#i spent like 4 hours planning out and grinding a way to chain her into Lilim and then Nekomata and Valkyrie

[300iqprower]

Hey guys guess who I fused Pixie into

MY DAY BE SO FINE AND THEN BAM

MATADOR

[pinnithin-writes]

The First: Aftermath (Part 2)

A collaborative work between myself and @reneethecyborg on what happened after Lupin III: The First. Part 2 of 4, 1609 words.

It never ceases to amaze Zenigata how quickly things tend to spiral out of control when the Lupin gang is involved. Just a few days ago, he was staking out a Parisian museum in hopes of preventing Lupin from stealing some old diary with vague ties to his grandfather. The stakeout had sort of worked, excepting Lupin’s usual dramatic escape at the last second. Then radio silence for a day or so, until Lupin popped up again in the middle of Mexico for no clear reason. That’s when things really got complicated, as they almost always do with these people.

While arresting Lupin may be the cornerstone of his career, Zenigata’s primary goal has always been to uphold justice and root out corruption wherever it may lurk—even among his own coworkers, from time to time. With that in mind, it’s not terribly surprising that he often finds himself forming a temporary alliance with the Lupin gang when there’s a greater evil to deal with, and there are few greater evils than the one they’ve come up against this time.

All in all, things seem to have worked out alright. The entirety of the Brazil base’s manpower was either taken into custody or gunned down when Interpol (and the Lupin gang) stormed the place, the Eclipse device was kept out of the wrong hands, and Laetitia Bresson can get on with her life as a bright young woman with a promising career in archaeology to look forward to, finally free of the dark cloud hanging over her.

But something still isn’t sitting right with Zenigata.

He would never admit to giving them a head start—it would sound too much like he’s going soft—but it didn’t seem fair to chase the Lupin gang out on a rail before they had a chance to say goodbye to their new friend. From where Zenigata had been watching on Interpol’s own boat, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice, the whole affair seemed rather subdued. Lupin didn’t perform any of his usual grand gestures of farewell; Laetitia had hugged him, but he ended it fairly quickly and spent most of their conversation on the speedboat, like he was trying to keep a bit of distance between them.

The pursuit didn’t last long, on account of the fact that they could hardly leave Laetitia stranded there on the pier, but what little he saw before cutting the gang loose left a bad taste in his mouth. Again Lupin lacked his usual grandstanding and bravioso—no cheeky waving, no jumping around hurling childish barbs as the speedboat careened off into the sunset.

As a detective, Zenigata’s job is to make inferences based on whatever scraps of information he can wring out of a situation. In this case, the information he has leads to one conclusion: whatever happened on that plane, it didn’t go anywhere near as smoothly as Lupin insisted it would when he originally pitched his plan to destroy the Eclipse personally. There’s other supporting evidence, too; when the plan was originally hashed out, Lupin claimed he would set the Eclipse to destroy itself and then immediately bail out before it could become a danger to him. But when the time came, nobody saw him at all until long after the plane had begun to consume itself, and even then he didn’t have his parachute.

Something went wrong up there, Zenigata’s sure of it. If he had to guess, he would suppose that Geralt wasn’t as much of a pushover as Lupin seemed convinced he would be. They probably fought—or rather, Geralt fought while Lupin danced around making a fool of himself. Given the nature of Lupin’s scheme, it would stand to reason that Geralt might have come at him with everything he had. People tend to abandon all pretense when their ideology and life’s work goes up in smoke before their eyes. With that in mind, it’s very likely that Lupin took a beating before he could get away. That would explain his behavior after the fact, if he were injured.

Of course, there’s not really anything Zenigata can do about his theory, regardless of whether he turns out to be right. Going back for Laetitia meant he had absolutely no chance of catching the Lupin gang, or even tracking where they might have gone; he’s got a hunch they’re still somewhere in Brazil, but that’s not enough to work with. And there’s still all the logistics and busywork that come after a caper like this—reports to write and fact-check and edit, charges to file against the surviving Nazis, favors to cash in so Laetitia can make her way back to France (and then, shortly, to Boston) without too much hassle.

Zenigata is going to be up to his neck in paperwork for the rest of the month making sure this mess is sorted out properly and without any mistakes, and that’s assuming everything goes smoothly when it comes to filing charges. He’d like to believe his annoyance at being chained to his desk is purely a result of not being able to hunt down the Lupin gang after having no choice but to let them slip away, but he’d be lying to himself. The truth of the matter is that he’s worried, and there’s nothing to be done about it now except grind through the paperwork and wait to see if they resurface any time soon.

Just as Zenigata’s considering calling it quits for the night, his desk phone rings. That in itself isn’t terribly unusual, but everybody who’s needed to speak with him about today’s chaos has come to him directly—the building’s internal lines have been tangled up for hours with all the cross-department communication. It must be someone from outside the building, then, and Zenigata has a strong hunch who it might be. “Inspector Zenigata,” he says automatically.

“It’s Jigen.”

That’s what Zenigata was hoping for. “I’m not going to bother asking where you are.” Jigen would never say, and it would be impossible to trace the call before he loses his patience and hangs up. Besides, he’s almost certainly calling from a payphone, and that’s only marginally more useful information than ‘probably somewhere in Brazil’.

“Good. Saves us some time.” He sounds about as terse as usual—his gruff demeanor doesn’t translate well to phone conversations—but there’s something else there. Maybe he’s tired. “Just wanted to let you know we made it to dry land.”

Well, that’s good. Pretty vague reassurance, though. “And you’re all alright?” He can’t be blamed for probing a bit. It’s basically his job.

A brief pause. Not a good sign. “We’re all alive, if that’s what you mean.” Definitely not a good sign. Jigen sighs, or maybe it’s just static on the line. “Look, pops, I’ll level with you. Lupin’s not doing too hot. He’ll live,” he adds hastily, cutting off any possible miscommunication.

So Zenigata’s hunch was right. It’s no victory, all things considered. “How bad is it?”

Another pause, though this one is less loaded. “Not as bad as it could’ve been. He didn’t get shot this time, for once.” Lupin had mentioned his plan to palm Geralt’s bullets before they disembarked. Sounds like he pulled it off. “But that prick really did a number on him. Broke some ribs, fucked up his arm. Nearly crushed his throat, looks like.”

Zenigata finds himself gripping the receiver more tightly as he imagines what might have happened to cause those injuries, anger bubbling into his chest. Lupin may be a criminal, but nothing he’s done would ever warrant such brutality. “And you and Goemon, you two have it under control?” If they needed a proper doctor, Zenigata might find himself too busy to notice any reports that might come in regarding notable patients in the area. He’s got a lot of work to do, after all.

“I think so. It’ll mostly just take rest. Lots of rest.”

“Are you sure you can make that happen? Lupin won’t like it.”

“We’ll chain him down if we have to.” Jigen says it flatly, but there’s a hint of humor under there.

The situation must not be too dire, if he’s able to crack jokes. “Well, thanks for telling me. I really appreciate it, Jigen.” He won’t admit that he’s been fretting since he had to make the call to turn the boat around.

“No problem. It’s what Lupin would want, anyway.” Jigen pauses again; there’s a faint tapping noise, like he’s drumming his fingers on the receiver a little too close to the mouthpiece. “Pops, do yourself a favor. Take a vacation once you’re done cleaning up the Nazi mess. We’re not gonna let Lupin do jack shit for at least a month or two, so you’d be wasting your time waiting up for us.”

Now that he mentions it, a vacation sounds nice. Zenigata does get to travel a lot, but only for work; he hardly has time to take in the sights or buy souvenirs. “A month or two, huh? I’m holding you to that. I want a clean bill of health before you even think about another heist, got it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jigen sighs more than says. “Anyway, I’m gonna go. I’ll tell Lupin you said hi.”

And just like that, the line goes dead. In terms of the Lupin case, Zenigata still has no leads, but he can’t bring himself to be particularly upset about it. He got the information he was hoping for, and he can’t really ask for more than that. Instead, he returns to his paperwork and makes a mental note to look into attending Laetitia’s archaeology seminar in Boston next month.

Part 1 (by Pin) < --- > Part 2 (by Cosma) < --- > Part 3 (by Pin)

[dhwty-writes]

Chapter 4 - Prickly Princesses and Snapping Sisters

Welcome back folks to chapter 4! I don’t have much to say besides thank you @persony-pepper for betaing this fic from now on. Check out their works if you can, they’re amazing! Enjoy!

Summary: Geralt and Ciri worm themselves into the routine of Lettenhove Hall and Jaskier and Janina strike a bargain. 

Read on AO3

part 1 | part 4 | part 6

Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon did not like Jaskier. He had been- somewhat prepared for that possibility, he reckoned. She was a child, after all, and children were rather peculiar tastes when it came to their fondness for people.

He also reckoned that there should be some allowance, given that their introduction had not been conducted in the same circumstances as he had expected it to be. He would be lying if he said he  hadn't expected to meet her at some point, especially once the war had started. He had dreamt up a thousand different scenarios, each involving some incredibly daring rescue mission and nights of jolly laughter under the stars with lutes and campfires and songs and suchlike.

None of them had taken place in Lettenhove. In none of them had he been  bound  to Lettenhove, with his lute under lock and key. In none of them had there been this insurmountable tension between him and Geralt— no, that was not entirely true, there had been plenty of tension in his daydreams, just of a much more pleasant type.

Well, in his defence, all of that had been before the Dragon Hunt in King Niedamir's mountains — an adventure worthy of an entire epos, the last one to be immortalised in one of his ballads. After that... truth be told, he hadn't expected to see Geralt again at all, never mind meet his child surprise.

That was, however, beside the point. The point was that he had gone to Cirilla and had knelt before her, offering up his allegiance and protections and that the girl had just stared at him. He had tried to explain his plan to her, how he would disguise her for the winter so they could continue to their mysterious destination come spring and she had just nodded gracefully, agreeing to play along. That had been, however, the extent of their whole conversation. Any attempt of him after to get to know her even a little better had been met with a very familiar kind of stoic silence.

He had then decreed that it would be better to just leave her and hope that dinner would be better. It hadn't been. To be precise, dinner had been a fucking disaster. Firstly, Geralt and Cirilla had arrived late - which would have been alright if not for his insufferable older sister who had insisted on pestering him with despicable comments about Geralt and Cirilla until he had enough. There were only so many insults he could tolerate at his table before acting on the urge to throttle Janina and he greatly preferred it not come to that point. "If you don't shut up," he had hissed at her, "you're getting your wish and I dump you off at Goldfurt for good. But don't expect to set foot into Lettenhove again afterwards."

That had been effective in so far that she had stopped talking. It had, however, also greatly contributed to the detestable atmosphere at the table. And probably led to him screwing up any chance he ever had charming the princess.

It wasn't as if he wasn't trying. He really was. He had taken her to the gardens, which had not been to her liking. He had taken her to the stables but she wasn't particularly fond of horses. Maybe even a bit scared of them. He had tried telling her exciting stories about his adventures. She was definitely scared of those.

In general, Cirilla was scared of a lot of things, not that he could blame her for it. It didn't make any of this easier, though.

It was, however, almost startlingly easy how quickly Geralt and his child surprise settled themselves into the routine of Lettenhove Hall. In the mornings, Jaskier would still be woken up by Jakub, who brought him breakfast, dressed him, and told him all that was happening in his castle, things its inhabitants thought he might miss. He dedicated his mornings to his unsuccessful attempts at befriending the princess. Then he sent her off to lunch with Józefa and Marta. His afternoons were filled with the mortifying pile of duties that came with  owning  three villages and a couple hundreds of people, plus the never-ending complaints of his tenants.

The thought still made his stomach churn. 'One of the many reasons why I never wanted this.' He couldn't just own  people as if they were  objects . Only, apparently, he very much did.

After that, there was dinner. The atmosphere did not really improve after that first night, Janina still stubbornly insisting that she would not talk to Jaskier and Jaskier returning that favour. No one was overly eager to speak to Geralt. At least Cirilla and Józefa conversed quietly. Sometimes. The evenings when Janina feigned some kind of minor ailment to dine alone were better. He suspected it was the same when his work chained him to his desk until long after sunset.

After dinner there were usually a few hours spent in the fireplace lounge next to the dining room. They were filled with more silence and Józefa and Janina doing some needlework and sometimes piquing Cirilla's interest. Jaskier was usually reading and Geralt was scowling until the viscount had the mercy to retire for the evening.

He had told Geralt— and Cirilla as well, for that matter— that they were welcome to make use of his extensive library, yet they never took him up on the offer. If out of stubbornness or genuine disinterest, he couldn't say, though he would put neither past them.

Still, a week into their stay and this new procedure felt frighteningly ordinary to Jaskier already. It was very strange altogether, that new kind of, almost forgotten, familiarity while his relationship did not improve with neither of his guests. 'What would I have given for this only two years prior?' he mused, giving up on his futile attempt to read a very long text with very small letters that kept blurring in front of his eyes. 'To get Geralt to take care of his Child Surprise and have them near me for a winter.' He had never spent the winter with Geralt before, preferring the relatively mild climate that came with Oxenfurt's proximity to the sea to the harsh cold that enveloped Kaer Morhen, the legendary keep of the Wolf School whose location had never been betrayed to him.

He sighed and closed his eyes, allowing himself for a moment to indulge in that old fantasy of his again. Him and his lute on a rug in front of a fireplace, singing of Geralt's heroics while the princess played and listened. Maybe even a smile on Geralt's face, maybe even a hand tangled in Jaskier's hair, maybe even-

A sharp knock interrupted his fruitless daydreams and he sighed in relief. There was no use following that particular train of thought now. 'If there ever was at all.' His lute was locked away in a chest in the attic, his grasp on the lyrics of his ballads dimming already, and he and Geralt didn't talk anymore. "Yes?"

He was more than a little surprised when Geralt entered and offered him the tiniest of bows and nothing else.

Jaskier leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, waiting patiently.

Geralt stared at him for a very long time, something growing in his gaze that he would almost classify as  begging , yet Jaskier continued his stony resolve, merely raising an eyebrow. "Good evening," Geralt gritted out finally.

"Good evening, witcher," he responded. "Is there any particular reason why you come to my private chambers at this late hour?" He estimated that they were rapidly approaching midnight as it was pitch black outside and hunger had painfully settled in his stomach. Yet, the way to the kitchens seemed dreadfully long;, and he really did not want to walk that far, and any dish he thought of seemed downright disgusting, also there would be breakfast in a few hours anyw-

"You weren't at dinner," Geralt interrupted his racing thoughts, "or in the lounge."

He tensed up a little bit. "How astute of you to notice."

Geralt frowned. "Have you eaten at all? My lord."

He blinked in surprise. Jaskier wasn't sure what he had been expecting but certainly not...  that . "Are you worried about me, witcher?" he tried to tease, but his voice came out uncharacteristically harsh.

"No," Geralt answered and looked so confused that it almost made Jaskier laugh. 'Such a Geralt thing to do.'

But only almost. It stung, too. Quite a lot, to be precise. 'Of course not. Geralt isn't one to worry about you.' His face hardened. "Then why are you here?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"We are talking. Get on with it, I've got more important things to do."

He could basically hear Geralt grinding his teeth. "I wanted to ask your leave,  my lord  , to teach your  cousin how to wield a sword."

"Oh?" That certainly was unexpected. "I'm not sure about that."

"Why not?"

He hummed quietly, thinking carefully about how to phrase his answer. "How's your leg?" he asked then.

The question seemed to startle Geralt. "Better, my lord," he said after a while. "Thank you for the healer."

"Better?" Jaskier confirmed. "Not healed yet?"

He frowned at him, obviously unsure what to make of that. "My leg is good enough to teach a twelve-year-old what the difference between the grip and the tip is, if that's your concern, m., My lord."

"Good," he turned back to the document, "I have no objections in that case."

"Good." Geralt turned to leave.

When he was almost at the door, Jaskier spoke up again: "Is there anything else that needs mending, witcher?" 'Besides a heart of mine?'

"Nothing, my lord." He scoffed. "Nothing but my ego."

With Geralt's back turned towards him he allowed his lip to curl into the twisted imitation of a smile. "I'm afraid I can't help with that."

There was a tiny pause before: "My armour," Geralt said quietly. "And my silver sword."

"Fine. Good night, witcher."

"Good night." He turned and stopped at the door. "I'll bring you something to eat, my lord." This time he was almost careful closing it.

When Jaskier woke the next morning, he was nestled in his bed, bundled up in his favourite blanket with a plate of cold venison and a few slices of bread on his nightstand. 

'Weird,' he thought as he yawned and closed his eyes again. He distinctly misremembered leaving his study and getting into his bed which meant- the realisation startled Jaskier from his slumberous sunrise sentiments and he sat up fast enough to make his head spin, still not having eaten anything since the previous morning. 'Fuck,' he thought and paled, quickly taking stock of his clothes. His doublet was folded neatly across the back of his chair right next to his boots. He was still wearing his shirt and trousers, the latter of which he counted as a small blessing by Melitele herself, albeit their crumpled and - quite frankly - ruined state. He pitied whatever washerwoman would have to press them again now.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed - a bit more slowly now, to avoid further dizziness - still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Geralt had apparently brought him food, carried him to bed, stripped him of his footwear and doublet  and  tucked him in  without him noticing . 'Great,' he thought and reached for the cold roast without being fully conscious of what he was doing, 'so no falling asleep in the study anymore.'

Once he had devoured the whole plate, he got up to dress himself, still in that dreadful all-black look that tradition demanded. He sighed as he buttoned up his doublet. He might not be overly fond of his father, still he owed him the courtesy of dressing in mourning for two months. 'At least it's halfway done,' he consoled himself. And afterwards, he would get to wear the delightful – and colourful - recent additions to his wardrobe, without worrying too much what kind of tragedy might befall them.

That was one of the few advantages to his new old life: he didn't have to worry about regularly ruining his clothes anymore. Still, his expenses had almost tripled somehow. It was one thing for a travelling bard to own two changes of clothing and quite another for a viscount. He wasn't quite able to fill the numerous closets in the dressing room yet, but he was getting there. 'And all of that without being married,' he thought smugly. 'Father would be so disappointed.'

It was no secret that there was no love lost between the late Alfred Pankratz and- well, anyone, basically. Especially not between him and his five children. Especially not between him and his heir. 'Rest in peace, daddy dearest,' he thought grimly as he straightened himself in front of the mirror. 'And know that the world is a better place without you.'

With that Jaskier turned and strolled out of his rooms, nearly colliding with Jakub as he dashed down the stairs. "My lord!" his servant yelped in surprise as he quickly secured the tray and the food on it. "You're, err- awake. And dressed."

"Evidently," he retorted drily. "Oh, are those roast apples? How delightful!" He picked up the bowl and a fork, digging in.

"Yes, my lord. Do you want me to deliver them to your room?"

"No, they come with me," he answered with his mouth full. "Is my witcher awake yet?"

"I believe so, my lord. I have last seen him in the armoury, looking displeased."

"No, no," Jaskier waved with his fork, "that's his default expression. Have the rest brought to my study, will you? I'll take care of the whiny white wolf."

He continued his way down the stairs more carefully, now that he was periodically shoving pieces of baked apple into his mouth. Tripping on stairs and shoving his own fork down his throat was not really a death he looked forward to.

By the point he had reached the ground floor, his bowl was empty, so he left it on the stairs before pushing the doors to the armoury open. It had always been one of his least favourite rooms in the castle, with exception of the study he now called his own. But Geralt seemed to fit right in with the rows of swords and halberds and crossbows. He whipped around and snarled. 'Ah,' Jaskier thought, 'displeased was a euphemism.' His expression grew hard. "Witcher," he greeted him.

"My lord," he answered and frowned. "You're awake early."

"Ah, yes. I was woken up by the shock of finding myself in my own bed, despite having no recollection of how I got there."

"Hm," he made. "Surely the first time. My lord."

'Oh, it's one of  those  days.' He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "It was not. Witcher."

He frowned even harder, a feat Jaskier found quite impressive, albeit a bit worrying in regards to his health. "Should I apologise?"

' Oh.  ' For a moment the question startled him enough for his mask to crack. 'That's new.' He wasn't sure if Geralt had  ever apologised to him. It rewarded him with a softer tone: "You shouldn't. It was... kind, I reckon. Though you should rather wake me next time."

"If I am able to," he grumbled. After a moment he added: "I will. My lord."

"Good." He straightened himself and strolled over to one of the chests lined along the walls. "I believe you are looking for these," he said and handed him two wooden practice swords. They were almost as heavy as real ones, though one of them was significantly smaller.

Jaskier watched as Geralt observed them, staring for quite long at the initials 'J.A.P.' carved into the pommel of the smaller one. On the other, they were already replaced by the crude carving of a flower, that certainly could be interpreted as a buttercup. "They're yours," Geralt asserted.

"Indeed they are. Is there a problem?"

"I didn't-," he began before seemingly changing his mind. His mouth shut. "No, my lord."

"Good. Go on then. I am sure Cousin Fiona will be thrilled to learn the craft from a master."

"Yes, my lord." He turned to go.

When he had already reached the doors, Jaskier called after him once more: "And witcher? As soon as anyone comes to bodily harm through your exploits, the instructions stop. Is that understood?"

"Of course. I expected nothing less, my lord." He stepped out into the sunlight and the door closed behind him.

Jaskier found himself staring at the dark wood for quite a long time. 'You didn't what, Geralt?' he asked himself, before finally tearing himself away and making his way up to his study.

Almost as soon as he shut the door behind him, he could hear the muffled sounds of two wooden swords clashing. It was an odd experience, being the one listening to it and not the one being dealt the blows. 'I could almost get used to it,' he thought as he settled down for work.

He could focus on the various letters cluttering his desk until shortly after lunch; oddly the hour when the rest of his castle sat down to eat was the most productive one as opposed to the least on all his other days. But the rather monotonous clatter of swords was somewhat distracting.

So, when the noise started up again Jaskier had to surrender far sooner than he would like. 'If I can't focus on the words,' he told himself as he cleaned up his desk as best as he could, 'my time is better spent otherwise.'

He surprised himself by being curious if not even a bit excited when he stepped out onto the gallery that overlooked the courtyard. He was almost delighted to see that now he could not only hear the instructions Geralt growled at Cirilla, but also how both of them panted and were breaking sweat. 'Would you look at that,' he thought and resisted the urge to lean on the railing and stare down at them dreamily, 'seems like even a witcher has to work to keep up with the tireless cub.'

He knew that he himself had a surplus of energy than most other human beings. These days he found himself being more bored and dissatisfied with his routine tasks than ever before. Still, from what he had seen, he doubted that even he could keep up with Cirilla. The girl asked a thousand questions an hour, always curious about the purpose behind everything she saw, talking so fast it made his head spin and constantly ran off to some place or other. He pitied whoever poor soul had been her nursemaid before - and at Queen Calanthe's court no less.

He was shaken from his thoughts when Geralt told her to stand down and wiped the sweat from his brow; he used the break to take a deep breath while Jaskier took advantage of the possibility to rake his eyes over a sweaty witcher, whose hair hung in loose strands from his braid without any kind of danger or being forced to learn how to wield a blade himself.

In the seventeen years of their acquaintance Geralt had tried to teach him how to fight more than once, with daggers and knives and even a crossbow; not that he'd had any more luck than his fencing teacher in the previous eight years. Jaskier had learned how to defend himself with a knife eventually, but he would never make a great swordsman - though certainly not for lack of trying.

The door to the gallery opened and it was all he could do not to gape in surprise when Janina stepped outside and walked to his side. "Brother," she greeted him coldly.

"Sister," he answered and took back to staring at the scene unfolding below him. Geralt was teaching Cirilla a simple lunge that would surely be accompanied by a redirecting stroke once she had the footwork down. He was quite familiar with it, one of the only steps he actually remembered.

For a while that was how it went, Geralt correcting Cirilla and, in an unexpected turn of events, Jaskier scowled instead of pouting for once. That, he left to his sister: "It is not proper," Janina said.

"This old tune again." He rolled his eyes. "How many times, sister, the witcher stays for the winter. He will leave as soon as the snow thaws."

" It is not proper  ," she repeated insistently, "that he spends so much time with our  cousin ."

He arched an eyebrow.

"She's a little girl, Julian. And he's drilling her like a soldier's boy. It is not proper for a girl to learn how to fight. She should sew and sing instead."

"Darling sister, if I have learned anything in two decades on the road it is never to underestimate a determined lady. No man with a sword is half as scary as any warrior woman I have met." Quietly he thought: 'Most men with two swords are not half as scary as any women armed with nothing but magic.'

"Well, I do not know who you have met," she quipped, "or who you fancy her to be. She is just a normal girl, Julian, no mage, no witch, no... Calanthe of Cintra or whoever you might be thinking of."

He bit his lip to hide his smile. 'Of only you knew, darling Janka. If only you knew...'

She took his silence as a sign to continue: "You should forbid it."

Jaskier frowned. "I will not," he said with determination. "I know you don't believe it, but this war is not done, yet. And as long as it isn't, everyone would benefit from knowing how to swing a sword."

"Well, maybe you should get down into the court as well, then. We all know that that blade is a useless weight on you."

"Maybe I just might," he answered. "The training will continue so long as no bodily harm comes to her. Feel free, however, to interest her for the womanly arts you hold in such high regard. If you manage to pry her from the witcher's side with sweet words alone, I won't say a thing."

"Maybe I will," his sister snapped. "Just you wait."

He laughed heartily. "Dear sister, you will never woo Fiona before I do. But you are welcome to try."

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "You're on."

"Oh!" His eyes sparkled. "Fun. If I manage to get in her good graces before you, I will hear no word of complaint about witchers anymore."

She crossed her arms. "And if I win?"

"I'll bring a bard for the whole winter."

She scrunched her nose as she contemplated it. "No."

"No?"

"If I win,  you  will sing us songs for the winter."

He scoffed. "That's hardly a punishment," he said as jovially as he could. 'It is,' he thought.

A wicked grin spread on Janina's face. "But only those written by Valdo Marx."

Jaskier paled and gasped, undignified. Whatever horrible punishment he might have expected of her, that certainly went too far. "You wouldn't dare- My own flesh and blood!"

"What? Scared to lose, Julek?"

He frowned. "Of course not." As if he ever was one to back down from a challenge.

Janina nodded and he watched in horror as she spat in her hand and offered it to him.

"Gross," Jaskier declared and gagged.

His older sister rolled her eyes. "You're a boy. As if you haven't done it before. Deal?"

He scrunched his nose. 'Of course, I have done it before, you little pest- oh, bugger this!' He spat in his own hand and shook hers. "Deal."

She smirked and pulled him close. "I'll destroy you," she whispered into his ear.

Jaskier laughed, even though the tone made his blood freeze in his veins. "I'm looking forward to it."

The little bet he had with his sister had certainly changed the situation with Cirilla dramatically. While there had been at least some kind of personal interest for him to get to know the girl better beforehand, Jaskier was now sure that he could not accept defeat. Or rather, he would not be singing Valdo Marx's mediocre ballads throughout the entire winter, thank you very much.

Naturally, he had to reinforce his efforts. He tried sneaking her sweets next - which she didn't like, unfortunately - and showing her the secret places in Lettenhove Hall after - she wasn't interested. He tried dresses and dolls, stories and songs, all to no avail. The more time passed, the more his conversations with Cirilla resembled some with a miniature Geralt, who just grunted and swore a lot, preferably at him.

Slowly but surely, he was losing his patience. There was a lot on the line for him now, after all. His only solace was that Janina wasn't making any progress either. If anything, she made negative progress - the little princess couldn't stand being in her presence and Jaskier soon discovered that he at least was being spared the worst of her newly acquired cuss words.

Still, he was very close to giving in and just bribing  Geralt  instead of Cirilla - maybe that would amount to something. He quickly pushed the thought away. 'I'm not  that  desperate,' he decided, 'yet.'

There were two other people in his home, after all, who were able to hold somewhat normal conversations with the girl. He would not give in before trying both of them first.

Unfortunately for him, Marta was entirely unhelpful. She only told him to "be kind to the girl", as if he hadn't thought of that himself.

That meant, he was one person short of asking Geralt himself. Jaskier winced and contemplated for one moment to just go to the man himself directly. It would most certainly leave him a richer man than bribing his sister. 

On the other hand, he was still resolved to keep his interactions with Geralt to a minimum. 'Until he redeems himself,' he kept telling himself. How the witcher should accomplish that deed was a mystery even to him. 'He's a smart man,' he thought, 'he'll figure something out.'

That, however, led to Jaskier struggling up the stairwell in the North Wing laden with a heavy tray of all kinds of baked goods and promises to boot. 

"Sister dearest," Jaskier threw the doors open and placed his precious gifts on the table in front of her. He himself flopped down on the couch next to Józefa.

She spared him one calculating glance, then turned back to her needlework. "No."

"No?" He pouted. "You haven't even heard what I have to say!"

"I know that face. It means trouble."

He snorted. "We're adults, Józia, how much trouble can it be?"

She raised her eyebrows in answer and Jaskier got up and sighed. "Yeah, right," he amended. "I still need your help."

"Is it about the stupid bet?"

"I want to inform you that it is not stupid at all. But as a matter of fact, yes, it is about the bet."

"Then, no."

"Valdo Marx, Józefa, you can't do that to me!"

There was the tiniest sliver of a smile dancing around her lips. "You should have thought about that sooner." His cruel sister was enjoying this.

"I brought you your favourites," he tried again.

Józefa sighed and put the embroidery down in her lap. "And let me guess, Julek, you'll buy me not one but three new dresses for the spring and take me to Oxenfurt and Tretogor as well or any other significant city or court I'd like to see."

He winced. 'Am I that predictable?' Still, he was not ready to give up just yet: "I'll also buy three barrels of Toussaint red."

She scowled. "Two Toussaint red," she answered, "and one Beauclair white."

Jaskier's face lit up. "Deal!"

"Great Melitele," Józefa laughed heartily and shook her head, "you survived twenty years out there being that gullible?"

"I had a witcher to protect me."

"And now you try to get his trust back by spoiling his Child Surprise?"

Jaskier gaped, not really sure how to respond. "I- she-" He had thought of that eventuality of course, there was no way that he could have kept Cirilla's identity hidden for the entire winter. But he had expected another month at least, not- "She's not- how?"

Józefa laughed again and gently patted his cheek. "You're so cute when you're embarrassed. I suspected it from the start but my guess was confirmed, when 'Fiona' told me her little secret. Don't worry, though, Janina knows nothing about it. I think we have at least two or three weeks to craft some believable lie she will fall for."

He stupidly opened and closed his mouth like a fish, still not sure what to respond. His sister knew Cirilla's true identity. Which meant- "Do you also know why it has to be a secret?"

"No," she answered softly, "but I trust you on that one. I will not pry."

He nodded slowly, trying to process the revelation. "You still won't tell me how you did it?" he asked after a while. "Earn her trust?"

"No, I don't think so."

Jaskier sighed and got up. "For the record, it is the witcher who needs to get my trust back. Not the other way round.” No response. “Good night, then." There was nothing he could do about that. 

"It is very easy, actually," he stopped in his tracks when his sister's voice reached him. "You are just too blind to see it. Good night, Julek."

[olberic]

vesperia ask meme from this post 

👤 favourite character?

pretty even tie between raven and patty! love their backstories. love their development. love their thottiness

👥 most used party?

yuri or flynn / raven / patty / rita ! yuri or flynn depends on what mood im in or if i want extra healing

👍 who do you play as most?

still yuri, but ive been playing as patty a lotttt more lately

👎 who do you play as least?

estelle and judith.... i love them but im so bad at targeting estelle’s spells and i can’t keep judith in the air for longer than like.. 20 hits....

🌆 favourite town?

aurnion!! the music is so so good, i love that its a base of sorts for a lot of the npcs, and i really like that its like in a corner of a mountain too! i’d live there

🏞 favourite dungeon?

manor of the wicked, mostly bc i spent sooo much time grinding in and around there! honourary mention for tarqaron for having the best soundtrack tho

🌎 is there anywhere on the world map that’s comforting to you?

i love the zopheir drifts! 

😴 what inn do you go to most often?

the one in myorzo even tho its super inconvenient bc it has everyone sharing a bed which i think is super cute 

🎧 favourite song on the soundtrack?

YES i listen to the soundtrack all the time YES i have these memorized: breath of resonance (aurnion), fury sparks (vs flynn), twisted blades (vs zagi), oath of the union (dahngrest), tragic resolution (sad music from the post-cumore confrontation), dark conspiracy and the tower of contraption (upper ghasfarost), radiant light fostering life (egothor forest), the world at your fingertips (zaude), brooding omen (tarqaron)

🦅 most fun giganto beast to fight?

BRUTAL BY FAR... it spawns so often and u can get ur allies to distract the summons and just 1v1 it w a paralysis charm

🐆 favourite monster?

first time i had to fight a skunky i nearly cried i can’t kill them i always run away

🐉 favourite boss?

fight wise? probably gauche and droite bc they’re fun or estelle bc she’s really easy to practice combos on! character wise its schwann bc ill admit it i simp for raven

⚔️ most fun battle?

again probably gauche and droite, and outside of bosses it’d be the wrath nails in the labyrinth of memories! if u take flynn and just use dazzling glare on them two or three times you get a fatal strike and its fun to make a 300000 hp total battle go down to like. 6 hits

💀 hardest boss battle?

besides the first gattuso def the cameos in the tag team battle... how many times have i gotten barbatos almost dead before he gets healed and my healers get sealed... then stressing about the time left for the party battle im sick of it im SICK 

✨ favourite mystic arte?

raven’s wink in crisis rain it’d be wolf fury if not for the rare time i can get seifer with summon friends

🎉 any victory quotes that stand out to you?

“our weapons are love!” “justice!” “sexualityyyyy” “WOULD YOU STOP” 

and besides that i love patty’s “the queen of the seas has arrived!” and yuri and flynn’s fistbump bc those are cute 

🥰 favourite NPC?

i didn’t really have any for this game?? like i much prefer the PCs but also... gauche and droite hold a special place in my heart, and nan won me over with her development. also yeager. kakyoin lookin ass

🧥 favourite outfits?

yuri: true knight + the hairpins attachment. i’d die for the ponytail

estelle: her default is actually my fave, but heroic actress for the ristelle

repede: not an outfit but overdrive brigade or bust

karol: warehouse master! i love the jacket

rita: seeker. its what she deserves

raven: that summer guy bc his hair in that has me 😳 and also adept assassin

judith: draconic lancer or glamourous maid... i am not immune to hot girl

patty: pirate queen bc its what she deserves

flynn: benevolent beneficiary and its soley because of the thigh holster

👕 least favourite outfits?

whoever decided on yuri’s yumanju/swim outfits needs to be JAILED... miska doctoral degree and the frog outfit and sultry temptress and dont get me started on the xmas and samurai ones 

🎥 favourite skit?

POINTS SKIT POINTS SKIT

❤️ did you ship any characters?

from the moment rita blushed at estelle i was hooked on them... also yuri/flynn is like. too canon to not love. also raven/literally anyone except karol (son) and rita (lesbian)

💔 any ships you don’t like?

yuri/estelle and flynn/estelle bc i can’t stomach her not being a rita im not even joking 

🏥 what healer do you use most?

raven! i usually don’t need more than a few love shots and i have more than enough items to make up for the lack of recovery spells

🗺 most enjoyed side quest / side quest chain?

do i even have to say best friends? and the sicily ones are pretty fun and i also like seeing nan in the hunting blades ones

🤢 most annoying side quest / side quest chain?

FUCK GUILD QUEST ALL MY HOMIES HATE GUILD QUEST

🔪 what difficulty do you play on most often?

normal for now sjvbksdvjbs i plan on doing hard next tho

💯 solo coliseum fights or tag team coliseum fights?

tag team bc i love fighting the others! i usually bring raven but by god do i love rita and schwann’s dialogue in the knights fight

➕ have you played the EX new game plus?

not yet! i’ll be doing that for the mid-hundreds levels tho 

🔨 are there any weapons you always keep equipped?

meteorite blade and defender for yuri, strike eagle +1a and misericorde for raven, holy avenger for estelle, beserker heart for flynn, song of gaia for rita, brionac for judith, and leoluca + black thunder for patty

🗣 do you play dubbed or subbed?

dubbed

🎮 which is your favourite minigame (warehouse, draspi, snowboarding, poker, dragon rider)?

fuck minigames but gun to my head i had to pick one it’d be poker bc the mechanics make sense

🗡 yuri or flynn?

sorry king but it’s yuri for this one yall had me with the vigilantism 

👑 ioder or estelle?

estelle obvs tho ioder is def the better choice for emperor

🏹 raven or schwann?

raven bc hes a thot and not a bootlicker but id be lying if i said schwann couldnt get it

👯‍♀️ gauche or droite?

gauche 

💪 hunting blades or leviathan’s claw?

leviathan’s claw! even if the hunting blades werent awful i’d still pick them bc i love LOVE the serpent’s fang lore and how the guild itself is linked to patty’s backstory and also. also yeager. 

🏠 zaphias or dahngrest?

dahngrest! i truly cannot stand the empire imagine living there

🏕 inns or camping?

inns 100% i will go so far out of my way to make them share rooms rather than camping which is so so boring 

👾 original or definitive edition?

definitive! its the only one ive played, i love patty too much to ever play the og, and being available on the switch is so good

🎢 what difficulty do you play on?

oh my god. oh my god i put this question in twice FUCK

💿 have you played any other tales games?

not yet :-( i love this one too much to change tho i do have beseria bought and ready to go

👬 have you watched first strike?

not yet :-(((( i havent found it anywhere yet but i heard raven’s in it and im. im

⏱ how long have you spent on the game?

....190 hours and counting.....

🗻 what part of the game are you at right now?

working through the 200 man melees now! once i finish those (ive only got yuri and raven done so far)

✅ how did you decide to start playing?

1 i heard it was similar to octopath 2 i thought it was turn based going into it SKJSBDVKSJDVB 3 saw a gif of yuri and flynn on here somewhere and thought aw shit guess i’ll start this game if there’s an active fandom (NOT THAT THERE’S MUCH OF ONE) 4 the game was on sale sdbksdvjbksdjv

[alitheamateur]

The Grind- Chapter 30

A/N: Only one more to follow this chapter, my sweets. I’m dotting the “i’s”, and making sure I'm firmly proud in how I close things out with my most precious Liv, and perfectly flawed Colton. And, my heart may, or may not, be breaking piece by piece as I do so. 

“You have my ring, right?”

“Got it, baby. Right where you asked me t’ put it for safe keepin’.” He flashed proof of the dazzling diamond ring looped through the chain of his silver necklace clasped around his neck.

Colton massaged and worked his tough hands over the spasmed mass of my anxious shoulders, and kissed my cheek from behind. Willow, who was chatting casually to Cal at my left, had pulled my hair into taut braided buns to ensure the stubborn mass stayed clear from my tunnel of vison. The cage apparel that Colt suggested fit to a tee, and I hadn’t felt like a fraud entirely when standing to inspect myself in the mirror of my dressing area. Now that I was dressed the part, it was time to rise to the occasion and act it, too. 

I hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone but Colton since 7 a.m., and the pair of us had isolated ourselves to the calm four walls of the bedroom for most of the day. Aside from the very brief, yet extremely placid walk around the block after begging him for a glimpse of the sunshine. I was overcome with excitement reflecting from the night before, and wanted nothing more than to spend the entire weekend celebrating the engagement with the ones I cherished almost as much as my soon-to-be husband. But, I wasn’t a quitter, and staying true and reliable to my word wouldn’t be an attribute I’d abandon. The fight was happening, and I’d save the celebratory kisses and champagne toasts for later.

The floor length velvet of a curtain that shielded me from the babbling gossip of a sizeable crowd was opened hastily, and I was shaken from my daydreams.

“Do you know where my parents are? Did you make sure they got to their seats?”

“Everythin’ is square, baby girl. I took care of it! Mac is with ‘em, and I think they got Drew wit’ ‘em, too. You let me worry about all that.” He whispered into my ear, willing a sensation of calmness like still water over me.

Unsure of where my own thoughts dwelt, or what emotion I should let take the spotlight, a glassy teardrop or fear, contentment, focused intent and divine love stained down my cheek. Colton, understanding better than no one else the overwhelming sense of whirling adrenaline before a competition, and also understanding what a train wreck of busy worry I was, kissed away that spilling down my face and burrowed me into the safe harbor of his reliable shoulder. I choked back the emitting of an uncontrollable breakdown and swallowed down the home-like familiarity his touch made me feel amongst all the background noise.  

“Breath, baby. Breath, and listen to me, okay?” He pleaded surely as he held me into a bear hug. His strong grips, and the suffocating warmth of his embrace seemed to stifle out the painful attack of nerves I felt fogging my thoughts. “You, yeah? You are the single most amazing fuckin’ person I have ever met, Liv. And whatever happens with her, that girl out there in that cage, doesn’t change that. Win? We gonna walk outta here, arms around each otha, and go home. Our home. The home we made together, and we gonna plan that ridiculous fuckin’ wedding I know you already thinkin’ about. And lose? Well, lose ‘n we’re gonna do alla that stuff still. Bu wit’ ice cream. That chocolate, Rocky Road shit or whatever it is you always buy.”

I felt his stiffened muscles loosen around me when he heard my chuckle and sniffling into his fresh shirt. There wasn’t a single shred that doubted he wouldn’t nurse and coddle whatever bruises or breaks I walked out of the arena with in the next few hours, kicking and spewing at anyone who dare make me feel lesser, or ashamed if I didn’t wind up victorious. Even when he fought so hard to convince me that night at Mac’s gym that he didn’t feel right about my whole plan, I knew he’d never turned his back on me.

“And kisses, too. Win or lose, I’d like lots of those too, please.”

“Girl, we are puttin’ your mom and pop on that plane tomorrow mornin’ at 4:00 a.m. sharp, and I will kiss you a million times top to bottom. An’ this time, you won’t have to smother that pretty fuckin’ face with ya’ pillow to keep quiet.”

I sucker punched his relaxed gut, and an outburst fluff of wind came forth. I was starving for those thoughts he was insinuating, but my thoughts needn’t become distracted with the tempting desire for his sinful body at a time as such.

“Liv, you ready, mama? It’s all you, girl.” Willow snuck hesitantly towards the intimate moment between Colton and I, warning my intro was coming up.

I hopped, and danced back & forth on nervous feet, Colton blowing cool breath on the back of my neck to simmer the reddening, heated glow of my skin. He had funded new shirts before his proposal with his original logo for the new gym printed across the back. We spent a hefty chunk of our hiatus day tossing back and forth possible ideas we had for the place, and how we’d manage the renovations along with wedding plans. He grinned and pridefully rambled about how he wanted things to play out, and the goals he had to start training and settle away from the actual competing so he wouldn’t end up a stuttering potato head before he reached 30-years-old. The wife in me definitely agreeable to a decision as such.

I had no foolish hallucinations that fighting would pack up and disappear from our lives altogether, and neither did I want it to. It introduced us, it seduced us, and it reunited us. The octagon was the beginning of us, the middle, and many, many years down the road, most-likely be lingering at the end as well. But, I wanted a healthy, strong, and happy man at my side living his most full life until then.

“Alright Miss Elliott, when you hear your song, I’m gonna pull this curtain back and you can make your way through that open pathway there. Make sure you check in with that official standing outside the cage for inspection. All clear?” A lanky man sporting clear-rimmed eyeglasses and a headset appeared from the outside to line out the play-by-play.

I nodded, my nervous mind delayed processing his information.

“Wait,” I looked to Colton. “How will I know when I hear my song? You never told me what you chose.”

Remaining loyal to our tradition, I allowed him the honor of selecting an appropriate tune to announce my ring-side arrival as I had done for him. Only due to the confidence I had in his impressive taste in the field of music. He’d choose wisely, not welcoming of the backlash that would accompany if he got any ideas about some cheeky, bubblegum pop tune.

“I’m right behind you, silly. I’ll know. Plus, when you hear it, I think you will, too.”

I swished and swallowed from a chilled jug of water, needing the cool down inside my incinerated veins. The focused silence inside the tunnel mollified the sputtering rolodex of jitters, until suddenly a shake-up ensued in the shadows behind us, causing Colton to detonate with protest.

“No fuckin’ way!! Go! Now! Get the hell away from ‘er!”

I shoved, and searched for a simple peep at whatever disturbance had him hovering in front of me, as if to hide me from some sort of oncoming threat.

“Willow, you betta do somethin’ about her. Nobody wants her here, and Liv sure as shit doesn’t need her ruining her focus right now.”

By now, the prowling security, and probably the crowd in its entirety, had caught wind of the troubled scuffle. Two able-bodied guards invaded the area to diffuse the situation, deciding Colton was the source of friction. They secured him around both arms, calmly reasoning with him to get his fit under control and lower his boisterous volume.

When I was finally able to search for whatever intruder had unwrapped his infuriated state, Tia was the seething and spitting through a gnashed frown. Her reddened, angry-swelled face was sordid with tears, and her knuckles were ghostly white in a tensed fist. She sought me out with loud, pleading calls of my name as Willow whispered in her ear, trying to direct that she exit before more drama unleashed.

“Liv! LC, hey!!”

I hadn’t spoken to her since dismissing her at the weigh-in only 48 hours ago, but every fiber in me wanted to reach out. To spill extreme nerves over the fight, to introduce her to my parents who would be returning to Westfield soon, even to screech giddy excitements over visions of a summer wedding at Springwood Manor, no matter how frigid and opposed to the nuptials she might be. Despite her downright bratty, over-the-top behaviors over the last few days, and the painstakingly deep-rooted grudge she continued to hold against Colton, Tia was my friend. She had been the closest resemblance of bond wound like the one I held with Sara, and I wasn’t ready to toss those embers to the wind yet.

“Willow, let her through. It’s fine.” I strangled, swallowing nerve-thickened spit.

She ran to me, dismissing Willow’s grasp, and began to sob herself empty of the regret and apologies eating away at her. Colton, elbowing the solid gut of one of the guards holding him hostage in the wings, broke free considering an interference between Tia’s open arms and my own. But, as a subtle, forgiving smile ghosted across my lips, he bit his cheek and crackled his knuckles, deciding he’d be the bigger person and forgive her, If I was willing to brush away her faults, then he may as well wave the white flag, too.

“I’m just sorry, ok? I’m so damn sorry. I was a bitchy little fucking child, Liv. And I was reckless, and conceited, and I was just trying to protect you, maybe? I don’t know. God, I’m just sorry. I can’t-“

“I forgive you, stop it. Alright? I forgive you.”

She seemed deeply puzzled with my thoughtless decision to welcome her apologies with an uncluttered heart. Her contrite eyes still trickling with tears, I patted her cheeks and kissed them with deep intent of a peace offering despite all the recent crossfire. My quickened acceptance may have slightly been attributed to the dwindling minutes I had before my fateful walk towards battle, as well.

“Now, clean your messy ass up, and walk down with us? I want you out there.”

Rather than doing as told, she uncertainly looked to Colton who was silently lurking on the sidelines of our conversation. It was he who she knew would pose the most treacherous conditions for reaching mercy. He certainly didn’t want Tia within a hundred-mile radius of us, or this night. And he didn’t bother with the fluty illusions of hiding it in his stern features. But, his always desire to stand within the light of my good graces if the matter was something as harmless as such, rallied over his heart of steel toward her.

“If Liv wants you out there, I ain’t standin’ in the way. But, don’t think you’re gonna get out there and get into her head, Tia. She and I have been over this night a million times, and she knows I’ve got her best interest. It ain’t your place to get out there and try to undercut every little thing I say. You hear me?” Colton wiped the tight neck of his t-shirt over his trembling top lip, his face becoming glossier as he unsympathetically chastised her.

“Ten seconds, Liv. You all good back here?” The event director checked his watched and covered the microphone of his headset.

Kissing Colton, and reaching for an assured squeeze from Tia to my left, I gave him the greenlight and waited for my unknown que. For a split second, the steaming lights cut in the building, before I heard a bumping bass tune beat over the arena speakers. Once I recognized the riff of the modern-day rappers hit song, my mind fell back onto the memory of a very particular afterhours grapple with Colt in the familiar home-base of our living room.

One month earlier.

“You’ve got to plant those feet deeper, baby. If she can rattle your stance, you won’t be able to hold the choke.” Colton constructively criticized my two-stepping, shaky feet as I held his impossibly thick neck between my forearms.

He’d bought a mat for living room so I could train some at home when late nights in the office kept me out of the gym. And with the couches lined to the wall, and my bargain-find ottoman scooted into the kitchen, we had plenty of room to rehearse for my big dance. The house entirely dark apart from the standing lamp near the window, and the occasional outside glow from the full moon in the sky, he intended to exercise my worn muscles well into the wee hours of dawn to prepare me.

Colton clad in only slick, gray shorts leaving little to the imagination along with bare feet, paused for a break to power-up the speaker in the kitchen and roll through his own work-out playlist. I turned a chilled bottle of water belly up, my manners dispersing as drippings of a hearty gulp rolled down my chin and the icy droplets soaked into the front of my shirt. Pulling lose the sodden t-shirt, I stripped down to stretch in the elastic of my sports bra, waiting for my live-in coach to return. Colton wheezed in deep breath once steeping back on the sweat-sticky mat, his eyebrows dancing at the dismissal of my clothing.

Taking his apparent state of arouse in a moment of unguarded distraction, and I went lightening swiftly for his legs. Once my grips fought to take his feet from under him, and I realized there was truly no way I could tear him down, my arms loosened with hysterical laughter. Colton amused at my bold attacks began gasping for air with amusement too, before the pair of us fell into a tangled mass on the floor.

My electrified, skin hit atop his own heaving chest, and his flesh kindled me from top to bottom. He smiled, and blew away and chunk of my bangs that had fallen loose to tickle his nose, and brushed a lazy finger down the center of my face. The salty tip trailed down my forehead, over the bridge and tip of my nose, and welcomingly loitered over my suddenly heavy bottom lip. Our stares searched each other, whispering secret fantasies and hopeful flashes of the future together. I felt the outline of each of his rocky abs imprinting into my belly with the rise and fall of his breaths, and my mouth knew nothing more than to kiss him. With his hands cuffed together over the dip in my back, and my grasps massaging over his hot ears into his slickened hair, I sought out some sort of fractioned relief between my thighs. As I ground my hips into the ripple of his toned thigh, he pulled free to speak.

“I’d say this background noise is pretty appropriate for how I’m feelin’ right about now.”

The pulsing bassline of the atypical to my taste hip-hop song chimed throughout the house, and I recognized the tune from the radio a few years back. It was a Drake song, “Make Me Proud,” Colton later informed me. The repeating of the chorus rang out as a man, being proud of the lady in his life, and all of her small, or monumental achievements in life. It may have been a song that I would have most likely been deterred from, but when I stepped into the perspective of my own lover being honored to stand firmly in all things alongside me, and pat me on the back through the journey, I found it to be somewhat flattering.

Whether it be the settling of the lyrics on my mind, or the glowy look of devout pride on Colton’s face as his eyelashes batted, I was mesmerized and entirely untroubled with my life and where it was headed.

“Tell me any place you’d rather be right now, ‘n I’ll take you there.” His words warm like a purr, almost choking back what seemed like a break in his usually sure voice.

He would’ve taken me to the unexplored canyons of outer space had there been a way, if he knew it’s the place I wanted to be. I could’ve demanded a red-eye to some tropical, uncharted sands and we would have packed our bags in an instant. It was evident our happiness was united. My joy meant his joy, and his, mine.  

The memory passed as a fleeting ripple, that felt the full length of some movie I starred in once upon a time. He was holding my hand, and Tia spread the gap of the curtain to the openness of the clambering arena. There was a rough figure of 150 in attendance, but the hot exhales of their anticipating banter of whispers made the air smoggy and intense with the pressure to succeed. It was different than Colt’s fight, loud and rambunctious with fans backing both corners. Not many knew our names, much less truly cared about who availed the prize-less battle.

I began to feel embarrassed at the already abundant residue of jittering sweat pouring off me, but Colton’s whistle-ready lips blowing cools breaths over my neck dried the wetness. I planned my steps to appear assured, not to give away what eggshells really cracked under my heels, and held my head high only looking directly into the cage where my opponent lay in wait.

Amongst the clashing waves of a nervous mind however, I felt a certain whizzing of adrenaline coursing through my blood like wildfire. My fingers tingled as Colton locked his into mine for only a brief second before turning me over to the referee for inspection.

Dumbfounded, and too brain fried to sort through my expected response, Colt tugged gently on the hem of my t-shirt pushing I remove it for my ringside checkup.

“This is it, baby. I need you all in right now, ‘ight.”

I nodded, cheesing as the official sought a view of my mouthpiece. After all limbs were scanned, and my face was oiled with Vaseline thick like bacon grease, he gave me the go-ahead signal to enter the ring when ready.

Tia only smiled, wordless with a thumb of luck, and Willow gave one more gripping massage over my very relax-craved muscles. She planted some thought of what I’m sure was very profound, and heroic encouragement into my ear, but her words couldn’t scream over the booms of heartbeats I heard instead.

I then spun quickly, seeking the guaranteed consolation in the stares of a beard- faced gentleman.

Colton brought his forehead to mine, squeezing my cheeks at the axis of each jaw and I waited. For a kiss, for a speech, for some enthusiastic dose of rigor. But he only stared. Stared and smiled, and nuzzled into my nose.

“I can’t wait to marry you.” He irrevocably declared, as if now was the appropriate time for small talk as such.

I supposed I needed more than that to boost me into a state of fierce fighting fury, but strangely enough his off the wall remark drove me straight into a tailspin of motivated focus. I could’ve wept with stresses as his driving kiss edged me closer, and closer towards the harsh rimmed steel of the cage. I held onto his hand like a fearful child mutely pleading objections, and Colton petted over my tightly tied hair to hush my senseless behavior.

My toes stuck to the stinging chill of the stairs as I climbed them one by one, my indisposed, shaking introduction with the inside of my first competition cage a resisting one. Surely, the very obvious reservations were giving my competition an even deeper confidence on a win.

I tried to mediate upon all those years on the court, eye-to-eye with the spearing glances of a rivaling opponent, and how I’d only laugh in the face of her weak defense inside the paint. Only then, there were no hazards of having my teeth busted loose.

I checked all angles of my surroundings, assuring I had Colton’s eyes in view, and Tia close-by as well. Purposely avoiding that first initial stare down with Katrina. She seemed stoic, and briefed on all grounds for combat with her feet planted firmly. Was she bigger? I couldn’t recall her fists being so sizeable and thick the first time we met merely days ago. Sweat chilled down the stretch of my back as whispers of the referee caught my ear.

“Let’s get the rules out there, and get this show on the road, shall we?” His understanding eyes spoke as softly as his voice.

The upper half of my body understood the message my brain sent to follow his path to the cage’s center, but my feet seemed to be practicing stubborn rebellion and I nearly fell on my face in efforts to take control.

One thing was certain. If I didn’t rally my every cell to the same page, this match would be over long before it began. I couldn’t have all this work end for naught. Never mind the unrelenting hours Colton and the rest of my locker-room support system had clocked.

Once I stood square with Bexley’s remarkably fixated, clear eyes, the starkness of reality walleyed me. I smiled, an uncomfortable quirk that I couldn’t quite squander as she reached forth to touch gloves. I had somehow managed to drift into a soundproof oblivion, missing the referees reiterating of the cage rules and etiquette.

My time had run out. There was no escape plane in motion, no flighty cop-outs in the waiting. It was only time to fight. Time to muster up whatever lame excuse of courage I thought I had, and do the damn thing. Whether it got me killed, or broken in any manner of the word, I had no choice but to step into these burrowed shoes of a fighter, and find out what I was made of.

“Stand tall, Liv baby. All or nothin’, right here.”

TAGS: @torialeysha @eap1935 @mollybegger-blog @littleluna98

[princeandthefinch]

The Prince And The Finch - CHAPTER 4

Fantasy AU, no magic - Draco Malfoy, Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger, Lucius Malfoy (cameo appearances by others)

Warnings: Explicit, Bad Draco (almost entirely), slavery, non-con, abuse, BDSM, D/s, bondage, every f-ing kink I’ve ever had.

I’ll eventually be posting this on AO3 if there is enough call for it and the chapters get unruly.  But for now this is just my secret Malfoy fetish.

Chapter 1 – Inspection

Chapter 2  - Acquisition

Chapter 3 – Introduction

4 – The Twisted Snake

The Prince thundered through the corridors back to his chambers, unable to keep his fists from clenching and releasing, his teeth grinding against his clenched jaw. He’d been with his father for hours, listening to him prattle on and on about how he needed to grow up, to learn a little self control.  He waxed poetic on finding a balance between dark and light, how there was a time for everything, but he needed to start being the man that he was meant to be so that one day he’d be prepared to be a leader. Then he’d wanted to discuss strategy for the remaining counties and villages north of the kingdom, followed by a debate about whether they should be mining in the west. It was all a farce, and Draco knew it. None of these things were urgent, and either not important enough for the Prince to worry about or too important for him to decide.

“You had the blacksmith running around in the middle of the night last night?” Lucius asked. “Was anything wrong?”

“Not at all, father,” The Prince said, twirling a long black key between his fingers. “Just preparing for my guest.”

“You know, son, that I spent my youth on the same dangerous games you enjoy, and our…proclivities, I realize, are similar,” the King said, his eyes flicking over to Pansy, sprawled out asleep in his bed on her stomach, the blanket just barely covering her shapely ass, her back covered with red welts and bruises.

The sight of her made Draco’s cock twitch, imagining those same stripes on his girl’s back, listening to her beg for him to stop, groveling at his feet.  He adjusted the way he sat and looked back at his father, now fully aware of what this half day seminar on the challenges of being royalty was really about. The truth was that his father knew that he’d brought the girl to his chambers and was trying to buy her time. For some bizarre reason he was trying to protect her – a prisoner, the spoils of war. He pushed back angrily from the table, knocking one of the servant girls to the ground, red wine splashing across the front of his vest.

“Clumsy bitch,” he said, kicking her hard enough in the side that she was flipped onto her back.

“DRACO!” His father stood from his seat, pounding his fist on the table. “Don’t touch her again.”

The girl scrambled to her feet and left the room sobbing, doubled over in pain.

“The next time you want me to come to you and waste half a day, at least provide some decent entertainment. Or opium. I’m going back to my chamber and I won’t be disturbed.”

The King made his way around to stand in front of him, his eyes reflecting the same fire he saw in his son. After all, he’d been just as angry, just as bitter as Draco in his youth; impetuous and passionate; wasteful and selfish, taking out all of his black energy on the innocents that surrounded him. In fact it wasn’t until he watched his wife waste away that he saw how fruitless it all was. She was a woman of unmatchable beauty. She’d been funny and brilliant and when she had their son, it only filled her with further light, doting on her little golden haired boy, teaching him waltzes when he was four, singing to him while he was taught fencing, reading ancient myths with him out on the great stone balcony watching him act out the epic battles. And then he’d watched her skin turn as delicate as paper, her hair falling out in clumps, eyes watery and sunken, cocoa colored shadows surrounding them as she battled a sickness that no one could cure. And as it ate away at his wife’s body he watched it decimate his son’s soul. What little kindness and softness that he’d inherited from his mother had shriveled up and died…no…not died, because Draco was still alive.  And as his father, he had to believe, that having come from something as beautiful as her, that there was still light in him…dormant, starving, a tiny sprout in salted earth, something that kept him human.

So before his son could leave his chambers, Lucius grabbed him by both of his shoulders, forcing him to focus his eyes, to blink and breathe, to not storm out in a rage. It wasn’t good for him, this rage, or for the girl he held prisoner.

“If you’re that drawn to her, maybe there is something in her that you need,” the King said, almost sickened by the way his son’s pupils dilated, the way the corner of his mouth curled up wickedly.

“Oh I know there is, Father. And I plan on fucking it out of her one day at a time.”

He stepped around the King, making his way for the exit, giving the sleeping Pansy a hard smack on the ass before laughing his way out the door.

***

He threw the door to his room open hard enough that it rattled against the stone wall, waking Ginny from her fitful sleep. It was still storming outside and the room flickered with mottled light, the doves in their cage restlessly cooing, feeling the electricity in the air. At the sight of his boots only inches from her face she sat up, holding the black fur around her naked body. Whatever had taken him out of the room hadn’t pleased him. She could see his eyes flashing silver in the low light, a shock of hair hanging wild in front of his eye.

“What is this?” He asked, nudging her with the toe of his boot. “When I come for you, you should be ready for me,” he said, his feet set wide apart, fists clenched tight. She swallowed, looking for her voice.

“I’m sorry. I—don’t know…what do you mean?”

He crouched down and pulled the fur away, the cold hitting her as hard as a punch.

“Awake for one thing, and up on your knees. If I wanted you wearing anything I wouldn’t have burned your gown.”

She scrambled to sit up, hands folded into her lap.

“Better,” he sighed and rubbed his eyes in frustration, or maybe disappointment, but instead of saying a word, he headed to the chest at the end of the bed and sat down, exhaling a sigh that seemed to hold the weight of the world. As he took off his jacket, two servant girls came in carrying what looked like cauldrons or buckets of water. They poured them into the iron bathtub and scurried out, one of them glancing, wide-eyed, at Ginny before leaving. She shrunk away, as if feeling the pity and shame and embarrassment pouring from the girl physically.

The Prince pulled his gloves off, tugging one finger at a time, then unbuttoned his vest and untucked his silk shirt before bending down to pull off his boots, throwing them across the room with a heavy clunk. One of them nearly hit the girl who walked in with a pitcher of wine but she simply ducked out of the way and went to the table beside the fireplace, replacing the empty pitcher and filling a goblet for him, setting it next to the chair.

“Will you be taking supper in your room your Highness?” the girl asked, never once lifting her eyes from the ground.  Ginny suspected that this was a common behavior, not wanting to catch the attention, good or bad, of this Prince. Maybe keeping her head down would save her own skin.

“Yes,” he hissed at her. “And bring a little extra, I won’t be leaving the room for a while,” he said, unlacing the top of his pants, but thankfully leaving them on, hanging low on his hips.

“Yes your highness,” she said, quickly leaving the room.

The water bearers came back again, adding more water to the bath, sending clouds of steam into the air. Someone else brought wood to add to the fire and with this final visitor Ginny was entirely humiliated. She tried curling into the corner, pulling her knees to her chest.  When she thought the Prince had forgotten she reached for the edge of another rug, quietly pulling it in front of her. His head whipped around and he glared at her.

“Don’t,” he said, and she dropped the rug. “Sit up like I told you to.”

She went back to kneeling and he pulled his shirt off over his head before drinking down half the goblet of wine. For a minute she was transfixed at the sight of him. In stark contrast to the paleness of his skin and hair, his torso was covered in black markings, symbols and shapes like she’d seen on warriors or the ancients in her mythology books. The inside of his left arm held a twisted snake emerging from the head of a skull, on the right, the limp body of a naked woman impaled on a pike; his bicep carried a long, dark blade wrapped in thorns. There were others, smaller and more detailed across his chest, over his heart and down to his stomach.  When he turned toward the light she could see that they followed the line of a thick scar, wrapped like a rope around his torso. On his back was a fearsome bird of prey, its claws extended, grasping a crown that twisted and moved with his muscles, nearly appearing alive. These pictures fascinated her, the lines so sharp and dark, the details so precise, she wondered at their meaning.

“See something you like?” he sneered, and she realized he was right in front of her. She’d been staring. He crouched down and unfastened her chain then went to sit in the chair beside the fire, his legs stretched out long in front of him, the light from the flames making his skin appear golden. “Come over here girl.”

She didn’t move for a second. Not because she’d intended to disobey but because her body froze. She needed to gather her courage, tamp down her humiliation. And when she looked up his gaze was burning with silent rage. She walked quickly and stood in front of him.

“When I tell you to do something, Finch, you do it. I’m going to hurt you enough without you begging for more,” he said, sipping his wine. Then, patting his leg he said, “sit down.”

She lowered herself onto his leather covered thigh, looking into the flames of the fire, trying to detach herself from it all, to forget that she was entirely naked, that he’d just promised to hurt her, to forget that her family was gone, her village burnt to ash, that her life had essentially ended. A deep pinch at her stomach sent a jolt of pain through her center and she jumped. He’d dug his fingers into the soft skin just below her ribs.

“Don’t do that. The more you disappear from me, the further I’ll go to dig you out. I promise you that.” 

The water bearers were back with their last cauldrons of hot water and he felt her tense up, her arms instinctually going to cover herself, chin tucked to her chest.

“Look at me,” he said, tugging at her hair. She turned to face him, his lips stained dark from the wine, his eyes a bit less angry than before. “Don’t look at anyone but me. Ever. There is no one else but me.”

Ginny nodded as he ran his fingers up and down her bare back, over the little bumps of her spine. When the room was empty he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her face down to his. His tongue drove in roughly between her lips, his teeth nipping as he kissed her, digging his fingers into the base of her skull, pulling a whine of pain from deep in her throat. Still, she kissed back. He felt her tongue, warm and tentative, moving to tangle with his, her mouth opening a bit wider to accept him, her soft lips pushing back. It enflamed him and he growled against her, his other hand holding her hip, keeping her pressed against him. He broke away and she gasped, pulling her hand up to cover her mouth as if it had betrayed her, her cheeks red with surprise and perhaps a little something else that she wouldn’t dare admit.

“That’s how you’ll greet me, finch. Every day. Every morning when I wake up; every day when I come for you. Every time I walk in the door I want your mouth on mine like that. Do you understand?”

She nodded and he stood, letting her fall to the floor.

[ber39james]

8 Things We Can All Learn From Elizabeth Kolbert

If you’re looking for an inspiring female author from whose work you might glean a few writerly pointers, you needn’t search far. Whether you’re a hardcore fiction buff or always hungry for a fresh memoir, the world of words is suffering no shortage of brilliant women.

Recent fiction luminaires include Hanya Yanagihara—a longtime writer by trade but a relative newcomer to the realm of novels. Her latest was shortlisted for the 2015 Man Booker Prize and was a 2015 National Book Award finalist. Then there’s Karen Russell, the MacArthur “Genius” Grant winner whose debut novel was a 2012 Pulitzer finalist. And Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, another “Genius” Grant winner whose novels have garnered a string of awards, and whose speech “We should all be feminists” was sampled by Beyoncé.

The nonfiction side of writing also boasts an abundance of female heroes, like Emily Nussbaum, who won a 2016 Pulitzer for her prolific and thoughtful TV criticism, and her fellow New Yorker writer, Elizabeth Kolbert.

//media.mtvnservices.com/embed/mgid:arc:video:comedycentral.com:5c156a1a-ea00-49b6-a498-06fac72990d0

A journalist, author, and adventurer seasoned by more than three decades of writing experience, Kolbert is perhaps best known for her book The Sixth Extinction, which won a 2015 Pulitzer for nonfiction.

Kolbert’s writing is sharp, scientifically complex, politically fraught, and at times darkly funny. In short, she’s exactly the type of author worth studying for hints about the craft. Here are a few we’ve picked up:

1 Leave home. Talk to strangers.

Elizabeth Kolbert’s writing refuses to stay chained to a desk. Not content to muse from home about melting ice sheets, for instance, she journeys with scientists to the distant reaches of Greenland.

Indeed, Kolbert’s travels transport readers to far-flung places like the Great Barrier Reef, the Amazon rainforest, and an utterly wild preserve in the Netherlands. Along the way, she propels us forward using scenes with working experts, providing not just their scientific perspectives but also glimpses into their, er, natural habitats.

It’s the kind of writing that shows not everything has been done or written before—and that truth can be stranger than fiction. Make a habit of venturing outside your head and out into the world, and your writing will be indelible.

2 Show—and also tell.

You’ve probably run across that writerly dictum “show, don’t tell” before, but sometimes the situation calls for both. When Kolbert sets out to explain ocean acidification, she pulls on a wetsuit and takes us scuba diving. Any time she wants to describe a complex scientific finding based on an esoteric lab technique, she goes to the lab and has an expert walk us through the process.

This approach lets Kolbert grapple with wonky concepts (like geologic epochs) while still relating a concrete story (a hike to a rocky outcropping with a group of geologists). When you opt to show and tell, you deliver a bevy of facts in a story that’s more memorable than any sterile treatise.

3 Be adaptable.

It’s good to devise plans, but it’s also good to shred them if they’re not working or if other opportunities arise. In an interview with The Open Notebook, Kolbert relates one small adaptation she had to discover in the field, in order to take notes while swimming:

The most challenging thing was reporting underwater. That is the hardest thing—when you see these amazing things underwater, but what can you do? You can’t take notes. When I was in Hawaii snorkeling, the scientists had these plastic slates with a special pencil to keep track of their experiments, that you can write on underwater. They loaned me one of those, so I took all my notes on my plastic tablet and transcribed it when I got back to shore.

In that same interview, Kolbert also speaks to the process of making adjustments based on her subjects’ schedules:

I try to go on reporting trips when things are happening, but deadlines are complicated and things that only happen once a year are hard to plan around. For the book, a couple of times I tagged along on an expedition. Sometimes people kindly staged expeditions for me, but I had to work around their schedules. Some things took a year to schedule properly. You have a lot more time when it’s your own book. Or maybe you don’t really—my book was way overdue.

Be flexible when you can. Kolbert’s willingness to shrug off her book’s initial timetable eventually paid off with a Pulitzer-caliber result.

4 Let yourself appear in the work, once in a while.

The question of how often you, as the writer, should insert yourself into a story that isn’t expressly about you is often debated.

Kolbert doesn’t readily personalize every story she publishes, but she does occasionally step in and describe her own experiences—like a night she spent at a sleep center with electrodes on her scalp and tubes in her nose for a story about the science of insomnia. In The Sixth Extinction, for a section about backpacking in mountainous Peru, she includes an aside about a shopping bag full of coca leaves presented to her by an ecologist:

The leaves were leathery and tasted like old books. Soon my lips grew numb, and my aches and pains began to fade. An hour or two later, I was back for more. (Many times since have I wished for that shopping bag.)

Kolbert has chosen the setting of this chapter for other reasons, but having brought us here, she doesn’t shy away from a flavorful detail. This is the key: finding a happy middle ground that’s neither self-indulgent nor invisible.

5 Don’t let anyone tell you you’re unqualified.

Your writing doesn’t have to be circumscribed by your credentials. Elizabeth Kolbert is many things, but she is not a scientist. All the same, she’s not dissuaded from researching and sharing insights on subjects from colonizing Mars to the future of automation.

Sometimes what’s important isn’t so much technical expertise as the ability to do your homework and to zoom out and recognize what will be important to your audience.

6 Persist.

Just because recognition doesn’t come overnight doesn’t mean it’s not coming.

Kolbert began her career as a newspaper reporter in the mid-1980s; she headed the New York Times’ Albany bureau from 1988 to 1991. By the time she became a New Yorker staff writer in 1999, she’d been grinding out stories for some fifteen years. Even then, she was still years of hard work away from the National Magazine Award she eventually won for her 2005 series The Climate of Man.

Be patient; keep showing up and putting in the work.

7 Keep your readers guessing.

A reader who can easily predict what you’re about to say may not remain a reader for long. One way Kolbert keeps us hooked is by interjecting an occasional wry observation or utterly startling turn of phrase, as with the ending of this thought:

If nearly half the occupations in the U.S. are ‘potentially automatable,’ and if this could play out within ‘a decade or two,’ then we are looking at economic disruption on an unparalleled scale. Picture the entire Industrial Revolution compressed into the life span of a beagle.

Weren’t expecting that, were you? One other pointer we glean from Kolbert—this technique is most effective when applied sparingly; you don’t want to wear it out.

8 Enjoy the work.

Kolbert’s writing could hardly be called whimsical, and often gravitates to matters of extinction and survival. The subjects can feel as grim as a cave full of diseased bats in winter. But that doesn’t mean the day-to-day work of finding words for it is miserable; Kolbert makes a point of traveling to fascinating places and seeking out compelling characters.

Though few writers have the luxury of working exclusively on projects they cherish every minute of, the job doesn’t have to be a pure slog. Find and nurture the aspect of writing that drives you, and the rest will be that much easier.

The post 8 Things We Can All Learn From Elizabeth Kolbert appeared first on Grammarly Blog.

from Grammarly Blog https://www.grammarly.com/blog/elizabeth-kolbert-writing-lessons/

[arthur36domingo]

8 Things We Can All Learn From Elizabeth Kolbert

If you’re looking for an inspiring female author from whose work you might glean a few writerly pointers, you needn’t search far. Whether you’re a hardcore fiction buff or always hungry for a fresh memoir, the world of words is suffering no shortage of brilliant women.

Recent fiction luminaires include Hanya Yanagihara—a longtime writer by trade but a relative newcomer to the realm of novels. Her latest was shortlisted for the 2015 Man Booker Prize and was a 2015 National Book Award finalist. Then there’s Karen Russell, the MacArthur “Genius” Grant winner whose debut novel was a 2012 Pulitzer finalist. And Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, another “Genius” Grant winner whose novels have garnered a string of awards, and whose speech “We should all be feminists” was sampled by Beyoncé.

The nonfiction side of writing also boasts an abundance of female heroes, like Emily Nussbaum, who won a 2016 Pulitzer for her prolific and thoughtful TV criticism, and her fellow New Yorker writer, Elizabeth Kolbert.

//media.mtvnservices.com/embed/mgid:arc:video:comedycentral.com:5c156a1a-ea00-49b6-a498-06fac72990d0

A journalist, author, and adventurer seasoned by more than three decades of writing experience, Kolbert is perhaps best known for her book The Sixth Extinction, which won a 2015 Pulitzer for nonfiction.

Kolbert’s writing is sharp, scientifically complex, politically fraught, and at times darkly funny. In short, she’s exactly the type of author worth studying for hints about the craft. Here are a few we’ve picked up:

1 Leave home. Talk to strangers.

Elizabeth Kolbert’s writing refuses to stay chained to a desk. Not content to muse from home about melting ice sheets, for instance, she journeys with scientists to the distant reaches of Greenland.

Indeed, Kolbert’s travels transport readers to far-flung places like the Great Barrier Reef, the Amazon rainforest, and an utterly wild preserve in the Netherlands. Along the way, she propels us forward using scenes with working experts, providing not just their scientific perspectives but also glimpses into their, er, natural habitats.

It’s the kind of writing that shows not everything has been done or written before—and that truth can be stranger than fiction. Make a habit of venturing outside your head and out into the world, and your writing will be indelible.

2 Show—and also tell.

You’ve probably run across that writerly dictum “show, don’t tell” before, but sometimes the situation calls for both. When Kolbert sets out to explain ocean acidification, she pulls on a wetsuit and takes us scuba diving. Any time she wants to describe a complex scientific finding based on an esoteric lab technique, she goes to the lab and has an expert walk us through the process.

This approach lets Kolbert grapple with wonky concepts (like geologic epochs) while still relating a concrete story (a hike to a rocky outcropping with a group of geologists). When you opt to show and tell, you deliver a bevy of facts in a story that’s more memorable than any sterile treatise.

3 Be adaptable.

It’s good to devise plans, but it’s also good to shred them if they’re not working or if other opportunities arise. In an interview with The Open Notebook, Kolbert relates one small adaptation she had to discover in the field, in order to take notes while swimming:

The most challenging thing was reporting underwater. That is the hardest thing—when you see these amazing things underwater, but what can you do? You can’t take notes. When I was in Hawaii snorkeling, the scientists had these plastic slates with a special pencil to keep track of their experiments, that you can write on underwater. They loaned me one of those, so I took all my notes on my plastic tablet and transcribed it when I got back to shore.

In that same interview, Kolbert also speaks to the process of making adjustments based on her subjects’ schedules:

I try to go on reporting trips when things are happening, but deadlines are complicated and things that only happen once a year are hard to plan around. For the book, a couple of times I tagged along on an expedition. Sometimes people kindly staged expeditions for me, but I had to work around their schedules. Some things took a year to schedule properly. You have a lot more time when it’s your own book. Or maybe you don’t really—my book was way overdue.

Be flexible when you can. Kolbert’s willingness to shrug off her book’s initial timetable eventually paid off with a Pulitzer-caliber result.

4 Let yourself appear in the work, once in a while.

The question of how often you, as the writer, should insert yourself into a story that isn’t expressly about you is often debated.

Kolbert doesn’t readily personalize every story she publishes, but she does occasionally step in and describe her own experiences—like a night she spent at a sleep center with electrodes on her scalp and tubes in her nose for a story about the science of insomnia. In The Sixth Extinction, for a section about backpacking in mountainous Peru, she includes an aside about a shopping bag full of coca leaves presented to her by an ecologist:

The leaves were leathery and tasted like old books. Soon my lips grew numb, and my aches and pains began to fade. An hour or two later, I was back for more. (Many times since have I wished for that shopping bag.)

Kolbert has chosen the setting of this chapter for other reasons, but having brought us here, she doesn’t shy away from a flavorful detail. This is the key: finding a happy middle ground that’s neither self-indulgent nor invisible.

5 Don’t let anyone tell you you’re unqualified.

Your writing doesn’t have to be circumscribed by your credentials. Elizabeth Kolbert is many things, but she is not a scientist. All the same, she’s not dissuaded from researching and sharing insights on subjects from colonizing Mars to the future of automation.

Sometimes what’s important isn’t so much technical expertise as the ability to do your homework and to zoom out and recognize what will be important to your audience.

6 Persist.

Just because recognition doesn’t come overnight doesn’t mean it’s not coming.

Kolbert began her career as a newspaper reporter in the mid-1980s; she headed the New York Times’ Albany bureau from 1988 to 1991. By the time she became a New Yorker staff writer in 1999, she’d been grinding out stories for some fifteen years. Even then, she was still years of hard work away from the National Magazine Award she eventually won for her 2005 series The Climate of Man.

Be patient; keep showing up and putting in the work.

7 Keep your readers guessing.

A reader who can easily predict what you’re about to say may not remain a reader for long. One way Kolbert keeps us hooked is by interjecting an occasional wry observation or utterly startling turn of phrase, as with the ending of this thought:

If nearly half the occupations in the U.S. are ‘potentially automatable,’ and if this could play out within ‘a decade or two,’ then we are looking at economic disruption on an unparalleled scale. Picture the entire Industrial Revolution compressed into the life span of a beagle.

Weren’t expecting that, were you? One other pointer we glean from Kolbert—this technique is most effective when applied sparingly; you don’t want to wear it out.

8 Enjoy the work.

Kolbert’s writing could hardly be called whimsical, and often gravitates to matters of extinction and survival. The subjects can feel as grim as a cave full of diseased bats in winter. But that doesn’t mean the day-to-day work of finding words for it is miserable; Kolbert makes a point of traveling to fascinating places and seeking out compelling characters.

Though few writers have the luxury of working exclusively on projects they cherish every minute of, the job doesn’t have to be a pure slog. Find and nurture the aspect of writing that drives you, and the rest will be that much easier.

The post 8 Things We Can All Learn From Elizabeth Kolbert appeared first on Grammarly Blog.

from Grammarly Blog https://www.grammarly.com/blog/elizabeth-kolbert-writing-lessons/