of fashion for quite some time. I transformed overnight. I looked like Edna Purviance. I had thought about getting on a train to Hollywood to show a movie director or modeling agency that I had the look. I had the short waves even if they were a bit crooked. My jaw and neck were exposed, and I felt scandalous and exposed. My mother almost fainted.

I discovered makeup the same year. I learned how to hold my hand steady to apply eyelashes and how to draw a cupid’s bow on my lips that Clara Bow herself would be jealous of. I propped up magazines next to my mirror and yanked at my eyebrows with tweezers until they looked similar to what I was seeing. I found a shade of blush that didn’t make me look like I had an odd infection but instead had spent a decent amount of time laughing and being happy. I painted thin lines around my eyes and dabbed a modest amount of eyeshadow on my lids. Stella and I had helped each other find powders that would make us look paler but not like corpses. I practiced my pout in the mirror and experimented with holding my head at different angles.

Later, after I was away from the judgment of school teachers, I had begged my father for money for a new wardrobe. I gave a whole speech about he should want a trendy daughter. I’ve already told you their reaction to seeing me in my first short dress.

Stella looked at her wristwatch in resignation.

“I should be leaving.”

She stood. I grabbed her hand.

“Give me a little time,” I told her. “I’d like to write Mr. Kingsley a letter for when he comes. I can’t turn a man down to his face. I also need to touch up my face and hair. I can’t be seen like this in public. Let’s go to that little café around the corner, and then, I think, there’s a movie playing this evening. We can make it if we hurry.”

I tried not to think about how furious my parents would be, and I tried not paying attention to the tightening of my stomach that killed my appetite and interest in films. I put my faith in Stella and prayed that Victor had a brother.

#Original Work #original writing

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samsexualdeancurious · 5 years ago

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Thanks For Listening | Chapter Five (Finale)

Square: Free Space

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Words: 1,480

Warnings: hurt!Reader, pining, eventual smut, dirty talk, voice!kink, unprotected sex.

Summary: Sam hosts two podcasts - a secret one for hunters called the War Room and a public one with fellow hunter Y/N called Criminal History. Y/N and Sam have never seen each other, let alone met, but that doesn’t stop Sam from worrying when Y/N suddenly goes missing.

Betaed by @manawhaat

Written for @spnkinkbingo

Header by me and Mana

Masterlist - AO3

You're woken by Sam's mouth leaving a trail of kisses across your shoulder. His body is spooned up behind your own, strong arms looped around your waist.

"Mmm, good morning, Chief," you sigh, turning to catch his lips in a soft kiss. You brush his hair back. "Didja sleep okay?"

"Always do when you're here," he says.

His mouth starts a journey along your jaw and down your throat, sending jolts of arousal through your core as it goes. You catch a glimpse of the clock on the nightstand, though, and reluctantly push Sam away. He pouts.

"We slept late," you explain. "If we want to get all the recording that we need to done, we gotta get going."

Sam groans but acquiesces. You both dress quickly before heading down to the bunker kitchen. You're glad Sam didn't go on his usual morning run and is here to guide you through the maze that is his home. Even after a month of staying in the bunker, you still get lost sometimes. Part of you feels like the bunker is a giant, ancient creature who just likes to mess with you, moving hallways around like the staircases in Hogwarts. Part of you thinks that's crazy. Then again, how crazy would it really be?

Sam's hand linking up with yours breaks your train of thought. He finds the kitchen with ease. Dean is already sitting at the table, armed with a mug of steaming coffee. He gives you both a little salute as you enter, clearly not quite awake yet.

Sam pours two mugs coffee while you start getting together the ingredients you both like in scrambled eggs.

"Sam, can you get the medium skillet down?" you ask, digging through a drawer in search of a few forks and a spatula.

"Anything for you," he replies, easily retrieving the pan in question from its hook above the center island. "Do you need butter to grease it?"

"Knew I was forgetting something. I think it's behind the leftover pizza."

Sam makes a face as he pulls the pizza in question from the fridge. "Dean, this is disgusting."

"Hey!" Dean protests as Sam tosses the pizza in the trash. "That was a perfectly good pizza!"

"Dean, that wasn't pizza. That was Darwinism."

You roll your eyes at their bickering, letting the obvious love between them warm your own heart. They may not have the healthiest relationship on the planet but it's clear to even you, a newcomer to their little bunker family, that there's nothing they wouldn't do for each other.

"Here ya go," Sam says, pulling you from your thoughts.

You take the stick of butter he's holding out, cutting off a chunk to grease the pan with. Dean got new pans recently - the old ones were, well, old - and he's extremely picky about what goes into them. Cooking spray specifically has been banned from the kitchen.

Sam returns the butter to the fridge and gets a small bowl from the top shelf of the cupboard without being asked.

"Mind reader," you tease, taking the bowl.

"Maybe I just know you really well." Sam presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"Ugh. Someone shoot me," Dean grumbles, though you know he doesn't mean any harm by it.

"Why?"

You glance over to see Jack standing on the top step, rubbing at his eyes in a way that makes him look just like the two-year-old he is. His golden locks are a tousled mess.

"Good morning, Jack," you say, beckoning him over. He comes willingly and you straighten his hair out with a few brushes of your fingers.

"Morning, Y/N." Jack eyes the eggs and such you have laid out. "Scrambled eggs?"

"Yep. Do you want some?"

He nods. "Yes, please. You make them the best."

"Excuse you." Dean clutches his chest dramatically.

"You make the best burgers," Jack says with the brutal honesty of a child. "But you always overcook eggs."

Dean sputters indignantly but doesn't form an actual reply.

"Get a few more eggs out," you tell Jack as you crack the first egg into the bowl.

While Jack gets his eggs, Sam sidles up behind you to curl his arms around your waist. He tucks his face down against the side of your neck with a happy sound.

"Hello," you laugh, reaching up with one hand to pat the side of his head. "You gonna be helpful and start cutting things up? Or are you just gonna hang all over me?"

Sam hums softly and presses a kiss over one of the many hickeys he left the night before. "I like it right here."

"I like it too," you reply, turning your head to catch his lips in a kiss. "But the sooner we eat, the sooner we start recording, the sooner we can get to… other things."

Sam's eyes darken with lust and his grip on you tightens a little. Pink tongue darts out to wet his lips.

"What other things?" Jack asks innocently, setting three more eggs next to the ones already on the counter.

Sam blushes, cute little splotches of red on the apples of his cheeks. "Um, we uh - we wanted to watch some TV."

"Oh!" Jack, of course, is totally oblivious. Thank God. "What're you gonna watch? Can I join you?"

You exchange a glance with Sam before answering, cracking more eggs into the bowl as you do. "Not tonight, Jack. We kinda want to just have a little night to ourselves. How about we watch a movie tomorrow night, though? We can even get some snacks and stuff."

Jack dimmed a little at your refusal but he brightens again once more when you suggest a movie night. "Okay! That sounds like fun."

You add milk and start mixing up the eggs, adding the other ingredients as you go. "Maybe Dean and you can go to town today for some movie treats."

"Can we?" Jack practically begs, whirling to face Dean where he still sits at the table.

"I suppose," Dean grumbles into his mug. "We're running low on toilet paper too so I was already planning on making a run. Should just do a full grocery run."

Jack does a little happy dance.

The eggs cook up quick and soon you're dividing them up onto three plates. Jack snatches his plate up, mumbling a "thank you" around a mouthful of food as he heads to the table.

"He's been spending too much time around Dean," Sam says for your ears only, his soft smile telling you that he really doesn't mind.

After breakfast, you and Sam fill your water bottles and head down to the office. This is quite possibly your favorite room in the whole bunker after Sam's room. You love the cozy lighting, Sam's dark wood desk, the "Quiet Please. Recording in Progress" sign above the door.

Sam has added a second desk so you have somewhere to do your own work from the podcast but you've decided to just share a microphone when you're together like this and you happily wheel your super comfy desk chair over to sit beside Sam.

"Got your notes ready?" Sam asks out of pure habit - he knows you always have them.

"Do you?" is your teasing response as you flip open your laptop and find the tab with your notes file.

Sam just chuckles, reaching over the arms of both chairs to weave your fingers together at the same time he flips on the sign outside the door. "Ready when you are."

"Start the recording, big guy."

He does just that and you see the waveform on the recording software begin. Both of you stay silent a moment and then Sam gives you a nod.

You lean in a little closer to the microphone, Sam mirroring you on the other side as you say, "I'm Y/N-"

"And I'm Chief-"

Your eyes meet his over the mic and he gives your hand a squeeze before you continue with, "And this is Criminal History."

Sam glances over at his notes. "Today we will be discussing the case of the Servant Woman Annihilator, a serial killer from early Austin, Texas that history has, for the most part, forgotten. Y/N, you travel a lot. Have you ever been to Austin?"

"I haven't," you answer honestly. "But I've heard great things and I really want to visit."

Sam's smile softens a little and he brings your hand to his lips. "Maybe we could visit together?"

Warmth fills you, starting in your chest and making its way out to the end of every finger and toe until it feels like your whole body is glowing. You have a feeling the two of you are going to be doing a lot of things together for a very long time and you can't wait.

"I would like that, Chief."

Like this fic? Support me longterm on Patreon HERE or make a one-time donation of Ko-Fi HERE

Team Forever: @mrswhozeewhatsis @books-and-icecream @laughing-at-the-darkness @tumbler-tidbits @imsuperawkward

Team Sam: @saxxxology

Team TFL: @wonderfulworldofwinchester @kickingitwithkirk @muchamusedaboutnothing @ellen-reincarnated1967 @linki-locks11 @sydneytea

#spnkinkbingo #sam x reader #my writing #thanks for listening #supernatural

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thepermanentrainpress · 4 years ago

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EVERYBODY LOVES FIN: EPISODE 19

Canucks Twitter has never been more passionate, divisive and heavily opinionated; let’s go with an all-encompassing—vibrant. Any fan base is a community of people with thoughts to share, and luckily for others, content to create for a wider audience. I have to admit, I’ve been largely on the outside of Canucks Twitter, merely because I tend to direct my opinions to a TV screen rather than on social media. That being said, lately my sister, Pass it to Bulis contributor and Botchford Project recipient, Natalie Hoy, has been encouraging me to listen to more Canucks-centric podcasts. It’s been a fun time.

2010s: Does Vancouver really need two all-sports radio stations? 2020s: Does Vancouver really need 741 Canucks podcasts?

— Jyrki21 (@Jyrki21)

June 9, 2020

The world of ‘audio blogging’ has only grown over the past few years. Listeners are able to multi-task - exercising, cooking, cleaning, driving or on public transit - while plugged in to a new episode on practically any personal device. It’s a form of entertainment, often interactive, and a perfect creative outlet for amateur (and experienced) broadcasters looking for a new project. There is no shortage of podcasts courtesy of Canucks Twitter, a testament to the commitment and drive of fans, and the accessibility of the art form. With the Qualifying Round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs just about underway, there is much to be talked about. Let’s take a look at what’s out there.1

C4 Podcast

Founded: July 2013

Players: Chris Golden (@lyteforce), Anna Forsyth (@aforsyth03),Matt Lee (@mattlee_61)

Premise: The longest-running, active Canucks podcast (birthed from Canucks Hockey Blog) has been on-air for 7 years! Originally co-hosted by Chris and parody song creator Clay Imoo (@CanuckClay), the podcast offers commentary about current Canucks and NHL affairs, prospects, expectations, reminiscing on the team’s past (memories of the retired taco lover Eddie Lack and past playoff runs), and features interviews with guests. This past season, they’ve had Patrick Johnston (The Province), Satiar Shah (Sportsnet 650), Cam Robinson (Elite Prospects, Dobber Prospects) and Dan Murphy (Sportsnet) in the hot seat.

Twitter | Patreon | Discord | Listen

In the "longest-running" #Canucks #PodcastLikeThat, @risingaction joins @aforsyth03 @lyteforce & @mattlee_61 to talk about the summer training camp so far, how the Canucks match against the Wild, Rathbone, Tryamkin and so much more! https://t.co/ACreWPcPWC

— #PodcastLikeThat (@TheC4Podcast)

July 21, 2020

Area 51

Founded: December 2019 (relaunch)

Players: Sean Warren (@SeanyeWest234), Samantha (@samanthacp_), Malcolm Ert (@malcolmert), Bradley Thomas (@bradthomas_96), Eric (@breakawayeric), Bailey Broadbent (@baileybroadcast)

Premise: Area 51 celebrated a relaunch last December since their inception in July 2019, and in May welcomed a team to join host Sean Warren. Aside from their cool, alien conspiracy branding, at the mic they cover a broad range of hockey talk with notable guests (writers and broadcasters in the media, content creators, musicians, WHL players, fellow blog/podcast owners, Canucks Autism Network). I love that they’ve started to cover important topics beyond the gameplay, like anti-racism, inclusivity, and diversity in sports, and have actively sought out the guests to do so.

Twitter | Instagram | Listen

HERE WE GO! @CanuckClay enters A51 in GLCPC to discuss: -Sports debates -Being a hockey media creator -Plan a Vegas trip -Drinking and Parenting tips And complete the famous Guest Shootout! Find out whether Clay is responsible for the Luongo trade!https://t.co/Zg629tWvLG

— Area 51 Hockey Podcast (@Area51Hockey)

July 24, 2020

Cap Space Wins Cups

Founded: February 2020

Players: Hassan Ahmed (@_hassanahmed9), Ahsan Ahmed (@ace103196), Hussain Ahmed (@hussain11ahmed)

Premise: The newly formed podcast has a light, humorous tone - evident by their inaugural episode introduction about their lack of social media followers. They cover quick hits of the Canucks week, roster situations, hockey culture, and of course, cap space. They’ve hosted fellow podcast hosts and media (Satiar Shah, J.D. Burke, Matthew Sekeres, Jeff Paterson), and even a fellow Burnaby kid, Massimo Rizzo. Rizzo was a 2019 Carolina Hurricanes draft pick. It’s clear they have a lot more to share, including takes in on their corresponding blog – see: How the Canucks Can Acquire Dougie Hamilton & Build a Cup Contender. I’ll read anything related to Dougie Hamilton.

Twitter | Instagram | Listen

🚨🚨Another HUGE ANNOUNCEMENT the boys have their own website 🚨🚨https://t.co/JfQXqiXcz2, the site has all the podcast epidoes and links to all their social media. The boys have also started blogging and have 2 big article out already! It’s 100% free sign up on the site to L&C!

— Cap Space Wins Cups Podcast (@capspacecups)

June 21, 2020

The Broadscast

Founded: July 2020

Players: Vanessa Jang (@vanessajang), Georgia Twiss (@georgiatwiss), Samantha (@samanthacp_), Mallory (@sports_lesbian), Danielle Huntley (@danihuntley)

Premise: Your ‘local hockey girl gang’ talks Canucks, sports culture, and soap operas. All 5 hosts have a significant following on Twitter and are bold and uncompromising, which makes for great statements and table chatter. This was written with only their Teaser episode released, but you can expect no shortage of pop culture references, fashion discussion, NHL wives and girlfriends (WAG) and pet content, along with team analysis. It’s trailblazing for a group of females in Vancouver to start their own podcast that’s hockey-focused, meant to be a casual chat amongst friends. They know the team, know their media, can gossip, and are having fun with it.

Twitter | Instagram | Listen

The Broadscast is officially LIVE!! 🎙 Just 5 girls and some light-hearted hockey talk with a soap opera twist. Catch our teaser episode NOW on your podcast medium of choice!https://t.co/91KE8LnOJE pic.twitter.com/XH0fIfhmHy

— The Broadscast (@BroadscastPod)

July 27, 2020

PUCKS ON NET

Founded: September 2013

Players: Ryan Schaap (@schaaptop), Geeta Reddy (@geetanjalireddy), Paul McLellan (@McLellanPaul), Dave McPhail (@PucksOnDave)

Premise: The group of 4 has created a casual, honest atmosphere with their roundtable conversation. They’re good friends, which equates to great camaraderie. They run a ‘contradictory’ fantasy hockey league and don’t talk ‘fancy stats’ (while still being very knowledgeable). I think they’re engaged with their listeners, and relatable as human beings amongst their talk of Tim Hortons NHL trading cards, player safety, current signings and acquisitions, and Green Day at the All-Star Game. Reaching 7 years of consistent hockey talk and recapping the team’s evolution is a feat in its own.

Twitter | Patreon | Instagram | Listen

And on Sunday, Ryan sat down with his old man for Father's Day to talk about growing up playing minor hockey in Calgary, bonding over the Vancouver #Canucks and even his words of wisdom when it comes to talking to your kids about drugs.https://t.co/BaQFM53Yws

— PUCKS ON NET (@Pucksonnetca)

June 24, 2020

The Canucks Conversation

Founded: November 2018

Players: Chris Faber (@ChrisFaber39), David Quadrelli (@Quadrelli)

Premise: Faber was joined by Quads in 2020, and the pair has perhaps the most praised local podcast so far. They’re both BCIT Radio Arts and Entertainment students (and writers for CanucksArmy), and their dedication, preparedness, branding and reporting level are top notch. They break down topics with great chemistry and perception - roster moves, Nikita Tryamkin, Olli Juolevi, and the Judd Brackett situation. Some of their notable guests include Utica Comets Kole Lind and Brogan Rafferty, and ‘bionic’ Finn Sami Salo.

Twitter | Patreon | Instagram | Listen

🎉SURPRISE! 🎉 Episode 91: “Jake Jets out of the lineup” ft.@CraigJButton We dropped our episode early! Craig Button stops by to chat about the NHL and #Canucks prospects. We breakdown the exhibition game against the Jets & some exciting news at the end!https://t.co/NMWBVOU7ko

— Canucks Conversation Podcast (@CanucksConvo)

July 30, 2020

Canucks & Pucks

Founded: April 2019

Players: Matthew Zator (@MatthewZatorSC)

Premise: Matthew Zator, writer for The Hockey Writers and Hockey Ops Director at Overtime Heroics, made a return to the airwaves this past July (after a lengthy regular season hiatus). Since getting back up and running, it’s full steam ahead – Zator has been joined by contributors from The Hockey Writers, The Canuck Way, college hockey newsletter Fresh Ice, and fellow podcast hosts. He has good insight and as a writer who goes into depth about NHL draft picks, the Vancouver Giants, and both the Nucks’ positives and negatives in his work, it gets noticeably transferred to the on-air conversation.

Twitter | Listen

🚨 NEW EPISODE 🚨 Episode 7 ft @CanuckClay, @JDsays2much, and @BaileyAJohnson_! - #Canucks & #mnwild with Jack & Clay - Will Lockwood and Quinn Hughes with Bailey - The Mailbag segment debuts and of course news from the #NHL and @TheHockeyWriter! #THW https://t.co/lW9FQms35P

— Canucks & Pucks Podcast 🏒🎙️ (@CanucksPucks)

July 28, 2020

Canucks Speakeasy

Founded: August 2019

Players: Pete Edwards (@pete_gas), Doug (@dougvenn)

Premise: Pete and Doug are 2 “mildly educated Canucks die-hards” who chat about current team news and trending topics. They’ve covered trade talk, the Collective Bargaining Agreement, prospects at the World Juniors, scouting, and the BLM movement. They’re occasionally joined by guests including podcast friends, and fellow fans/Tweeters Chris Conte, Jenna Fabulous and Ray Hatt.

Twitter | Listen

We're back with Episode 37: Powderkeg. Playoffs, play-ins, Judd and BLM are all discussed. Give'r a listen!https://t.co/dwoEQVNudThttps://t.co/7ZSogAjWsuhttps://t.co/r5HqX26czU pic.twitter.com/QKScnR9Q6G

— Canucks Speakeasy (@CanucksSpeak)

June 4, 2020

The LarschCast

Founded: June 2019

Players: Tej Dhaliwal (@DrTejDhaliwal), Sat Oberoi (@SatOberoi), Nav Dosanjh (@NavDosanjh1983), Ryan Cassels (@cassels_music)

Premise: The Larschcasters are known for their entertaining banter and debates, mostly on hockey and a little NFL. They’ve picked the minds of seasoned media (Scott Oake, James Duthie, Joey Kenward), legendary broadcaster Jim Robson, and former Canucks Kirk McLean, Chris Higgins and Shane O’Brien. They’ve been generating healthy content during the pandemic, including a spirited debate with Minnesota Wild podcast hosts, discussing media personnel moves, prospects, NHL Award contenders, and the toxicity in the Vancouver Canucks market. In June, they released a special with hockey coach/trainer Jennifer Chefero, sharing her story facing sexual abuse and harassment in her career, while candidly discussing women’s rights and sports culture.

Twitter | Facebook | Listen

Episode 61 ft. @hustlerama!#NHLJets centric epi, with an outlook of the Jets vs #flames. Not a lot of love for Calgary in this one😬. Also insights into the #nhlbubble, before ending with #Canucks talk & Rapid Larsch! 🍎:https://t.co/vZ2lyQ9zoO Spotify: https://t.co/XdV1y3ls7V

— The LarschCast (@larschcast)

July 29, 2020

The PP1 Podcast

Founded: October 2019

Players: Brayden Ursel (@bkursel23), Ted (@tee3ree), Ryan Hank (@always90four)

Premise: A tagline like “three guys from Kelowna bringing the heat and spitting the takes” doesn’t need further explanation. Appearing at the beginning of this season, the podcast (which features writers from The Canuck Way and CanucksArmy) has had some nice guests like the Canucks inaugural captain Orland Kurtenbach, retired centre and current Kelowna Rockets Assistant Coach Vern Fiddler, and Paul “Biznasty” Bissonnette. They’ve been nominated for Kelowna Now’s Best Local Podcast, and have a ‘Dudes and Guys’ segment where they pit 2 players against one another and talk it out (criteria is debatable).

Twitter | Listen

Episode 46: Bouncy Castles, Boeser Bombshells, & Backchecking w/ @mattsekeres. We chat Boeser rumours, cap crunch, Rathbone, Tryamkin, Markstrom, Sundin vs. Vanek, the best cold-open since Nikolay Goldobin, and how you can win a #Canucks jersey. https://t.co/KouGJr6GKH

— The PP1 PODCAST (@ThePP1Podcast)

July 15, 2020

The SCT Show

Founded: September 2018

Players: Nam Mann (@CanuckAgent007), Tanbir Rana (@TRana87)

Premise: SCT is Strictly Canucks Talk. Aside from reminiscing about ‘where were you when’ pivotal moments in franchise history occurred and the regular shop talk of performance and #NamStats, they draw in guests to talk about trade value (The Athletic’s Harman Dayal) and stickhandling (specialist/trainer Pavel Barber). They’ve also hosted local defenceman and last year’s 4th overall draft pick Bowen Byram, and hockey analyst/retired winger Anson Carter for a chat about the pressure of the market in Vancouver and the Sedins. Like any good heated debate, there are also trade and Team Tank vs Playoffs scenarios.

Twitter | Listen

.@CanuckAgent007 has a proposal to get Loui Eriksson off the #Canucks books 🤔 EP 14 - Links below ⬇️ 🍎 https://t.co/Z9snNdSuI1 📱 https://t.co/AJILh0IaWJ pic.twitter.com/LZblDE8GLW

— The SCT Show (@SCTShow)

July 17, 2020

Johnny Canuck Talk

Founded: August 2019

Players: Adrian J. Haug (@adrianjhaug), Roy Styles (@roy_styles)

Premise: Takes from 2 arm chair GM’s, the pair discuss a wide variety of topics like losing streaks, hockey safety, report cards, line-ups, and trade deadline. They’ve also shared an insightful chat with Harman Dayal (The Athletic) about his career and the late and great Jason Botchford. It’s laid-back and conversational, with mentions of farmers’ tans, celebrating birthdays during quarantine, and the school system strung across introductions. What’s cool is they record the podcast from near and far away places – Kamloops, BC and Germany (!).

Twitter | Listen

(1) Episode 37 is uploading now! @roy_styles and I talk #Canucks #hockey and @Canucks topics, issues, news, etc. We also talk about the incredible impact our Jim Carey impressions have had on our wives. Yikes. Featuring tweets from: @Canuckgirl20 @TSN1040 @DanRiccio650 pic.twitter.com/6oA7mZh6jb

— Johnny Canuck Talk (@JohnnyCanuckPod)

June 28, 2020

1 This list is not exhaustive, but there is something for everyone and I hope you find your Canucks fix. There can be an argument made that the podcast market is oversaturated, but I like to see it as an opportunity for any fan or audio bird to let their voice be heard! So, don’t be negative about it.

Posted by: Chloe Hoy

#Everybody Loves Fin #Canucks #Vancouver Canucks #Chloe #Canucks Twitter #blog #hockey blog #NHL #nucks #nhl canucks #Podcast #Apple Podcasts #sports #hockey #Podcaster #Spotify Podcast

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catholicartistsnyc · 5 years ago

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Meet Nashville-based Artist Rae Hering

RAE HERING is a Nashville, TN-based musician and songwriter.

Official Website | Patreon

CATHOLIC ARTIST CONNECTION (CAC): Where are you from originally, and what brought you to Nashville?

RAE HERING (RH): I’m originally from Minneapolis, MN and moved to Nashville to study piano and composition at Belmont University.

CAC: What do you see as your personal mission as a Catholic working in the arts?

RH: My mission as a Catholic working in the arts is to create what is true, good and beautiful. Sometimes a song is simply fun and lighthearted, sometimes a song explores self-discovery and growth and sometimes a song focuses in on imperfections and failings. I don’t think every song needs to spell out a moral or include a pretty bow to wrap up the “ideal” way of being. In fact, I think art is often more effective if you let the listener decide what to think.

While my primary genre isn’t Christian music I have to say that I recently released my first Christian-themed song! So, I’m now exploring what it means to be a singer/songwriter who sometimes writes explicitly about Christian Faith and sometimes writes about “just life,” as seen through the eyes of a Christian.

CAC: Where have you found support in the Church for your vocation as an artist?

RH: I have found tremendous support in being a part of the ecclesial movement Regnum Christi (RC). In fact, the Holy Spirit had a chance to move me to write my first Christian song, “Closer to Me,” because of my involvement in RC. I was asked to prepare five worship songs for our annual retreat and when I had worked up four I thought, “well, maybe I could write one?”

Before this moment I hadn’t been very open to the idea of writing Christian music, so I know that God was working on my heart here. I also believe that through the prayers of RC members and through my commitment to being an apostle through RC, God was able to use this simple moment to open me up to writing in this new way.

CAC: Where have you found support among your fellow artists for your Catholic faith?

RH: There’s a group here in Nashville called Catholics United for the Arts. They aim to bring together Catholic artists for prayer, camaraderie and to help deepen our mission as Catholic artists. I was fortunate to be a part of their 40 Days for Life fundraiser this past year where they brought in Catholics speakers who work in various artistic fields to give down-to-earth, practical talks about being a person of faith in their artistic industries. These kinds of talks are so needed!

Also, Love Good is a wonderful Nashville-based movement that promotes and supports wholesome secular music. Their mission is to change the culture - to change how we perceive good art. What an awesome mission!

CAC: How can the Church be more welcoming to artists, and how can the artistic world be more welcoming to artists of faith?

RH: Just a thought: what if we didn’t put songs of faith in a box and separated them from secular music? Must we choose between being a Christian artist and a secular artist? These are thoughts I am currently working through and I don’t have the answers right now…

Thinking back to the time in my life where I stepped away from the Faith, there was nothing attractive to me about worship music; it felt totally un-relatable. This memory is what motivates me now as a practicing Catholic to create Christian-inspired music that IS relatable to someone like my former self. I’m not saying to do away with worship music because it is indeed a beautiful form of prayer. But I think there is a gap that needs to be filled here. Why is there such a chasm between Christian and secular music? Is there an in-between spot where we can sing about the Gospel in a way that is intriguing and not overbearing to people who may have lost their faith along the way? I think so.

CAC: Where in your city do you regularly find spiritual fulfillment?

RH: I’m a member of St. Edward parish. One of my favorite groups there is the Padre Pio Prayer Group. St. Pio is one of the saints who helped me come back to the Church and is so active in our world today if we just ask for his help! St. Pio, pray for us!

Also, as I mentioned above, I’m a member of Regnum Christi (RC). Like all apostolate movements, RC came from and is led by the Holy Spirit. In these movements God brings believers together through a common charism or style of living out our faith. The structure of these movements is often likened to early church communities where Christians gathered in small, organically-formed communities. I love RC because it strives to give each member the essential tools needed to live and grow as a Christian in union with the authority of the Catholic Church: prayer, formation, apostleship, accompaniment and community. It has truly been my launch pad as an apostle of Jesus Christ.

CAC: What is your daily spiritual practice? And if you have a spiritual director, how did you find that person? If you go on retreats, where do you like to go?

RH: Along with regular Mass, Adoration and Confession I meet with an RC spiritual director each month. I urge everyone to seek out a spiritual director - in my opinion, it’s the “secret sauce” to living out a spirit-filled life!

I attend an annual RC Spiritual Exercises Silent Retreat held at the Bethany Retreat Center in Dickson, TN. I HIGHLY recommend this retreat center. It’s run by the Dominican Sisters and let me tell you, Christ’s Peace is overflowing there! They host many retreats throughout the year so do see if you can visit!

What I’m honing in on in my spiritual practice lately is that daily prayer is the true battlefield. As a person who is always ready to get going on the next project or activity I have a tendency to justify why I don’t have time for personal prayer. In reality prayer is where I am able to allow God to work in my life. This is where He gives me all my good ideas! If I don’t show up for prayer I am turning away from my personal relationship with God. If I don’t show up for prayer Satan has already taken the upper hand on my heart. Prayer is a battlefield and is the true food of the soul.

CAC: What is your daily artistic practice?

RH: I find it’s helpful to get into creative mode first thing in the morning (well, after a cup of coffee, of course!) If I don’t do this I really diminish my chances of tapping into the “creative zone” because all the practicalities of the day start taking hold.

With that being said, I need practical days, too, where I intentionally DON’T try to write a song. If I have too many days where I allow myself to be primarily wrapped up in the creative process I end up with anxiety because I haven’t been keeping up with the more practical side of life.

CAC: Describe a recent day in which you were most completely living out your vocation as an artist.

RH: Playing house concerts is a great example of this! I’ve always felt that performing “completes the circle” as a songwriter because sharing the songs I write really is the whole point of writing them. My goal is to move others and be a witness to them through my music! House concerts have the added element of providing an environment where you are very up-close with the guests. You have an extra opportunity to bond and connect. As we know from our faith, relationship is at the heart of Christianity, so I am thankful for these house concert opportunities.

CAC: How do you afford housing as an artist?

RH: My husband and I were fortunate to be able to buy a house this past August! We were very motivated because we knew my sister-in-law needed a place to live so we decided to look for a house that would be suitable for all three of us. Living with my sister-in-law not only makes it easier to afford a better living condition but it is also such a blessing to be around family.

CAC: How do you financially support yourself as an artist?

RH: All my income comes from music in one way or another. Many independent artists find that it’s smart to widen our income stream variety because each source is likely to provide smaller amounts. For me these things include:tips from livestream shows, merchandise sales, Patreon contributions, house concerts and tours, music lessons, royalties, streaming revenue and studio musician work.

A large chunk of my income comes from tips and donations. This can inspire both deep gratitude and, admittedly, frustration. If the donations are not coming in I can be tempted to de-value myself and my work. This is such a huge pitiful for us artists because we tend to center our identities around our talent and output. I have to remember that my value is in being a Child of God, not in the amount of money I make from my art. But I would be lying if I said this is not a constant battle!

CAC: What other practical resources would you recommend to a Catholic artist living in your city?

RH: If you are in the music industry check out the weekly meet up group Balanced Breakfast. Actually, there are BB groups that meet all around the world, so there may be one in your city. There is always a discussion topic of the day but I think the best part is simply meeting and connecting with other artists.

CAC: What are your top 3 pieces of advice for Catholic artists post-graduation?

RH: 1.) You are never too busy for prayer.

2.) Offer your talents up to God as a sacrifice on His altar, especially at every Mass you attend.

3.) Invite the Holy Spirit into your creative work regularly.

#catholic #catholic artist #catholic artists #music #musician #nashville #catholic artist connection #rae hering #belmont university #catholics united for the arts #regnum christi #love good #st. edward #padre pio #padre pio prayer group #bethany retreat center #balanced breakfast

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mleighlikes · 4 years ago

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Instant M’Ls part #34 :) BLM collection.

Hey InterWorld, with the current state of things some of you have asked me to write out my thoughts on the issues of the Black Lives Matter movement. So all this month my M’L Instants have followed said topic. Also I would like to thank you all for your continued support and Much Likes and Love. If you didn’t know I reached 1700 Followers on my main blog and I’ve reached 700 Followers here on this blog. I am so thankful to you all and I hope we can all keep growing together. Have a blessed day my friends :) .

Race...

Why do we seem to run one every day? A term used to denote the swift passing of others in a competition has devolved into categories of physical features and denotes differences in language used as a barrier against many by a self a pointed chosen few. Why must I be made to Sprint through my life simply because of a shape of a noise the sound or use of words as I speak and more. Why is my worth any less than yours simply do to a complexion of my birth which I had no day in... Why?

Color...

Is merely a result of properties upon my form as the light hits my physical being. To my mind I can't understand why this offends you so. I am not defined as a being through my worth due to my skins so called color and neither ate you. Your experiences, hopes dreams wants desires are so much more than a shade of pigment you fall under by right of birth. There is so much more than just the skin, I hope one day the world will decide to listen an learn this.

Creed...

What is your aim, what do you hope to accomplish through the set of beliefs that are governing your actions. Yes to be heard, yes to make a statement to let those in power know who they actually work for and need to remember it. Yet, to believe that one loss would be justified by ruining your home, your state of being would truly be what the lost would want. Only in peace can there be a change in creep. When all hearts ate up at arms against each other eyes, ears, minds and hearts remained closed to any form of resolutions that benefit all for the better.

Acceptance...

Lay the rose's upon the ground each time. This is the way things are. Blind yet not blind eye's see but feel they can do nothing. Times change, we grow tired of the thorns among us. Why must this be, what did we do wrong merely existing that's no longer a good answer. No more the blind yet not blind eye can we continue to turn. It's to much within the face of all not just one of a personal persuasion. We must pull our weeds, till our soil it's past time to tend to the world garden properly. We need to do do now or begin again...

Disillusion...

No longer willing to fake the smile, the pleasant greetings to those who would treat another as if they were lesser than. No longer willing to say well it's not happening to me so let's just keep going with the way things are. One to many is on longer okay, it never ever was. What happens within the mind that would say to itself that to be better than another is glorious? What wheels are turning where to see only the differences between individuals as a threat calls for mistreatment as a way to live a life and teach another generation to do the same? The cracks grow bigger, so big we can fall into them for lifetimes. Can't keep walking through with the wholes growing ever bigger, something everything needs to change...

Change...

Its coming it's happening as we speak. Look on as colors come together so many shades and hues all willing to bloom as one. No more will we allow the weeds to continue to spread among our world garden. Each rose, poppy, violet and daffodils is stretching its leaves to the sun, looking for the rains to cleanse us of impurities. Together we will pollinate a new plot, we will watch better seeds bud and grow. We will no longer accept the disillusionment that we feel within our dying roots. We must live again as one, this has to be the way no matter how many may resist. We can't keep allowing our fellow posies to fall to the winds of chance storms and dare not to replant them stem to stem.

Protest...

Gather with thee in peace to rally for change. Do not get me confused with those who come with malice in their being. Voices all as one needing to be heard. Standing together all the shades of humanity who disagree with a status that hasn't changed sense a birth of a nation. Maybe not even sense the birth of a dishearten world. We unite as one as we should already be. No longer will difference matter in our eyes. Come stand with me as we stand together. Together we are strong together we can rise.

Riot...

Hidden within those seeking change ate those who allow pain to take over. The only justice they think is to lash out at a system that lashes back. Yet, in doing so see who they really harm. Neighborhoods torn apart that remain as modern rubble among us all. Caught in the cross fire, innocent voices who come to help only to be possibly silenced in a worse way. The goal yes is to tear down the bricks that block your path to what has always been the right way. Yet, found within the debris always lies the sad casualty.

LikeMindes...

Across a world we all seek the same end goal. Yet there are too many paths to count that may lead there. For better or worse all humanity does seek the same things, just some have to seek it in a harder way. Born a child knows not of another's changes from theirs. Like the eyes of one we must return to such times. Sift through the difference to find the similar, each voice unique while together they're all asking for the same thing.

Come One...

Never to be afraid to be the only voice. Never to fear standing alone for what's right. Other's will see, other's will come and go. Yet, you keep being unafraid to be the one out of how ever many willing to stand even alone.

Come All...

Many grow out of a single one willing to stand. Other's now seeing such a thing no longer afraid to also be heard. Grow from 2 to 3 to as many as the stars hidden by the light of the sun in a day lite sky. We they will remain hidden no longer in the unfair grips of veiled daily night.

Stand "We"...

Can we ever truly come together under the human being roof. So long out in the rain, can't always trust the one's trying to gather those to shelter. Hands do link together in unity trying to brave the rapids of on coming crashing negativity. As much as they try the chain like stone may wither at some points, yet still other links are stronger than ever.

Find me on Patreon, Twitter, Facebook and Instagram :)

I hope you and yours are safe and well and you can find meaning in my words. Let me know what you think and pass the thoughts along.

#mlinstants #mlinstant #part 34 #mleigh #mleighqs #questions #thoughts #conversations #patreon #twitter #facebook #instagram

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thesophiewhit · 5 years ago

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On Writing My First Audio-Drama Podcast

A daring solo adventure with a big love for audio-drama (Welcome to NightVale. What’s the Frequency. The Enoch Saga. Raising the Dead (Again), The Byron Chronicles. Harlem Queen and more!) and absolutely zero idea how to work a proper editing program except for iMovie.

A recipe for disaster, you say? Or is it a daring adventure?

I decided it was a little bit of both, mixed with a chaotic storm of utter, well, chaos. But, I went with it anyway.

And what did I learn from producing? (Producing solo. Yes, that includes but is not limited to: writing the 200 pages for a first season, recording different voices like I’m Gollum, finding copyright free music, producing an original song cover even if I’ve never sang before, editing recaps, theme songs, setting up Twitter accounts, Instagram, YouTube channels. Email addresses. Websites. Blog tours.)

And on top of that, still waiting on getting approved by podcasting hosts? (Cries in impatience).

I have a little screensaver on my phone that says: write, finish things, keep writing from fave emo author Neil Gaiman. @neil-gaiman (the inside home screen says something about managing anxiety and is super sweet.)

So, I listened to virtual motivator Neil Gaiman and got to writing the audio drama.

I am an indie producer who’s really new at this, so take my word with a whole lot of NaCl grains, but here goes...

AUDIO-DRAMA PODCAST TIPS FROM SOMEONE WHO’S STILL LEARNING THE ROPES

1. It is a non-universally acknowledged fact that a podcast episode goes for 20 minutes- 1 hour. My episodes hit the 20 minute mark. 9 Episodes = approximately 180+ minutes of footage.

2. In script speak, a single page of a script runs for approximately 2 minutes of edited dialogue (leaving room for adding SFX and music). One episode for me (20 minutes), meant writing 10 pages of a very non-formatted script. (But it worked for me. What works for me might not work for you, vice-versa)

3. Music makes a podcast sound professional. I used FreeMusicArchive for a lot of my music. When I needed to produce an OG song for my season finale, I went with “House of New Orleans” and made it sound, you know, ghostly. It’s a horror podcast, it fit my theme

3.5. SFX also make your podcast sound so good. Yes, laugh at my for iMovie editing, but the SFX are free for use (iMovie encourages this). Aside from good dialogue, sound design really helps you build your world. (Outside of music, of course). Think of it like watching a movie. That sound of someone creeping along wooden floors in a horror movie, the background noise of traffic on a busy NYC street, even knocking on a door. These elements bring your audio-drama to life. I favored SoundBible and FreeSounds.

4. Speaking of themes! Pick a genre for your audio-drama. You can mix genres too, within general reason (this is for marketing purposes, you understand. And social media loves to limit how many characters you get to type. Twitter, I’m looking atcha). Comedic drama. Horror mystery. Romantic necromancy, whatever. Just find a branding theme and stay there. This will help you build a podcasting family! For example, I have a horror/paranormal podcast family. We’re tight knit. Lots of goth clothing.

5. Reach out to other podcasting peoples. You’re family, not dueling rivals. When I was starting out (heck, I’m still a pod-baby), I asked so many questions. I tweeted out into the void with my #PodernFamily #AudioDrama hashtags and asked about marketing yourself, sound design, podcast hosting etc.

6. Speaking of which, you’re going to need a HOST before you get your Podcast released onto iTunes, Google Play etc. I used Anchor, but I know others who used SoundCloud etc etc.

7. The host might automatically publish your show onto podcast providers (iTunes/Google Play etc), or you might need to manually submit your RSS feed. You can find it from your podcast host (Anchor you access settings, I believe), but this RSS is your ticket to distributing said podcast TO THE WORLD.

8. Set up a Ko-Fi or Patreon so you can have a lil nudge into buying equipment/funding your art. (Mine is https://www.ko-fi.com/sophiefae , what’s up? *winks*)

9. Make things. You’re the number one marketer on your team. Make trailers. Make graphics. Make a kickass cover for your audio-drama so people want to click on that badass-looking icon. I find this fun, some people might find this irritating. I’m just living my best life with PhotoShop even if I have no idea what I’m doing. What’s up?)

10. Learn how to do sound design. Okay, I’ll admit, I’ve been using iMovie up until now because I’m a coward. But a very lovely podcasting community helped me learn how to use Audacity. We’re getting there, fellow new-programs-are-scary-and-have-demons learners. We’re getting there.

Edit together bloopers/ a highlight reel/ a behind-the-scenes interview, or a little season trailer to play before your episodes so people can just dive right into your drama of the audio.

My trailer for Grimm and Glitter, by the way: (sup *winks*)

youtube

Have any other tips for budding podcasters or audio drama makers? Leave them below!

Social media for Grimm and Glitter Podcast if anybody’s curious...

Twitter: @GrimmGlitter @Fae_Sophie (like cheeky horror movie GIFs, me too)

Instagram @FirstAmongFae (fun if you’re into goth cosplay)

YouTube: Sophie Fae (trailers and episodes)

Website if you wanna listen to an audio-drama about goth and prep girlfriends battling demons together in a small beach town:

https://firstamongfae.wixsite.com/grimm/grimm-glitter

Meet Grimm & Glitter- two superpowered teens who fight evil in an isolated beach town. Just don't look behind the red door...

In the middle of butt-nowhere called “Calamity Beach”, 16-year old Grim and 17-year old Glitter find a hole in the abandoned amusement park just outside the town. The tunnel leads to a locked red door that not even light can get through. Things would all be fine and dandy (no questions asked) except for the strange noises seeping out of it.

That, and ever since going down there, Grim and Glitter suddenly gain mysterious powers. Grim can’t stop hearing people’s thoughts, and Glitter can see the ghosts of the dead.

Can these two teenagers discover the secrets lying beneath Calamity Beach? Or will time run out before the summer ends?

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metalcows · 5 years ago

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Metalcows: 80’s Rise To Fame Chapter One

Support me on Patreon where I’ll upload a chapter each month with exclusives and art for only 5$ a month ! https://www.patreon.com/posts/29220153

“ You’re really cruisen for a bruisen, Chad. ”

The back room of the bar echos as two loosers hash it out. Two fools that consist of Chad, a bratty washed up and late guitarist. And Mike, a delinquent drummer who keeps his body full of a bad attitude and liquor cocktail.

The irony isn’t found in what divides them. They are both two dumb splotchy bulls in tight bellbottom. Both on their high horses with a beer in their hands. They were a copy and paste image. And yet, they loathed one another.

“ Shut it, dickweed. ”

A quip shoots from the tan and white peppered Chad.

“ If you weren’t so fuckin’ plastered all the time, we wouldn’t still be dragging our asses around small bar gigs. ”

plastered? A twitch of irritation pulls at Mike’s eye.

“ Homeboy I wouldn’t be so plastered if that guitar of yours didn’t suck the fart out of a riff. You can’t play, I told you to let me on that thing. But noo, you want that dusty ass small-town spotlight.”

Mikes hoof bounced along with his sassy tone, taunting Chad, who snapped back.

“ Small town? We’re in Denver, idiot. And shut your fucking mouth, My riffs can play circles around your fat hooves. Don’t even try me when you can’t distinguish a violin from a banjo you fuckin hick. ”

“ that’s it!”

A short warcry rang out as the chestnut coloured bull tackled chad to the ground, and the boys began to scrap it out.

“ Hey, hey !”

Uurtai shouts as he enters the room, having to rush over and yank the trembling Mike off of Chad. The large dusty colored bull stepped between the two. And shoved them apart with his behemoth arms. And two shrewed tattooed eyes would gawk back at Chad.

“ What the fuck is your problem? You’re fuckin late to a gig again. I just had to beg the owner to change his mind about canceling , because the crowd is dippin’ on us. ”

Chad opened his mouth to speak, but Uurtai raised a hoof to stop him.

“ I don’t want to hear it. And you. ”

The green-eyed bull turns to point at Mike, and continues his ranting.

“ You’ve been causing nothing but problems with your inability to hold your liquor. I could hear the two of you arguing from the other room. you damn well know that everyone else in there heard your stupid asses. ”

“ Tai, man, cool it. We got this, so what if they heard our scrap? Once they hear my sweet ass bass they’ll forget all about it.”

“ Oh shut your trap, assface. You think it’s all about you !”

Mike cut back at Chad, and Uurtai finally shouts.

“ Enough! I have fucking had it with you two. Play the fuckin gig yourselves, because I bail. You two wanna act like rockstars, but the moment it comes time to play like a band, you wanna pull this shit. I quit, find another lead. ”

Uurtai steps away and storms for the door, but Mike calls out

“ Tai, come on man-”

Uurtai raises a hoof as he leaves, he has nothing else to say. He disappears out of the back room, then exits the bar.

“ let him bail, dude. We don’t need him, anyway.”

Outside, Uurtai leans against a light pole and drags his hooves down his face as he sharply inhales.

’ What am I to do, now? ’

His head fogs with self-doubt. And as his anger subsides, hopelessness began to engulf his windpipe. He had spent so many years perfecting his act. Despite his efforts, his dreams still felt unreachable. It broke him, living each night at the bottom of a bottle in a greasy hotel room. A taste was all he wanted. He figured it’d be a chance to sink his teeth into the meat of success, lock his jaw, and never let go.

His thoughts are disrupted when he hears a flyer flapping against the wind. The evening breeze gently attempts to pull it away from the staple that binds it to the wooden pole. The sound caught Uurtai’s attention. His curiosity bested him, so he ripped the violet-blue flyer free from it’s confinement.

His eyes danced across the flyer. Which proudly bore an image of a little brown bull with the top of his hair bleached. It was the icon himself, Funzen Funashi. Standing beside his fellow bandmates. Robbert Heartman on bass, Eric Estric on drums, and Randall Maull on guitar. Above them, the infamous title ’ Metalcows ’ sat in a unique white font. Tour dates listed below them; ’ July fourth to August ninth. ’ They had finished a show in Denver a few days ago and were already set in their last location.

“ I would be the one stuck with an incompetent band. ”

He mumbled. The bitter acid of envy singed his throat. If only life had blessed such luck upon him, he’d be the one on that poster.

He balled the flyer up and tossed it aside. The disgruntled bull walked the road, letting the streetlights take him for the night.

Dallas Texas, the most American show Funzen has booked yet. He had just rocked a crowd of thousands. And now, the doom bringer lie face down on the front seats of the bands small RV.

And just as the lad flopped down for the knock-out nap of a lifetime, the passenger door opened. The disturbance was none other than his egotistical drummer, Eric Estric.

“ Aw, no. Come on Lil man, you can’t do this to me. ”

Eric breathed out his words in a bargaining tone of desperation. Only to face the rude bird gesture that sat upon Funzens lazily raised hoof.

“ Not cool, man. You know I promised these girls that they can see the inside of the RV. Crash somewhere else. ”

“ Crash somewhere else?”

Funzens voice muffled back from its grave within the seat. And he turned to rest his squishy cheek against the leather.

“ I’ve been trying to sleep in motel lounge chairs for the past three years of our touring. I’m comfortable right here.”

The small bull raised his brows as he stood his ground but his baggy eyes still rested shut. Eric complained ;

“ You could have slept in the RV while we were on the road, man. It’s not my fault you didn’t think to do that.”

“ Didn’t think to do that? ”

Funzen hissed as he opened his eyes, he had to look up at Eric to face the idiot before him.

“ I did try to sleep while we were on the road. ”

The small bull sat up, and would lean towards Eric as he continued his lecture.

“But you three wouldn’t shut the hell up for two seconds. Always ’ Robby this, oh Randall that, aw dude did you see that billboard? Let’s blast some rock, man. ’ How did you expect me to sleep? Blow my ears out? ”

Eric threw his hands up, the poor bovid just wanted to get laid.

“ Dude, ok, I’m sorry. But just… crash on the roof or somethin’. I really scored this time-”

Eric suggested boldly, and met his final answer with the door slamming shut. Funzen gave the peg on the passenger door a push, locking it as his eyes kept contact with Eric’s.

“ Fine! I’ll just go book a fukin hotel room, jackass.”

Eric would shout before storming off. Funzen lie his head back down carelessly. He sandwiched his hooves between his cheekbone and the warm seat. And the small lad would wiggle his body snugly into the leather.

“ You go do that ”

He mumbled.

It’s been miserable, sharing small motel rooms with three other sweaty men. The manager of the band pocketed extra expense costs. And gave Metalcows the lowest possible motel rates.

Had the band realized how big they were, they’d kick his ass.

The driver door to the RV opened, and Robert sat down next to his tuckered out brother.

“ Ball game comes on in thirty minutes. ”

“ That’s nice.”

Funzens voice crackled in response.

*under construction*

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sketchesofsam · 7 years ago

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The Illustration Master Class - A First Timer's Journal

This is a long blog post. It's mostly for my own purposes, but also for those who want an in-depth look at what being at the IMC is like. I have some pointers for first timers, things you might not think of and things to consider in advance. They'll be at the end of the article. I want to thank Dave Palumbo for allowing me to use a couple of his amazing photos too, he's a talented SOB.

probably won't forget the moment my Facebook messages suddenly started pinging off. 'Congrats Sam!' 'Hey Sam, you won!' I distinctly remember thinking, hmm, what did I win? Did I enter another twitter giveaway or something? Then someone followed up with 'you won the scholarship!' It took me a moment. Then the chat I was in the middle of with my other half suddenly filled with lots of expletives and capitals on my end. Holy shit. I'd won the Muddy Colors scholarship to the IMC, something that had been a long-term wish of mine since I'd found out about it 5 or 6 years prior but hadn't ever had the funds to attend. So to find out that my entry to their scholarship program - through the generous donations of the Muddy Colors Patreon - submitted on a 'what have I got to lose' mentality that was still shadowed by the fuzzy sting of not getting into Spectrum, had scored me the full cost of the course. I'd honestly forgotten I'd applied. Let that be a lesson to those of you who hold back on submitting to things, especially the things that are free. It's always worth a punt.

So what's it like to go to the IMC? I can tell you that winning the scholarship made the pre-IMC thumbnail assignment a lot more stressful than if I'd paid for it. The weight of imagining disappointing the people who had seen my work and voted for it - artistic heroes of mine - was pretty heavy. It made me feel like I couldn't just go and do the same thing I'd always done, even if it had won me the scholarship. Before I started drawing, I reconsidered my influences. I'd started a secret pinterest board a few months back simply called 'Ho Fuck That's Good.' Stuff that gave me a gut punch when I looked at it. I spent a lot of time looking at those images and a lot of the others I had pinned. I stopped paying attention to work that I simply found technically impressive, that had awesome composition or great values. I looked for what moved me. Why it moved me. I started making notes about themes I found compelling or that cropped up a lot in my own work. I decided I wasn't going to do just a straight up realistic narrative Whaler Girl piece, I was going to try and make my own work be more like that which moved me. A risky, and perhaps somewhat dumb move, given those same realistic, narrative images had won me the scholarship.

We were asked to provide 4 or 5 thumbnails, either of our own choosing, or from an assignment provided, such as an illustration to accompany a short story, the likes of which are often published on Tor.com. With themes like duality, death, grief and love in relationships crowding my brain, I created a lot of thumbnails. I wasn't going to take the first 3 or 4 that came out. I did about 20 in total and narrowed it down to the 6 I felt most attached to. Some of them even had hints back to The Whaler Girl in a very asbtract way. They'd come out better than I'd hoped for and I could see a tiny glimpse of the sort of painting I might get out of it. It made me excited to put them in front of my chosen faculty member.

We were asked to pick a top 5 from the vertiable smorgasbord of faculty. That was hard. It turned out that most people got grouped with their top pick and that dictated who the other faculty were that would give you feedback. I suspect my pick would have surprised a few people. Kent Williams was actually the instructor I was least familiar with, but researching his work, especially his most recent work, it hit the same kind of buttons that my inspiration board had. His work felt emotionally personal and while I knew I didn't want to necessarily paint like he did, I felt he might be able to give good feedback on how to tap into that sense of the personal. Perhaps someone who could help keep me on track with the first wibbly steps I was taking with my own work. I count myself lucky to have landed in the group with Rebecca, Kent and Tara (McPherson).

I wanted to make a good first impression, but there were so many approaches to the dreaded 'crit day'. Some folks brought only one or two finished colour thumbs, some folks just had small, traditionally drawn thumbnails, occasionally done on arrival the night before. Some brought photo mockups of the exact piece they wanted to work on. All approaches got good feedback. I'd been forewarned that crit day could be rough, but I think the Studio 201 guys were pretty chill. I did peek my head in on the other two rooms briefly. Donato, Greg Ruth and Scott Fischer were all highly animated and I've been told often argued with each other's feedback. Dan Dos Santos, Irene Gallo and Greg Manchess were part of the group that, from chatting to folks, seemed to get the most direct feedback.

I was a little surprised when there was no tracing paper used during my crit. All three faculty members responded favourably to what had been my favourite thumbnail, despite its weirdness. No direct suggestions other than resolving the shapes in my minimal, non-figurative space (that minor bit of feedback would come to haunt me by The Thursday of DOOM, but I'll get to that later). Inspirations like Inka Essenhigh, Hope Gangloff and Dorothea Tanning were thrown my way, I loved all three for very different reasons. It was safe to say inspiration was running high and I had a tonne of positive energy to run with.

I felt like I was well prepped going into the IMC, but I wasn't. Choosing to go full traditional when having to fly internationally was a pain. I didn't have a lot of the stuff I needed and had to rely on the infinite kindness of my fellow students and faculty to see me through. Stephen, Annie, Chris, Julia, you were all lovely, I can't thank you enough.

My Tuesday started with James Gurney sat at my breakfast table. That was surreal but awesome. He and his wife Jeanette are as lovely two people as you could hope to meet, full of insight and always taking notes. The previous day's lecture on photo reference was flowing through my mind and I dreaded having to ask fellow students. My figures were both nudes and that wasn't something I was comfortable with, though I thought perhaps I could take individual legs and arms and use a little online ref to fill in the rest. I wish I'd drummed up the courage to ask my fellow students, but that particular social step eluded me the whole week. I spent the day instead with many sheets of tracing paper, figuring out What marks were what. I had discussions with Greg Ruth and Donato Giancola about how to find those shapes and make them fit in my piece. You have to figure out who to listen to, and whose advice to stash for a later date. You get bombarded with advice if you go in as open-minded as I did. I'd thrown myself into a pool I should have been paddling in first, pretty much at the very public deep end. I'll admit I found ways to put off getting to painting, as it was only the 2nd oil painting I'd done in the last 20 years and the company I had in the room was stellar and a little overwhelming. Eventually, I chose to redraw via a grid so I could edit as I went along and I used some reference I shot of my own limbs to help flesh the drawing out. I left Tuesday feeling reasonably positive about the work.

Wednesday was a full day with faculty feedback, up to the first 5 pm lecture. Dan Dos Santos, who is perfectly lovely, but also very honest with feedback, stopped by my easel. Overall, very complimentary, he pulled me on a bit of weird anatomy, that after using a lot more photo ref with the rest of the piece, had begun to stand out. He suggested I grab Rebecca after our discussion. I'd responded best to her feedback, as she seemed to understand what I was trying to do, so I grabbed her after lunch. She immediately told me the leg and anatomy I'd had in the thumbnail had been working, and that if I liked the weirdness (which I did) to go weird with the rest of the piece to make the leg fit. Literally the opposite of Dan's feedback. Feedback is such a personal thing, every instructor has their own view of art and own journey. I'd probably tried to take a little bit of everyone who'd stopped by and given feedback and every little bit had nudged me slightly off the course I'd intended to take. Dan's feedback was spot on, if I'd been after something with a solid grounding in realism, but I wasn't. I was after an emotional feeling rather than muscles that looked like they fit where they were supposed to go. Rebecca suggested I just print the thumbnail out, mount it to masonite and paint on that. But resolve my shapes first.

That led me to ask Tara for advice and after some back and forth, I thought I knew where I was going, and decided rather than be tied to the values I'd got in the thumbnail to start with, I'd trace down the printed thumbnail and resolve my shapes. All went well, I got the drawing on the board, and aware of the ever-ticking clock and my ability to get feedback on my painting process, I was keen to get started the following day.

I nick-named Thursday 'Thursday of DOOOOOOOM' in my sketchbook notes. With that many 'O's'. It started well, with my sketch on my illustration board, I figured I'd use acrylic underpainting to speed up the process, then seal with matte medium and start on top in oils. I'd brought a lovely lime green and violet with me, my underpainting was done in warm purple-reds as a counterpoint, and I was winging it. It felt good. I stepped away for a bit before lunch and came back after to the horror of a C-shaped warped board. A brand I'd not used before, I hadn't been heavy with it at all. I threw some matte medium on the back in the hopes it would pull itself out of the curve, but it only stiffened. I think panic set in at this point, I knew there was no point in doing more on the board, but I'd been stubborn over mounting the printouts I'd done. Old dog, new tricks and all that.

Distraught, I knew I had no choice. I slunk off to the back of the studio and tried not to blub my eyes out as I tried a totally new method of mounting with less than perfect tools. Flustered, my hair constantly got stuck in the medium, making me even more panicked that the whole thing would be a disaster and that I'd missed the last supply run and would have to face the very public shame of asking someone for actual help. If there's one thing I hate, it's not being self-sufficient. My fellow students would have happily helped out, but shame is a pretty powerful emotion, it tends to rule what you do. I prayed the mounted paper wouldn't need a 2nd sheet mounting on the back to counter the drawing mounted on the front. At best, in the blazing sun, this stuff would take a couple of hours to dry to the point I could paint on it. The wind did its best to prevent me from stacking the board outside and in my hours of deepest bleakness, I figured that maybe if it blew over into the dirt and insects, I'd say fuck it and make them part of the fucking thing too. It was also at this point I realised the printouts had cropped the two thumbnails I'd chosen to work with, altering their composition drastically. My own dumb fault for not setting the page size up properly in the printer. One more shame I'd suck up and live with. I wish I'd asked for help. I think knowing the pieces weren't what I'd initially intended broke my ability to give them my full attention and killed my mojo for the next couple of days. My anxiety rats, as Rebecca delightfully referred to them, were in full swing.

While I waited for it to dry, I headed back into the studio and mentioned to Rebecca I'd given in with the curved board and mounted the thumbnail and would she have a look over what I'd chosen to do with the background. Rebecca is gracious and lovely and patiently listens to me explain what I've done. Then she points to some of the graphic elements I'd put in and gently says that they still feel too literal and forced, that the motifs I choose should be something I relate to closely and that it doesn't quite live up to the right hand, figurative side of the painting. I suggest a couple of other ideas, feeling a scrabbling panic bulding in me, only to hear her tell me everything still feels too literal. My logic brain knows she's right, but after a distraught morning, I'm clasping at any straw I have to salvage the situation. I don't know if it showed, and she saw that I was struggling with it or if it was just honest feedback for the moment, but at that point, she looked at me and said 'maybe this piece is a step too far for you right now, maybe you should do the other piece, if that's something that's more comfortable for you.' I think I agreed with her, nodded and extolled the virtues of taking a step back into my comfort zone, getting a painting I knew how to do done was a good thing, yes? But damn if that wasn't a kick to the gut at that very moment.

She was absolutely right, though. I'd throw myself into a deep pool, with people who were olympic athletes at diving its depths, and in the course of a week expected to be able to at least dive a good distance with them. I'd been able to get my head underwater with my well-planned thumbnails, but in this overwhelming, information packed, inspiring, public test of artistic mettle, I'd punched above my depth, so to speak. Trying to shift gears artistically when you have your own space and the time to find your journey is one thing, I don't know if it can be done in a week, no matter how much amazing input you get from your artistic heroes. Chris, Erin, Annie, I'm sorry if my energy those next 48 hours was a bummer, it wasn't a place I was familiar with being.

Kent Williams came to the rescue of my very bruised ego that evening with a talk about his personal journey through art. Indirectly, seeing the bredth and depth of his work over such a long time span, I confess to feeling a little idiotic that I'd expected to be able to make that leap in a week. Every faculty member who gave a talk like that had shown me that their journeys were long, and often fraught with failed ventures or periods of doing artistic things they didn't want to. I left the lecture with my tail between my legs, but a renewed sense that I would do my best with the hand I'd given myself. I did a couple of colour studies that evening, traditionally, inspired by seeing James Gurney's master studies in his lecture. I loved doing them, and wish I'd had more time to do more. But I found a piece online that had a palette I liked and did a couple of explorations of a similar theme. I finally, finally, 4 days into the escapade, managed to put down some oil paint.

Friday and Saturday I painted as much as I could, but tentatively, I was making marks I'd never made before. I listened to the feedback being given around me and let anyone who wanted to stop and give me feedback, do so. I'm not sure I actively asked for it. I struggled as the ladies around me with their amazinly characterful pieces drew the attention of everyone who went past. I wondered if I was so far off the mark and weird that no one knew what to say about my piece. Maybe it was so bland that they couldn't praise or crit it. In retrospect, I recognise that my mood and lack of decent sleep was tinting my mood heavily, and I suspect I was giving off the same vibe, which is enough to make folks give you a bit of a wide berth.

The theme of finding your niche and doing what you love came up in more than one lecture over those days. I went to bed at 2 am both nights, in an attempt to get as much done as I could. I socialised a little more, realising that was as much a part of the experience as the painting. If not more. I'm hugely thankful for the bonds I forged during that week, something I couldn't have done at home, no matter how much I painted. Those bonds were worth much more to me than the painting I half finished. I think I came to accept that what I wanted to do was going to be a journey that needed a little longer than a week to take. I wish there had been more 'round table' lectures with all the faculty, seeing them interact together on the business lecture was amazing.

Sunday was chill. I'd had the intention of painting more, but clearing up took a while, and I felt good being relaxed. So I socialised more instead. Our final lecture with Donato was the perfect note to end the experience on and the open house was a chance to take in everyone's work, the standard of which was amazing. After a super tasty mexican dinner and strawberry margherita, the bar beckoned. After drawing I don't know how much hentai in people's sketchbooks and getting a badass Bill Nighy sketch from the awesome Bud Cook in my own sketchbook, alongside the weirdest pseudonyms and animal drawings ever, I crashed and burned as being under the influence after a week of mental stress and lack of sleep took its toll on me. Conan, thank you for making sure I got back safely that night, I really appreciate it, I suspect I'd have passed out in a dark corner of the bar otherwise. Sad I missed out on the late night partying that ensued, but damn, did I need that night's sleep.

So there's one woman's view of what it's like to go to the IMC, to throw yourself at the mercy of the faculty and your own desires. To fail and not deal with it well, to realise that the painting was never the important thing. IMC was amazing. I can only hope this gives those of you who haven't been a teensy insight. I'm not going to cover what the lectures were or what faculty shared with us, that's a very specific IMC experience, that you really have to go to appreciate. I will say I am hugely thankful to Dan, Rebecca and all of those on Muddy Colors who made that experience real for me. It has enriched me in ways I suspect I'll only realise as my journey continues. Thank you to everyone who gave me kind words and praise and to those who tried to guide me on my way. If ever the opportunity arises for you to attend, I would say grab it with both hands and run with it. Even if your experience doesn't run as profound as mine, and it simply lets you have some time to paint whatever the hell you want, being in a huge room full of people going through the same thing is well worth the price, not to mention watching faculty paint in real time is invaluable.

So, what if you've taken that leap, some months from now and you're going to the IMC? Here's a few pointers from someone who thought they were prepared and was woefully not.

1 - THE DORMS Are basic AF. I was somewhat prepared, but when the FAQ says the beds are firm, they mean it. Think springs wrapped in a bit of plastic tarp. The sheets are functional, but the blanket looked like someone had put used dog bedding through a shredder and mushed it out into a rectangle. I bought a spare blanket at the CVS store, cause no way was that thing touching my skin. I may be a little sensitive though. I affectionately referred to the whole set up as my prison bed, cause honestly, that's all I could think of. If you can bring your own bedding, I'd recommend it.

The dorm bathrooms are gender neutral, which means anyone can use them. I was fine with it, but it's odd the first time you wander into the bathroom and find the opposite sex brushing their teeth. I never had any problems taking a shower, though, they were pretty quiet.

Morris Pratt Dorm was definitely the more social, I was very thankful to be on the 3rd floor, as a light sleeper, the partying into the wee hours would have kept me awake had I been on the lower floors. The box fans helped with white noise, but the doors are all pretty heavy, so unless folks are very delicate with how they close them, expect some noise. I found the box fan enough without the AC, even when it got pretty warm on the last couple of days.

2 - FOOD. Having never been to a large educational establishment in the US, I wasn't sure what to expect with the food. Would I have to venture into Amherst to find healthy stuff, would there be much choice? The food was surprisingly decent. It's still a large facility, so it's never going to be amazing restaurant quality, but there were a few choices every day and a well-stocked salad bar. They even had a soft serve ice cream machine, that I managed to avoid until Sunday. I'm not a coffee drinker, but I had it on good authority that the coffee in the dining hall wasn't great. It might be an idea to bring a drinks container with you, as mealtimes are the only time you can get drinks on campus, outside of water fountains. Amherst is only a 10-minute walk down the road, though.

3 - ART SUPPLIES AND STUDIO SAFETY. I brought paints, brushes and surfaces with me, with the knowledge I'd ordered a couple extra things for while I was there and that there was a supply run. If you work on specific surfaces, it's best to bring those with, Michael's wasn't super well stocked, and more speciality things like large clayboard weren't available. A lot of people bring extras and are happy to share, thankfully. I would have brought more old rags or kitchen towels and some tape. People often used walls to tape up thumbnails or other pieces of art.

The university runs a very strict number of safety policies surrounding paints, water and mediums. Bring some lidded jars with you for mediums and water. Everything has to be labelled clearly and remained closed when not in use. Even water used for rinsing acrylic and watercolours. All have to be disposed of carefully too. Same with anything you wipe paint or mediums on, so using something a bit more disposable like kitchen towel might do you better. They ask you to cover your oil paints when not in use, though that can be with a simple piece of palette paper.

If you choose an easel, if you have space for a little extra table, you'll likely make good use of it. The chairs they supply are also very basic and not comfortable for long periods, so bringing a cushion is definitely a good idea. Oh, and they say the studio opens at 8 am on Monday but I got there at 8 am and a lot of the spaces had already been taken, so if you want prime real estate, get there early!

4 - SELF PROMOTION This sounds like a no-brainer. I brought business cards for the faculty and my portfolio review with Irene Gallo. I thought I'd sorted my work out reasonably well, but actually, my website would have been a better place to show off my work. I also wish I'd brought a physical portfolio to leave out for students and faculty to flick through, perhaps an example of finished work that was either nicely printed if I was doing digital, or one of my traditional pieces. The latter is tricky when flying. My business cards were on the pricey side so I wish I'd had some decent postcards or stickers, printed for the open studio, where folks were picking stuff up. You never know who's going to pick one up! The internet can be spotty in the building, so unless you have some 4G going on, it can be tricky to show off folios digitally.

You might also be lucky enough to score a second portfolio review if the guests have enough time, I am so glad I could put my work in front of WotC's Jeremy Jarvis. It cheered my Saturday up no end! Make sure you check the lists when they go up and bag your second spot early. And don't puss out.

5 - DON'T BE AFRAID TO ASK FOR HELP I'm stubborn and British, so asking for help is the worst, but everyone there will gladly help you out if they can. Especially the assistant team, Daneen, Julia and Stephen and the 'honored easels' who've been in your situation. Take advantage of them, they are all lovely people.

And that sums it up! An amazing, tiring, exhausting, mentally demanding, inspiring, overwhelming experience that I wouldn't change for the world. I hope to repeat it in the next year or two. I count myself lucky to be part of the alumni and perhaps if you're reading this, I might see you there too.

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labyrinth-magic · 3 years ago

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My Dear Fellow Pilgrims, I'm so excited to share with you my most recent Patreon post (link below)! It's one I've made available to all of you to read as a sample of the work that I do on the labyrinth path. I am gathering a Fellowship of kindred souls on the labyrinth path. We are here to walk with you, beginning from wherever you are right now! At whatever level of membership you support my work, you are a dearly valued Patron and are welcomed immediately into my Fellowship with open arms. Here are some of the benefits of being a member of my Fellowship on the labyrinth path. You have a Fellowship community of kindred souls who will celebrate all of the steps you take on your path to living a life you choose, a life you design and weave for yourself out of your deepest heart's desires. You receive support for your journey in the form of reflections, journaling prompts, videos, audio inspiraitons, live gatherings (virtually or in person), encouraging goodies, and community! You can interact any time with each other in the Comments below each post and on my "Paths to Peace" facebook community page. You are invited to guide the nature of my posts by letting me know what type of material serves you and ignites your soul to empowered action toward living a life you absolutely love! Who among you will be the first to take the leap and join this beautiful Fellowship of pilgrims who use the labyrinth path to trust yourself and your Inuition more deeply and listen to your Muse more carefully? Are you ready to engage with a community who celebrates you, sparks your unique creativity, and offers accountability for taking action to change your life to match your dreams? Come join us, and bring all your friends along! Here's where to start! ~https://www.patreon.com/posts/meditation-on-61308369 Love, Karen XO

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abstractanalogue · 4 years ago

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Ann Scott interview

I first came across Ann Scott’s music in 2018 and wrote about her Venus To The Sky (2013) album at that time here. She is a singer-songwriter but in the main she collaborates with what sounds like a full band at times so her sound can be vast when needed. Since then I have really gotten into what she has been doing and collected her other albums and none of them disappointed me in any way. I guess her main strength is the quality of the songs and she has a knack for finding the most suitable instrumentation and collaborators to really make them take-off. For me she is of the same calibre of an artist such as PJ Harvey and I wish she was as well known but such is the nature of life. Sometimes these things take time but her music is built to last.

I have been posting about her regularly on the AA FB page and decided to make contact with her for an interview to tie-in with her outstanding new album Lily. I have many favourites from it but here I’ve selected ‘River’ and ‘One Step Fall’ as good examples to show the two sides of the album, from a full to a more sparse and minimal sound. For me, there were a few songs I instantly connected with but the whole album is a grower and worth the effort. While it hasn’t been such a long wait for me, older fans haven’t seen a new album in about eight years so I thought she’d have something interesting to say. It’s great to hear something of how the album came together and about her background, reactions to the pandemic and more. You can sample and purchase Lily on Bandcamp here.

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How did you first get involved with music, were you always interested in singing and writing since you were very young? What were your early passions and influences (not just musical)?

Early on I just lived and breathed books. As a child, I remember the radio being on 24/7. I thought music was just an awful racket and associated it with detergent jingles and ranting talk show guests. I think I longed for silence really. That all changed in a positive way, in first class when our teacher encouraged us to dance on the tables along to Peter and the Wolf. Then came Top of the Pops as a weekly religion. In the eighties music had massive relevance, everybody was madly taping songs off the radio. There was a small selection of vinyl at our house and I spent many hours with a pound shop microphone stuck into the stereo – or was it the back of the VHS player ?- and even back then the big red button meant ‘record’. So, there were hours of fun overdubbing sci-fi movies and blasting along to Madonna long before the first 4 track arrived.

What was it like for you in those early days, what are your memories of starting out playing live etc? Did you get some recognition?

I first began busking around in the nineties and it was around about then I started writing songs, but I took a long time to finish and perform them. Initially I was just enthralled with that very primal thing of live singing. In Dublin the International Bar on Wicklow Street was the hub for songwriter talent, experienced and novice. There was a massive amount of it around and it was a magic time. Every Tuesday evening the upstairs venue there would be heaving with the motley crew of Dave Murphy’s songwriter guests. Dave curated an open mic ‘but with no mic’ kind of an evening and mentored, more or less, the whole singer songwriter scene at that time, which today accounts for many of Ireland’s household names. There was some A&R interest around but I didn’t have much of a knack for the schmooze and all that, I think I realized I was still developing a craft and probably wasn’t ready for committing to anything, whereas the industry was and is still obsessed with ‘new’ and ‘young’.

Even from your first album, in my opinion, you had very much developed a signature sound and voice. I guess this could just be you being yourself or is it something you really had to work on? Are you very self-critical, how easy is song writing for you? Going purely by your album covers, it appears you take on a different image/persona for each album. If I’m correct, is this part of your process for song writing as well?

You’re kind of born with the voice you have. All of your ideas and inspiration have to be influenced by the world around you. In my case, love of language slowly gave over to love of melody and expression of ideas but it was hard to marry the two. I am critical as hell and tend to do things slowly and mull over them and revise lots of times. Many songs are image heavy or take on personas, as you say, and I would throw in lots of characters and animals, maybe as metaphors for things, or sometimes not. I’ve always had a soft spot for odd tunings and gypsy sounding stringed instruments and gravitating to keys like C sharp or F sharp has not made me popular with fellow players. But in terms of a sound, in particular, the first few albums, my ideas were very much interpreted and realized by Karl Odlum.

Even though you are known as a solo artist there is a collaborative process for you to go through to get your music completed. Do you have regular people you work with or do they change with each project? How do you select your collaborators?

I’m happy to goof off on my own for a stint and write and record and layer music but you can’t beat that buzz of the idea exchange. Karl Odlum has a fantastic adaptable approach that he brings to everyone he works with, so I’ve been lucky to be able to tap into his expertise...and synth collection. He is a brilliant bass player, and a powerhouse of production ideas, and although I go at the Protools myself these days, Karl is still the linchpin I’d say. In terms of band, when budget allows the more the merrier. Touring with musicians you get to know people and give each other a dig out so I’m happy to barter with other songwriters when it comes to lending each other random ideas or vocals.

I felt things were really beginning to change for new artists around the very late 90s. The beginnings of MySpace and later YouTube and all of the promise (potential worldwide exposure!) that seemed to bring. As far as sales went, there was a kind of vacuum I felt from then until iTunes and digital sales became more firmly established with platforms like Bandcamp. Some of the traditional music print media also began to disappear or become unrecognisable from what it had once been. But live gigs and festivals became more popular (and good for selling music directly or so the theory goes). What was your experience as an artist that emerged right in those uncertain times of change?

Music has been a victim of its own success really. The technology which emancipated musicians (home studios, digital distribution etc) also kind of devoured them. There was suddenly a flood of independents all vying for the same shrinking media pie, and then the ‘subscribe a little and stream absolutely everything’ model (eg Spotify) came along and just about killed off album sales entirely. Back in the nineties an independent musician could be making a humble living and tour based on selling CDs at gigs, but that is all complicated now with the new medium. Additionally, many of the traditional opportunities such as the festival slots you mention are offered as unpaid promotional opportunities to up and coming artists. But if that is more and more the actual model, then you have to ask, what exactly is there to be up and coming to ?

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You started a Patreon in the last year or so, what was your experience of that? I get the impression this helped the album along.

Patreon is the brand new world. It got me back into a discipline of finishing and releasing music, which for somebody who likes to spend months or years on single line lyrics, is a necessary thing. Also, it got me just back to connecting with people, and I was surprised by what subscription tiers worked or what people wanted to hear that I would not necessarily have thought of. Without listeners it is hard to make the music come alive. And that rabbit hole gets deeper. So, after a long gap between albums it was a great way to put the heartbeat back into things.

What can we expect from the new album, Lily, and what format will it take? Could you collaborate with different musicians this time around? What are your hopes for gigs, promotion etc. I suppose inevitably your new album (just like any album released this year) will be seen as a lockdown album, do you think the pandemic influenced your music or would it have still been more or less the same?

Lily is a digital only release, although I had a yearn for a vinyl pressing, I thought green is clean. The pandemic greatly paved the song selection, in that I couldn’t collaborate with other musicians last year even if I wanted to, so there is a lot of minimalism. There’s barely a click track anywhere on the album with many of the songs performed more or less as live takes. There are also fuller tunes with more featured artists which predated lockdown but overall, the lonely live intimate vibe is the prevailing wind. With everybody cooped up inside, it might sound counterintuitive, but it felt like the right time to release a live sounding record. When it does come to going back out to gig, I should have a selection that I can hopefully reproduce easily enough in a live context.

Due to the pandemic we are potentially in a very precarious time for music as we have known it. I know there is no crystal ball but how do you think things are going to work out for musicians and the industry itself?

Very odd times indeed, but the music industry is kind of eating itself anyway. In terms of gender and diversity balance, I hope that is one thing which can be addressed. I think the really obnoxious televised talent competitions have to go (or are they gone already?). Music had a very cringey tv moment for a while there. The keyword for the future music industry has to be - like all world industries at the moment - sustainability.

I read on your website that you moved to the countryside. What has your experience been?

Moving to the countryside has been a major change for me and, also becoming a parent, so lots of things all fell into place and out of place, and lots of songs always fall out of change. I might miss being by the sea sometimes, but trade off in the deep countryside is the sky. All those thousands of super bright stars at night and those 360 degree sunsets. Plenty to space off to there...

Thanks for your time. You will find Ann’s website here and she is also on Facebook and Twitter.

#Ann Scott #lily #interview

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elfnerdherder · 7 years ago

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Where the Wicked Walk: Ch. 15

You can read Chapter 15 on Ao3 Here

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Chapter 15: Mesmeric Revelation

That night, long after he heard the clattering of dinner plates and laughter, long after he heard music and chatter, and far long after he heard doors closing, showers running, and feet mumbling, Will Graham left his room. It had been locked, but the gum did its job and kept the bolt from setting. A mere fiddling with the ink cartridge of his pen did the rest of the job, and the lock turned with a muted, triumphant click.

His feet padded along the soft carpet that muffled his steps, and the solidly built stairs didn’t betray him. He paused before the front door, staring. Every muscle in him begged him to go to it, begged him to throw the locks and make a break for it until he could find a road and a good Samaritan to help him.

He didn’t, though.

Just how many stalked the trees surrounding the house? Just how many cameras were on every angle he could take to escape? He thought of Matthew knowing the moment he’d tried to run, and he rocked back on his heels, away from the door.

Instead, he made his way down another hall and headed towards the security room.

He didn’t expect it to be empty. No matter how many slept, Dr. Lecter was no fool. Sure enough, poking his head in, he saw Francis beside one of the monitors. His back was to Will, but that didn’t stop him from seeing the antenna of a satellite phone that cut into the shadows of the room, nor did it stop him from seeing the map lit dimly by a few desk lamps and the monitor’s glow.

“You got the voicemail? Good. He’s getting desperate.”

A pause as Dolarhyde listened to the speaker.

“The man whose phone was bugged got transferred. I’ve got another guy, but he’s not there yet. Dr. Lecter needs you to find out exactly what they know so far, that we can plan the next step.”

Another pause, and Will swallowed, a dry click in his throat.

“You don’t need to know how many dead. You’ll see soon enough.”

He hung up and set the phone off to the side, beside the monitor. There was a pause, a long and dreadful silence as Dolarhyde stared down at the monitor. The lamplight gave his bones a sharp edge, his mouth a cruel twist. The hollows of his cheeks were pronounced, the curve of his shoulder elegant.

Truth be told, he looked like a dragon.

Will slipped down the hall and hunkered down in a corner of it, melding himself into the shadows. From his pocket, he produced a hairclip, nothing more than one of the things he’d found in one of the many bedrooms. Decidedly, and with a fair amount of careful aim, he tossed it at the door. It smacked the wood, fell with a quiet and plaintive thump.

It took less than two seconds.

Dolarhyde was at the door, his sharp gaze peering into the dark. The light behind him gave him an ethereal glow as he turned his head one way, then another. Even hidden as Will was, he still felt too exposed, far too noticeable as Dolarhyde took one step, then another out of the door his nose to the air like he could smell Will if he tried hard enough.

After a pained, loud heartbeat, Dolarhyde turned away from Will and headed down the hall to investigate.

The moment he was gone, Will rushed into the room.

The satellite phone was first, although he paused long enough by the computer to glance at it.

Thirty-Two Dead in Will Graham Killing Spree:

The Faces of Will Graham: Dozens Dead in Lecter Slayings

Where is Will Graham?

News updates. Links to articles. Dolarhyde was watching the media as much as he was trying to watch the FBI. If time hadn’t been a rapid pulse bulging right beneath his eye, Will would have stopped to read them, glean over the first one in particular –thirty-two dead? Will Graham Killing Spree?

Another time; some time when Dolarhyde wasn’t hunting through the house to see who lurked outside of his door at 3:30 in the morning.

The back door was quickly unlocked, and he was rushing down the steps before he had time to really consider his actions, before he could wonder just what was going to happen when he was caught.

Fingers fumbled over a phone number he’d come to memorize over the years, a failsafe to him in times of need or duress. He hadn’t had occasion to use it in six years, normal as things had seemed, but he used it now, running across the back lawn to the safety of the shadows of trees. The air was cold, wet. Cicadas screamed for their lives.

He didn’t answer the first two times, and Will let out a hiss of impatient air as he dialed it again. If he’d risked his live, if he’d risked his fucking life just for the bastard to ignore his call…

“Crawford here,” Jack said tiredly.

Relief seared him, a pleasant burn that made his legs give, and Will pressed his back to the tree, a sob managing to rip past his lips.

“Jack…Jesus, you finally picked up.” Will let out a sharp, aggravated breath of air as he hunched down, cradling the phone close to his face like the lifeline that it was. “Jack…it’s Will.”

“Cold as shit out here,” Duncan commented.

Earl swirled his spit around in his mouth before he spat it on the ground before them. Their rocking chairs creaked out of time, and the autumn breeze sent the wind chimes to clacking and smacking together in a horrendous cacophony. Late evening, and the crickets yowled.

“Hate them wind chimes,” Earl muttered. “Debbie likes them.”

Duncan grunted. “Debbie likes being a pain in my ass.”

“Yeah,” Earl said with a snort.

“Yeah.”

They stared out at the road, the distant sound of semi-trucks roaring by on the interstate their only companion. It was quiet in Telefar County, peaceful. Sunsets were mighty nice.

Cold as shit, though.

“She gonna make us come out here every time we chew?” Duncan asked.

“Says she wants her house ‘to be a fuckin’ home’.”

“I’ll show her a fuckin’ home. God damned forty-five fuckin’ degrees out here.”

“She’ll slap you with the barrel of that shotgun in there, that’s what she’ll do,” Earl replied. “Did it to her brother just the other night, came home drunk and shouting.”

“No shit?”

“Slapped him with the barrel of that sum’bitch, tossed him outside to sleep out here.”

“All ‘cause she found those church folks,” Duncan muttered. “God damn pastor coming around every other weekday. ‘Askin me, when I’m gonna get my ass to the pews? Bein’ a veteran an’ all, when’s my ass gonna warm a pew?” He sent a decisive wad of spit out onto the dirt; a complimentary response to a ridiculous notion as a Sunday morning sermon. “I serve my God’n my country, ‘n I figure I find God in more holier places than a church. Get my spir’tual en-light-ment from the forest, see.”

Earl hummed in agreement. “More’n one way to skin a cat. More’n one way to love a God.”

“Got damn eight AM service, wantin’ me to slap my ass on a cold pew,” Duncan continued. When he got on a roll, it was hard to deter him. “Cold as shit pew.”

“Better them church folks than those god damn psychos running up and down the east coast,” Earl said. He watched his old dog, Mutt, lazily crawl out from under the house in order to plop himself properly at his master’s feet. He nudged him with his boot, rubbed the dog’s side with the heel of it. His tongue lolled as his tail whapped against the wood.

“Saw that,” Duncan said with a sneer. “Bunch of crazies with their panties in a damn knot, stealin’ them doctors and killing cops.”

Earl spat on the ground. “God damn cop killers.”

“Death penalty for cop killers is what I’m saying,” Duncan pressed. “That’s all I’m sayin’, they won’t stop killing if they think they’ll just get a slap on the wrist. They’ll just keep killin’ cops, and I heard that doctor was a nice fellow; testified on account of his finding one of those agents and all. Saved his life since he got stuck with a knife.”

Earl was stopped from sharing his own opinion on the fate of cop killers when a car pulled up in their yard and eased to a stop. It was a fancy sort of thing, black with chrome accents and tinted windows. The man that climbed out of it looked the real city sort; slicked back hair, leather dress shoes, and a blazer of all the god damn things.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he greeted.

Earl and Duncan shared a look. Duncan spat on the ground, and Earl rocked in his rocking chair.

“It’s a nice night, isn’t it?” the man pressed.

“Cold as shit,” Duncan grunted. “Forty-five fuckin’ degrees.”

“It is chilly.”

Silence. The car idled, and Earl wondered what sort of year it was. 2015? 2017? His cousin had a really nice Subaru, 2015 with a decent paint job.

Duncan didn’t have such curiosities. “You lost there, boy?”

“I am a bit turned around, yes,” the man said with an awkward laugh. “Would you mind giving me directions?”

“You ain’t from around here, are yeh,” Earl noted.

“No, sir, I’m not.”

“What’s a boy like you doing out here? Where you headed?”

“It’s a bit personal –I hope you understand.”

Duncan and Earl exchanged looks, and Duncan snickered. Earl absently spit another wad out into the yard.

“Oh, I understand just fine,” Duncan assured him.

Silence once more. The man shifted, unsure of himself. Mutt huffed a breath and lifted his head, only now just recognizing a stranger in the yard. He peered up at Earl, as if silently questioning if he should do something about it.

“Oh, you see it now, do you, Mutt?” Earl grunted. He nudged the dog affectionately and swirled the chew around in his mouth. Tasted like ass, but he’d eat his leg rather than give it up.

“Really, gentlemen, if I could just-”

“We don’t take kindly to strangers just hustlin’ along and getting right in our business, see?” Duncan said. He stood up and adjusted his pants, hitching them up at his hips. “So you just get along now and go buy one of them maps at a gas station like all the other folks do when they get lost down here.”

“Damn Yankees,” Earl muttered in agreement.

The man was dumbfounded, and he looked between the two of them with the same kind of expression Debbie had when she went to throw a cup away and splashed chew all over her arm. She hadn’t realized it was his chewing cup ‘till that moment, but god almighty he’d never heard the end of it. Now, he was stuck outside in the cold-as-shit weather when he wanted a chew.

The stranger’s eyes bugged for a moment, and he let out a laugh, incredulous as all get out.

“You’re serious.”

“As serious as sin, boy,” Earl said. “Got all them crazies runnin’ around our state, fuckin’ things up and makin’ us get some bad publicity. Last thing we need’s a Yankee boy comin’ down here, huntin’ and gettin’ lost and comin’ after our women.”

“I’m here on business, it’s simply that-”

“Telefar County business is our business, see,” Duncan interjected. “And since you’re inclined to your secrets, we’ll be inclined to ours. Secrets like directions, see?”

Silence again.

Earl squinted a bit at him, and when the stranger didn’t immediately move to leave, he stood up and went shoulder to shoulder with Duncan, giving him his most impressive stare down. It was a damn good one, all things considered. Farm work and ranch work had left him leathered, sun-beaten and wrinkled. Debbie still liked him, though, when she’d had one shot too many. She said he was a pretty as a newborn babe.

Now that all those bible thumpers got her roped into weekly church, she didn’t drink no more. Probably didn’t think he was a pretty newborn babe, neither. God damn bible thumpers.

“I’ll…be going, then,” the man said. He inched back towards his car.

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard today, Earl.”

“A damn fine idea, Duncan.”

They stayed standing until the man peeled out from the yard, fast enough that it kicked rocks.

They were just sitting down once more when another car pulled up, far less fancy and with a great deal more sputtering and general noise-making.

“God damn, we’re popular tonight,” Duncan grunted.

Earl fished about for another wad of chew, then tucked it into his lip. “Damn popular.”

It wasn’t another Yankee –if it was, they were a decent sort. A pretty lady with wild red hair and the most darling baby blue eyes Earl had ever seen made her way over. She’d turned the car off and tucked the keys into her jacket pocket. Sensible shoes and a camo coat, like she knew how the hell to dress for the elements. Earl liked her infinitely better.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she began. The closer she got, Earl was able to see red-rimmed eyes and a trembling mouth.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Duncan asked.

“No, I’m…I’m not at all. I’m in desperate need of help, you see.” She fiddled with a handkerchief in hand, and she stifled a sob as her knees tried to buckle on her. At the sight of tears, that did it. Earl was down the steps and leading her up them before he could think of a reason why not to. She was seated in his rocking chair, and after several prompts to Earl, a sweet tea from the fridge was produced.

“Now, now take it easy, little lady, what’s wrong? Someone get you bad? In some trouble?” Duncan asked. The woman fiddled with the glass and took a sip, casting them a grateful glance. Tears rimmed her eyes, although she fought to keep them back. A strong type.

“I’m…trying to find my husband, you see,” she said. “I think he’s run off with another woman.”

“What a got-damn, worthless-”

“Duncan,” Earl chastised. It wasn’t right to cuss near a lady.

“Sorry, miss, I just…if he’s left you, why are you going after him?” Duncan scratched his neck where the beginnings of a beard were growing. “Why you want him when, no offenses out here, but he clearly ain’t wantin’ you?”

She looked up from her glass, and there was fire in her eyes. “So I can beat the sense into him, then out of him, that’s why,” she snarled.

Earl decided he liked this gal. A sensitive sort that didn’t take shit from no one.

“Well, we don’t get a lot of people out around here.”

“I’ve been following him, and I think he passed this way. If I showed you a photo, could you confirm it?”

“If we’ve seen him, we’ll tell you,” Earl promised.

And damn, when she pulled out her phone and showed them a picture of that guy they’d just been shooing off their property, it just made Earl’s heart swell a bit. He looked over her head at Duncan, and Duncan looked back.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Duncan said with a grin, “yeah, we seen him.”

“Have you ever thought about killing someone, Dr. Lecter?” Will asked.

He sometimes loved asking questions like that, mostly because of how Dr. Lecter took his time answering. He always gave Will’s question consideration due their seriousness. No matter how odd, off-the-wall, or obscene, he took his time answering. On nights when Will woke up with remnants of his night terrors clinging to his eyes, he needed to know that someone else out there felt that way, too.

“We all have,” he said after a moment. “Although, I’d suppose you’ve given it a lot of thought lately?”

“I keep dreaming of killing people,” Will murmured. “I keep…dreaming that I have this…insatiable hunger. That no matter how much I kill, I will always want more.”

“Have you given your father a lot of thought lately?”

Will nodded, standing up to pace. He often paced in Lecter’s office, and he liked to think of himself as remarkably familiar with the whorls and dips of his wooden floor. Sometimes the words got stuck, but Dr. Lecter seemed to hear them all the same.

“Is there some form of aggression to your dreams? In the manner in which you take a life?”

“My heartbeat feels calm…steady. It doesn’t race until I wake and think back on what I saw.”

Will paused beside the ladder that led up to a wraparound second story, and he dragged his fingers along the grips of a step. In each groove of the wood, he imagined blood flowing like obscene rivulets, staining everything in its wake. He imagined what his hands had felt like, choking the life from the faceless victim in his nightmares, and he slumped against the ladder, rubbing his eyes to erase the remnants that felt like something much akin to a real memory.

“In your dreams, death is a release. You’ve honed in on your talents, so much so that your heart no longer betrays adrenaline and gives way to mistakes.”

“Do you have dreams like that?” Will asked, looking up. Poised in his chair as he was, Dr. Lecter tilted his head slightly to the side.

“Are you seeking the feeling of normalization through familiarity?”

“I’m wondering if I should check myself into a psychiatric ward,” Will retorted sharply.

Dr. Lecter stood, and he crossed the distance between them at a leisurely pace. Will tracked his movements, hands lowering to his sides, and when Dr. Lecter dipped down to meet his eyes, he cringed back into the ladder, the closeness stifling and mildly off-putting.

Dr. Lecter didn’t move back to give him space. He remained close, crowding him as he tilted his head one way, then the other; His eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed down. That close, Will could smell his cologne that blended nicely with his aftershave, and he gulped a breath of it down before his shoulders relaxed slowly, centimeter by centimeter. Silence sat muffled around them, and just outside of the window, the screech of a weed-whacker grated.

“Apart from your general aversion to eyes, I see no glazed expression or feverish stare,” Dr. Lecter noted lightly. “Your pulse is strong in your neck, and your knees aren’t weak. You aren’t running a temperature that I can see, and you haven’t mentioned lapses of time.”

“Wh-Why?” Will asked. Dr. Lecter didn’t step back to give him air. Will gulped down another mouthful of his cologne, and his eyes flickered up to meet a mildly amused gaze. After a shaky exhale, he looked away.

“You wondered if you should check yourself into a psychiatric ward,” he murmured. That close, Will could track the beat of his pulse at his throat. He stared at it, the even timing of it having a mildly calming effect on his nerves. “You give no indications of a split personality, nor any illness that would cause loss of memory or lapses in time.”

“I haven’t lost time.”

“Have you woken in any location other than your bed?”

“…No?”

Hannibal smiled briefly, a faint flash of canines. “Then you’re fine, Will. Dreams reflect some aspect of ourselves, but all that this tells me is that you’re particularly stressed, and it’s manifesting in your dreams. You’ve thought often of your father recently, and the only form of control over death one can have is if they are the one to cause it, therefore; it seems to me that your fantasies of a calm, stillness to your killing is that this is the only thing your mind feels that it can control. Life, with all of inability to be predicted, is made safe and normalized with your ability to still your heart when taking a life. Better to take than to have taken.”

Will looked up to his eyes once more, and he nodded curtly, once. Relief was a slow trickle, but it was warm, and Dr. Lecter’s answering smile as he finally backed away and let Will breathe stayed sweet in the back of his throat.

“…That’s a relief,” he said after a beat, straightening. The ladder shifted behind him, and he pushed away from it to continue his previous pacing. “I don’t know how I’d fare in court.”

“If it turned out that you’d killed someone?”

“Yeah. I don’t know the statistics for a solid defense in regards to someone claiming an alternate personality, but I’d assume that the jury wouldn’t buy that so easily.”

Hannibal laughed, a warm and low sound. “You know the statistics for soulmates in court, though.”

Will let out a derisive snort.

“You scoff at it?”

“Someone…claiming that because of their soulmate, they were driven to violence is about the shittiest excuse I can think of,” Will explained. “Soulmates aren’t the end-all. They may prompt, they may entice, and they may twist your thoughts and chemicals up a bit, but you don’t lose your mind. To say that a soulmate was the cause of any actions done by a person would be like saying that they’d put a gun to your head.”

“You’d be especially critical of a person with a half-connection, then,” Hannibal observed.

“There is no chemical compulsion at that point. The justice system is especially skewed in regards to soulmates, but I don’t buy it. At all.”

‘Woe be to the fool that stands before you in trial.”

Will sat down across from him once more, and the smile given was crooked at best. “I’m no judge…nor am I the jury or the executioner. If I’m lucky, I’ll never even have to walk into a court room so long as I live.”

A wonderful thanks to all of my patrons: @hanfangrahamk @matildaparacosm @starlit-catastrophe @frostyleegraham @sylarana @frostylicker Duhaunt6 and Superlurk!

#Hannibal #Where the Wicked Walk #LiaS scribbles #hannigram #slowburn hannigram #soulmate au #hannibal soulmate au #someone help will graham #Jack Crawford #coming to the rescue

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