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blooming-dahlia · 1 year ago

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My Dear Friend, I Love You - (Late) Valentine’s Day Special! [Riddle Rosehearts]

╰ Ace sighed heavily as the red and pink heart-shaped cards fell out of the box onto the floor. This year, he and Deuce were in charge of the special Valentine's Day mail at NRC because Riddle wanted them to do something more productive than the things they usually did. And Valentine's Day happened to be right around the corner, so as their beloved friend, you suggested they should volunteer as mailmen for that special occasion.

╰ “I had no idea the students here are so affectionate. How many are there?”

╰ “Come on, Ace. We have to sort them and deliver them to the right classes before our first lesson starts.” Deuce was already on his knees, picking up the cards from the floor and reading the classes written under the students' names. Then he started sorting them carefully, making sure nothing gets mixed up. “I could use some help, you know?”

╰ Dissatisfied and still a bit sleepy, Ace knelt down beside his friend and picked up a pink heart made of paper. This one was addressed to Idia Shroud, the housewarden of Ignihyde. A mocking laugh escaped the redhead's lips.

╰ “That’s an interesting one, let’s see what’s written here.”

╰ Suddenly, Deuce snatched the valentine out of Ace's hands and put it on the class 3-B pile. They weren't supposed to read personal things like love letters, but it was obvious that Ace didn't care. As fast as he could, he began to read the contents of another card he spotted.

╰ “Dear Vil Schoenheit, I'm free on Valentine's Day after 7 PM, so maybe we could meet and watch a movie or eat something delicious at a fancy restaurant. If you're interested, please wear your favorite high heels, I want you to step on me with them- what the hell is this?!” Ace burst out laughing like a maniac before placing the heart on the class 3-C pile.

╰ Another minute passed. Deuce still tried to concentrate on his work, while Ace continued to make ridiculous comments on almost every next letter. Some of them were indeed genuine, full of sweet words of affection, while others were more questionable and not entirely serious. Or at least Ace hoped so.

╰ Vil turned out to be the winner in terms of the amount of valentines received, which wasn't surprising. Somehow Malleus Draconia also managed to get the most cards, both from his class and dormitory. Finally, Deuce picked up the last one, which was visibly different from the others. First of all, it wasn't a heart-shaped piece of paper, but an elegantly wrapped letter. Someone definitely wanted to stand out and impress their crush, they thought. But that wasn't the only reason this valentine was intriguing. The mysterious letter was addressed to [Y/N] [L/N] of class 1-A, the non-magical student and best friend of Adeuce duo.

╰ “I don’t trust them.”

╰ Riddle read the draft of his letter once more before turning to Trey, who was standing in the doorway. The special mail was scheduled to start tomorrow and last until the early morning of Valentine's Day before Ace Trappola and Deuce Spade take the mailbox to sort the cards and finally deliver them to their addressees.

╰ The main problem was the fact that this year's mailmen weren't the most responsible people in Night Raven College, and Riddle was well aware of that. There was no way he was going to take the risk of writing an entire essay expressing his true feelings for you, not if it was going to end up in the hands of those two troublemakers.

╰ “Maybe it's time to finally give them a chance and let them do something that would prove their sense of responsibility?”

╰ “No, they will read it, I am absolutely sure.”

╰ “And that’s why you decided to write [Y/N] a love letter starting with ‘My Dear Friend’? Or maybe you’re not certain about your feelings towards them?” Trey noticed. In fact, Riddle had been struggling with his confession to you for some time, and the upcoming Valentine's Day seemed like the perfect opportunity to end that suffering. You were his first love, after all, and it was obvious that Riddle was nervous, even though he tried to act cool most of the time.

╰ He was also curious if you had made a Valentine's card for anyone. Maybe for Ace and Deuce, since they were your best friends? Or maybe a tuna-scented one for Grim? Unless... no, that couldn't be true. Riddle didn't even want to think about you being in love with someone else. He knew it was selfish of him, but he had fallen head over heels for you and there was nothing he could do about it. He had to confess before it's too late, before some other guy steals your heart.

╰ With a sigh, Riddle took a formal paper and concentrated on rewriting his letter on it. Most people cut colorful sheets of paper in the shape of a heart, but that wasn't his style. Trey went back to the kitchen some time later, allowing Riddle to bang his head against the desk in peace. Why was it so hard to confess to someone, even if it was just through a simple letter?

╰ “My Dear Friend- damn, [Y/N] just got friendzoned through a valentine.”

╰ Deuce tried hard to resist the temptation to read the card, but eventually ended up listening carefully to every word Ace read. This time there was no mocking or laughing. While reading it, they weren't quite sure if this was a love confession, since the person who wrote it seemed to think of you more as a friend than a crush. Either it was a friendzone declaration, or this person was just terrible when it comes to feelings.

╰ “I would be honored if you would accept my invitation for a cup of tea and a nice walk afterwards. Sincerely, the housewarden of Heartslabyul, Riddle Rosehearts.” Ace’s eyes widened immediately, his hands almost clenched on the letter. “No way. I mean, I know the housewarden and [Y/N] are on neutral terms, but him sending them a valentine card seems... oddly out of character.”

╰ “It looks like he's just grateful he can count on [Y/N] and nothing more, we don't need to make any serious assumptions based on what we just read. Anyway, let's just put this on the pile and wait for classes to start so we can finally deliver them and get it over with.”

╰ Meanwhile, you've entered the school building together with Grim, who's been annoying you with questions about when you're going to buy him tuna cans for Valentine's Day. He could at least try to pretend to like your gift for him, a cute sweater with "World's #1 Cutest Cat" written on it.

╰ Your first class started few minutes ago, but there was no sign of Ace and Deuce. As you pulled your textbook out of your bag, you stumbled across a nicely wrapped gift with a note attached, and immediately remembered why your friends weren't showing up. You didn't drop your valentine in the special mailbox set aside for the occasion. Instead, you put a lot of effort and love into your gift for Riddle. The worst thing that could happen now was for him to reject you. That thought was the only reason you hesitated to give it to him.

╰ The door opened and the Adeuce duo made their grand entrance. Professor Trein was about to make a comment about them being late, but Ace quickly made that impossible as he began his speech, or rather, shouting. “Class 1-A, here comes your special Valentine's Day mail! We have a lot of them because we're the best class at Night Raven College.”

╰ You watched as your friends handed out Valentine's cards to particular people. At first, you had no idea that the students at NRC celebrated Valentine's Day just like the ones at your old school. It was heartwarming to see the joy on your classmates' faces when they received their cards.

╰ And then Ace placed a card next to your textbook. You looked up at him, confusion in your eyes, but he just grinned and sat down next to Deuce, who was already reading the contents of his own valentine. What had just happened? Someone sent you a valentine? You studied it and noticed that it wasn't a regular card, but a fancy looking envelope with a letter inside. Feeling a bit uncertain, you decided to open it after classes.

╰ It wasn't surprising that Riddle didn't receive any valentine, but deep down he was hoping to see a card with your signature on his classroom desk. He should have known that this feeling was one-sided, and besides, there were no signs of your interest in him on a more romantic level. You often attended the Unbirthday Parties and even spent some time with Riddle privately. When you needed help with your studies, he was always willing to help. But Riddle was drawn to you more than he should, and it was killing him inside.

╰ You stumbled upon Riddle in the school library. At first you weren't sure if you really wanted to approach him, not after reading his letter. It was sincere and sweet, but something about it made you feel uneasy. Riddle thanked you for everything you'd done for him so far, wrote a simple compliment, emphasized the word ‘friend’ a few times, and invited you on... you didn't know if this was a date or not. You felt stupid for expecting more, knowing that Riddle was trying his best.

╰ Riddle looked at the nearby clock and realized it was time to finally leave the library and return to Heartslabyul. You had to act quickly or you would lose your only chance. Just as he got up from his seat, you threw the gift on the table, causing confusion on Riddle's face. Heartslabyul's housewarden blinked a few times and then turned around to see your cool gaze.

╰ “For you.”

╰ And that was it. Riddle didn't even manage to say a word as you ran out of the library, leaving him alone and confused. That wasn't your plan, of course, but it was now or never, right? The only thing you could do now was to hope that Riddle wouldn't think any worse of you, especially since the way you gave him the Valentine's Day gift wasn't the right one. It wouldn't be surprising if he started to ignore you after that.

╰ Opening the box, Riddle found handmade heart-shaped chocolates. He examined them to make sure everything was all right, then carefully took a bite of one. It tasted like heaven, the strawberry filling doing its job perfectly. Riddle ate another chocolate before he began to read the note attached to the box.

╰ There was no doubt that you were smarter than him. Riddle could always give you the letter in person, one in which he wasn't playing around with hiding his true feelings, instead of throwing the other one in the mailbox just because he didn't want Ace and Deuce to find out about his crush on you.

╰ “Dear Riddle. I'm sorry I didn't have the courage to send you a valentine card by special mail. Instead, I wanted to do something different. Trey gladly agreed to help me make these chocolates for you, especially with your favorite flavor filling. Today is Valentine's Day, when both friends and lovers spend time together, give each other gifts, and so on. Let this gift be a reminder that you have people who love and care for you, that you deserve everything that's good and sweet in this world. And if you don't have anyone to celebrate this day with, I would love to be your valentine. Sincerely, [Y/N], your Dear Friend.”

╰ Those last three words were written with a different ink color, which made Riddle quickly realize that you had just added them, probably after reading his letter. The boy sighed, a soft red blush spreading across his face. Then he grabbed the box with the note and made his way back to the Heartslabyul dormitory, where someone special, his dear friend and valentine, was waiting for him.

It's been a long time since I posted something here, I promise to be more active from now on :D

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland one-shots #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twst one-shots #twst x reader #riddle rosehearts #riddle rosehearts x reader #twisted wonderland riddle x reader #twst riddle x reader

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weekendpassrevoked · 4 months ago

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Easy's Songbird - Chapter 10

yahoooooo, please enjoy more introduction to our side characters that will help connect the story to other plot points. whoever figures out what i'm trying to plan gets to request something special for the next chapter.

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Isabella’s first batch of letters was a welcome reprieve to the torture she was enduring in camp.

She had gotten a large stack of letters at the morning mail-call, the majority coming from home. She had also gotten ones from Lucas, Cameron and her brother, along with her best friend Sina who was out training in New York City after she joined the WAVES, and her brother Darren who was out training in Parris Island after he signed up as a Marine.

Isabella buzzed with excitement, eager to read her letters as she ripped the first one open at breakfast.

‘Dear Isa,

I hope you’ve been well. Army training has been brutal and everyday I wish I was at home more than ever. I miss Mama’s cooking and the kids' laughter. I especially miss our weekend performances! The thrill of being in the Army doesn’t compare to the thrill of being on stage.

Tennessee isn’t that different from Florida. It has the same kind of people and the same heat, but a hell of a lot more hilly. The amount of mountains in this state is insane, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many in my life.’

Isabella snorts. Of course he wouldn’t have seen so many in his life, Florida didn’t have mountains.

‘I’ve never climbed so much shit in my life. My hands are pretty much dead and writing this letter has taken every bit of strength I can muster (so you better appreciate it!). My arms hurt from carrying the machine gun everywhere, especially on our marches. It sucks, but you know what? At least I’m not a suicidal maniac who willingly accepted jumping out of a moving plane.

Despite how grueling training has been, I’ve managed to make some buddies. Billy Callahan acts just like Michel Alejandro does. He’s pure big brother and it makes it absolutely wonderful to annoy the shit out of him. Jamie O’Rourke is probably the funniest bastard I’ve ever met. You’d like him—he’s got that sharp wit you enjoy, and he can play the fiddle like a devil at a crossroads. I keep telling him we’d make a hell of a duo if we ever get out of this thing in one piece. Elijah Winters…man. What can I tell you?

He’s the coolest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. You ever meet someone who’s just effortlessly good at everything? That’s Eli. He’s got this whole quiet, brooding thing going on, and I swear, half the guys think he’s got some tragic backstory or some shit—but really? He’s just a guy who doesn’t waste words. He’s sharp, though. Real sharp. And when he does talk? You listen.

I think you’d get along with him, actually. You both have that watch-and-listen way of reading a room. Reminds me of how you can just look at someone and know if they’re about to pass out or puke their guts out. It’s a little freaky, but I get it.

Oh—and he never loses at cards. I think he’s hustling us, but I also think I’d rather just not know.

Isabella’s heart filled with warmth. She was so happy that her beloved baby brother had managed to make his place in training. It wasn’t that she doubted his ability to supersede the challenge, it’s just that Cameron was, well, Cameron.

“What’s got you smiling like that?”

Isabella jumped, hastily pressing the letter to her chest before twisting around to see Luz grinning down at her.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she huffed, shoving him lightly.

Luz just snickered, plopping down onto the bench beside her. “C’mon, what’s got you all giddy?”

She hesitated, then glanced down at the letter in her hands. “Cameron wrote me.”

At that, Luz’s grin softened. “Ah, Lucky, huh?”

Isabella blinked. “Wait, how do you—?”

“Kid, you talk about your people a lot when you’re half-asleep. Did you know you mumble?” Luz smirked. “I got all the inside scoop just listening to you ramble in your bunk.”

She groaned, dropping her face into her hands. “Oh, God.”

Luz chuckled, nudging her shoulder. “Relax, Vega. Ain’t nothing embarrassing.” He nodded toward the letter. “So? What’s he up to?”

She exhaled, letting the warmth from Cameron’s words settle in her chest again. “Making trouble, as usual.”

Luz snorted. “Figures.”

She smiled, thumbing over the paper. “But he’s got a good group. And he’s actually doing well. I mean, I knew he could, but…” She trailed off, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

Luz leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head. “But it’s different hearing it from him.”

She nodded.

“Do you want to read the rest with me?” she asked.

‘Anyway, Isa, these guys? They make this whole thing a hell of a lot easier. I think you’d like ‘em, Isa. Maybe even Eli—though, let’s be real, you’d probably just make fun of him for brooding too much.

Write me back soon, yeah? Tell me everything. Who’s been pissing you off? How many times have you had to patch up those trigger-happy idiots? Always remember you can handle whatever they throw at you, don’t let it get to you.

Your Lucky Charm,

Cameron Salazar’

Isabella smiled, shaking her head. “He always signs off like that.”

Luz snorted. “‘Your Lucky Charm?’”

She smirked. “It started when we were kids. He started sitting behind me on my math tests and voila, I started passing them. He’s been insufferable ever since.”

Luz grinned. “Oh, that’s gold. I’m using that.”

“Please don’t,” she groaned, nudging him with her elbow.

He chuckled, watching her carefully tuck the letter away in its envelope, her movements careful, almost reverent.

After a beat, he nudged her back, lighter this time. “He seems like a good kid.”

Isabella glanced at him. “Yeah. He is.”

There was something in her voice—something proud, but tinged with worry.

Luz picked up on it immediately. “Hey,” he said, tilting his head. “He’ll be alright.”

She swallowed, fingers lingering on the paper. “I know. I just—” She exhaled. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to him.”

Luz leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Same way he’d feel if something happened to you.”

She looked down.

“He’s looking out for you too, y’know,” Luz added, nodding toward the letter. “Saying all that stuff about you handling whatever gets thrown at you. He wouldn’t write that if he didn’t believe it.”

Isabella pressed her lips together.

She knew Luz was right.

Still, it didn’t stop the gnawing ache in her chest.

“I know.” she started. “Let’s read the others!”

She carefully grabbed Lucas’s letter, confused at the return address.

“What’s wrong?” Luz inquired.

She hummed. “He’s supposed to be in South Carolina.”

‘Dear Birdie,

Knowing you, you’ll be scratching your head at the strange address on this envelope. Not to worry, it’s good news.

The Eight Air Force took me in, and I’m in Virginia now, training with the best damn pilots I’ve ever seen. I can hardly believe it myself. Every time I step into a plane, I think about all those summer afternoons when we’d lay in the field and watch the clouds, guessing what shapes they’d turn into. And now? Now I get to fly through them. Don’t ask me how I managed to get myself transferred over there, I can barely figure it out myself. I hated the Marines and I couldn’t be happier I got my ass out of there.’

She let out a small laugh, shaking her head in disbelief.

‘It’s cold as hell over here, though. And the food? Let’s just say if Mama could see what they’ve been feeding me, she’d have a heart attack on the spot. If you have any pull with those medics of yours, maybe send me a care package? I’m wasting away, Isa. Practically a skeleton.

Oh, and I finally got my own crew. They’re a bunch of lunatics, but they’re my kind of lunatics. I’ll tell you about them in another letter, but just know I’ve already got them wrapped around my little finger. Charisma, kid. You should try it sometime.

Keep writing, yeah? And don’t you dare do anything reckless before I get back. I’d hate to come home and find out you’ve single-handedly taken on the entire German army just to prove a point.

With love,

Your favorite Ace,

Lucas.’

Isabella exhaled, pressing the letter against her chest for a moment, letting herself take in the reality of it. Lucas had done it—somehow, against all odds, he had wriggled his way out of the Marines and landed exactly where he wanted to be.

She knew he would, but still—he actually did it.

Luz, still leaning over her shoulder, let out an impressed whistle. “Gotta hand it to him. Didn’t think it was possible to weasel out of the Marines.”

Isabella huffed a quiet laugh. “Neither did I.”

“You think he bribed someone?”

“Oh, absolutely.” She smirked. “Or talked their ears off until they got sick of him and signed whatever paperwork he wanted just to get him out of their hair.”

Luz snorted. “Yeah, that tracks.”

She carefully folded the letter, setting it beside Cameron’s, her fingers lingering on the paper. She missed them.

A lot.

But there was something reassuring about knowing they were all finding their place—each of them scattered, yet still bound together.

She shook herself out of her thoughts and grabbed the next envelope. “Alright, next one.”

Luz perked up. “Darren? Or Sina?”

Isabella flipped it over, recognizing the neat, familiar handwriting immediately. Sina.

She smiled. “Dolly.”

Luz grinned. “This one’s gonna be sweet, isn’t it?”

Isabella hummed as she unfolded the letter, already knowing that yes, it absolutely would be.

‘Isabellita,

I hope you’re taking care of yourself and not just running yourself into the ground trying to prove yourself to all those boys. I know you, and I know how stubborn you can be—but please, remember to rest.’

Isabella rolled her eyes fondly. Classic Sina.

‘New York is wonderful, Isa. The buildings are so tall, I feel like an ant walking between them. The training has been difficult, but I’m learning so much—I think I’ve found where I belong. Being in the WAVES is… different than I expected, but in a good way. I’m surrounded by so many strong, intelligent women, and I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.’

Isabella grinned at that, warmth filling her chest.

‘You’d love my unit. They remind me of home, and we keep each other sane. There’s Evelyn—she’s a spitfire from Boston, you two would get along like a house on fire. Then there’s Jo, who reminds me so much of Lucas it’s almost frightening, and Margaret, who is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. We all take turns doing each other’s hair, and don’t you dare laugh at me, Isa, but I’ve actually gotten good at styling victory rolls. (I’ll do yours next time I see you, just you wait.)’

Luz cackled. “Oh, this is gold.”

Isabella groaned. “Shut up.”

‘Write to me soon, okay? Tell me about Easy, about the boys you have to babysit—oh, and please tell me you’re still playing music. I know training is exhausting, but promise me you won’t let it go. It’s a part of you, Isa. Don’t let them take it from you.’

Isabella swallowed, blinking down at the words.

She had been writing—but not as much as she used to. Not like before. And she sure as hell wasn’t singing.

Luz must have caught the look on her face, because he nudged her lightly. “You alright?”

She nodded quickly, folding the letter. “Yeah. Just—thinking.”

Luz didn’t push, just hummed in understanding. “Dolly seems real sweet.”

“She is,” Isabella said softly.

‘P.S. You better tell me if any of those boys of yours are worth swooning over.

Yours truly,

Sina Navarro’

Luz burst out laughing. “Oh, she’s definitely your best friend.”

Isabella groaned, shoving his shoulder. “Don’t encourage her.”

“Oh, I will be writing her back on your behalf,” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows. “And I’ll be sure to let her know all about how Easy’s finest have been falling over themselves around you.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at her lips. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

Isabella sighed as she put the letter back.

She missed her too.

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the last letter—the one from Darren.

She hesitated for a moment before opening it, preparing herself.

Darren wasn’t sentimental like Cameron or Sina.

No—his letters would always be straight to the point.

And sure enough—

‘Isabella,

Marine training sucks. That’s it. That’s the letter.’

Isabella burst out laughing.

Luz wheezed. “Oh my God, that’s it?”

She flipped to the next page. “Wait, wait, there’s more.”

‘Fine. I’ll elaborate.

Parris Island is a hellhole, the humidity is worse than Florida, and my drill instructor is the meanest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. (Don’t tell Sina I said that.) I think I’ve had about four minutes of sleep since I got here. I hate it. But I’m good at it. And I think that’s worse.

My unit is solid. No one’s killed each other yet. But these guys? They’re real. I respect that. You’d like a few of ‘em. I’ll write more when I get the chance—assuming I survive.

Tell Lucas that just because he escaped the Marines doesn’t mean I won’t whoop his ass when I see him again.

Be good, Isabella. And don’t get yourself killed.

- Rook.’

Isabella snorted. “Jesus Christ, he’s dramatic.”

Luz grinned. “Yeah, I think I’d like him.”

She shook her head, staring down at the stack of letters now sitting in her lap.

“Alright, we still have three letters to go.”

As she went to open her mother’s letter, she felt people behind her yet again.

She sighed, rolling her eyes before she turned around.

“Can I help you?”

She was faced with a smug-faced Liebgott, arms crossed, Malarkey and Skip flanking him with identical grins, a curious Gene straggling behind. Luz, still lounging beside her, just chuckled under his breath.

Liebgott raised an eyebrow. “So, Birdie, who’s writing you love letters?”

Isabella groaned. “They’re from home, not love letters.”

Malarkey nudged her shoulder, peering at the stack in her hands. “Looked like a hell of a lot of ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Skip added, smirking. “Didn’t know you were such a lady of correspondence.”

She huffed, clutching the letters to her chest dramatically. “Oh, forgive me for having people who actually care about me.”

Liebgott let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. You got any scandalous ones in there, or are they all just your mom asking if you’ve been eating enough?”

Isabella narrowed her eyes at him before holding up the unopened envelope. “Actually, this one is from my mother, and knowing her, it’s at least four pages of exactly that.”

Skip whistled. “Damn. You gonna read it out loud?”

She rolled her eyes. “Absolutely not.”

Liebgott’s grin widened. “C’mon, what if she talks about your childhood? We need to know if you were always a menace.”

“I was a delightful child, thank you very much.”

Malarkey leaned in. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

Luz snorted, flipping through one of Isabella’s discarded envelopes. “I dunno, boys. From the way her brothers write, I think she might’ve been the golden child.”

That earned a round of snickers.

Isabella, determined to ignore them, tore open her mother’s letter and began to read. She had barely gotten through the first paragraph before she groaned, dragging a hand down her face.

Skip, ever the instigator, perked up. “What? What’d she say?”

Isabella gritted her teeth. “She’s asking if I’ve been praying enough.”

Liebgott burst out laughing. “Oh, you are so screwed.”

Malarkey clapped her on the back. “Better hit the chapel, Birdie.”

She scowled. “I do pray!”

“Not enough, apparently,” Gene teased, surprising her.

Isabella threw her hands up, muttering under her breath before shaking the letter dramatically. “I’m gonna write her back and tell her all of you are heathens.”

Liebgott smirked. “She’ll probably tell you to convert us.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Isabella deadpanned.

The men were still chuckling when she sighed, folding the letter neatly before moving on to the next.

She hesitated.

This one was from Michel Alejandro.

She hadn’t heard from him in weeks.

The teasing faded just slightly when Luz caught the flicker of tension in her hands. “That one important?”

She nodded, exhaling slowly. “It’s from my brother.”

Liebgott and Malarkey exchanged a glance but, surprisingly, didn’t pry.

Isabella carefully slid the letter from its envelope, her heart already beating a little faster.

Isabella’s grip on the letter tightened, her breath hitching as she started reading.

‘Dear Isabella,

I don’t have much time to write, so I’ll be brief. I want you to know that I’m safe, but things are… getting worse over here. The war in the Pacific isn’t like anything we ever imagined, Isa. It’s brutal. Unforgiving. The kind of thing that changes men before they even realize it.’

Her heart pounded.

She could feel the weight behind his words, the exhaustion bleeding through the ink. Michel Alejandro wasn’t the kind of man to sugarcoat things, but he wasn’t dramatic either. If he was telling her this, it meant he needed her to know.

She swallowed hard and kept reading.

‘I don’t want you to worry, but I also don’t want you to be naive. I know you, little sister. I know you take everything onto your own shoulders, even when you shouldn’t. But I need you to remember something—’

She could already tell what was coming.

‘You cannot save everyone.’

Her fingers dug into the paper.

‘I can’t imagine how much you love those boys of yours, and I know you’ll do everything in your power to keep them safe. But you need to remember that some things are out of your hands. You’re not God. You’re just one person. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. And the sooner you accept it, the better you’ll be when things start to fall apart.’

She forced in a deep breath.

‘Be strong, little sister. But don’t be reckless. And don’t let this war take away the best parts of you.’

The words blurred slightly, and she had to blink quickly before her vision could go completely hazy.

‘I’ll write again when I can. Give my love to Mama and Papa.

Yours,

Michel Alejandro’

She sat still, the letter trembling in her hands.

“Vega?”

Luz’s voice was softer this time, like he knew.

She cleared her throat, forcing a small, tight-lipped smile. “He’s safe.”

Nobody commented on the way her voice wavered slightly.

Instead, Malarkey nudged her gently. “That’s good news.”

She nodded, folding the letter carefully and tucking it away before she could let herself linger on it any longer. She still had one more letter left.

Maya’s.

Isabella took a steadying breath, running her fingers over the edges of the final envelope. Maya’s handwriting was familiar, the curves and loops distinct from the rest, but it still made her stomach twist with something she couldn’t quite name.

She hesitated.

Maya had always been strong. Resilient. She wasn’t the type to let things slip, not unless they really mattered. Which meant whatever was in this letter… it mattered.

Luz, who had been watching her closely, nudged her lightly. “Need a minute?”

She shook her head, inhaling sharply before finally tearing open the envelope.

‘いさ、

I hope this letter reaches you well. Anzu and Taiga send their love (though Taiga mostly just chewed on the corner of this paper before I could stop him). They miss their Isa terribly, as do I. The house isn’t the same without you.’

Isabella’s throat tightened.

‘Your mother keeps busy, of course, but I can see the way she watches the mailbox every morning. The way your father lingers on the porch, pretending he isn’t waiting for news. They miss you, but they’re proud of you. So proud. You should see the way your mother talks about you at church. They all know your name now. Even Father Miguel asks about you in every service.’

She huffed a small, watery laugh.

‘Things are changing here, though. It’s harder than it was before. People whisper more, they stare longer. I don’t go into town unless I have to. Anzu doesn’t understand, but she knows something isn’t right. I see it in her eyes every time she asks why we can’t go to the park like we used to. But don’t worry about us. I mean it, Isa. Your only job right now is to take care of yourself. And I know you’re not.’

Isabella stiffened.

‘I know you’re pushing yourself too hard. I know you’re holding too much. I know you, Isabella Vega, and I know you won’t admit it to anyone else, so I’ll say it first: you are not alone. You don’t have to be. Those men—your boys—I hope they know what they have in you. I hope they look out for you the way you do for them. I hope they remind you to eat, to sleep, to laugh.

That’s enough of the sad things. Have you found yourself a 素敵な兵士 yet? I want to make sure the 着物 doesn’t get forgotten. Make sure to remember to take care of yourself, and have fun. You’re still young and you deserve to be happy. Please don’t forget that.

With all my love,

Maya’

Isabella giggled at Maya’s insistence at her finding a ‘handsome soldier’ to wear her kimono for. It was incredibly unlikely Isabella was ever going to let that thing see the light of day, especially with how much the men disliked anything Japanese at the moment.

To her delight, she finds a drawing from Anzu on an extra page. Anzu had messily drawn her in her dress greens, surrounded by Anzu’s interpretations of Liebgott, Roe, Luz, Skip, Penkala, and Malarkey.

“Ooh, what do we have here?” Luz asked.

Isabella smiles wide. “I’m guessing my sister-in-law has been reading my letters to my niece and nephew.”

Luz leaned in, squinting at the crayon figures. “Oh, this is gold. Which one’s supposed to be me?”

Isabella pointed at a figure with what appeared to be wildly exaggerated hair. “Take a guess.”

Luz gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “I have never felt more seen.”

Skip reached over, peering at the page. “Why does Malarkey look like he’s got a whole mop on his head?”

Malarkey scoffed. “The kid has taste, clearly.”

Gene, who had been silent beside her, tapped at another figure—one drawn with a clear red cross on the arm. “That me?”

Isabella nodded, her heart warming at the sight of it. “She probably remembers me telling her you take care of me.”

Gene hummed, a soft chuckle escaping. “Guess I got the official approval, then.”

Liebgott, who had been feigning disinterest, finally glanced over. “And what about me?”

Isabella smirked. “Oh, you’re this one.”

She pointed to a very jagged, wild-looking figure with what appeared to be an oversized, angry mouth.

Liebgott deadpanned. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Luz burst into laughter. “Oh, this is the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

Isabella bit her lip to keep from grinning too hard. “Hey, don’t be mad! It just means you made an impression when Maya read the letters.”

Liebgott groaned, shaking his head. “I swear to God, if I ever meet your niece, I’m demanding a redraw.”

“Oh, trust me,” Isabella giggled, folding the letter carefully. “She’s just getting started.”

The warmth of home lingered in her chest as she tucked the papers safely into her pocket. Despite the exhaustion, despite the grueling training, despite everything—they were still with her, still a part of her.

And for now, that was enough.

She made a mental note to write back that weekend when she had time.

Breakfast had gone by and so had the rest of the day. She was hoping her week would keep on going on the same high note, and she felt it would.

Until Friday.

Lieutenant Sobel had been promoted that day to Captain, and subsequently, Winters from Second Lieutenant to First Lieutenant.

Sobel hadn’t been happy.

When they returned to the barracks later that afternoon after training ended, they had been greeted at the barracks with their belongings strewn across the floor, mattresses flipped.

A stunned silence fell over the room as the men stepped inside, surveying the mess. Footlockers were thrown open, clothes and personal belongings tossed carelessly onto the floor.

Skip let out a long, low whistle. "Well. Ain't this a warm welcome home?"

Isabella’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. Her hands clenched at her sides as she scanned the room, already feeling a sickening sense of dread creeping up her spine. She rushed forward, her eyes immediately landing on her footlocker—thrown onto its side, contents spilling across the floor.

Her letters.

Her pictures.

Her journal.

Her stuffed animals.

Her personal sanitary items.

And, worst of all—

The cardboard box that held her kimono was cracked open, the delicate fabric spilling out onto the dirty floorboards.

She inhaled sharply, her breath catching.

Behind her, Malarkey cursed. "What the hell is this?"

"Somebody’s got it out for us," Skip muttered darkly.

Gene’s gaze flickered to Isabella, watching as she carefully knelt down, her hands hovering over the silk like she wasn’t sure if she should even touch it. His jaw tightened. “Vega…”

She forced herself to breathe. Slowly. Carefully. Her hands trembled slightly as she gathered the fabric, her fingers brushing over the delicate embroidery.

Liebgott exhaled sharply through his nose. “This is some real petty bullshit.”

"Gee, I wonder who could’ve done this," Penkala said dryly.

As if on cue, the barracks door swung open again.

“Ten-hut!” Guarnere snapped, straightening immediately.

Sobel strode inside, his expression unreadable, but the gleam in his eyes was unmistakable.

A slow rage burned through Isabella’s chest.

He didn’t say anything, just surveyed them for a long, tense moment before finally speaking.

"You men have been getting a little too comfortable." His voice was even, almost casual. "And I think you've forgotten who’s in charge around here."

The silence was suffocating.

Winters, who had walked in just moments before, took a step forward. His voice was carefully neutral. “Captain Sobel.”

Sobel barely spared him a glance. “First Lieutenant Winters.” He said the title like it was bitter on his tongue.

Nobody moved.

Isabella, still kneeling beside her things, gritted her teeth, willing herself to keep her mouth shut. To stay calm. To not react.

“Private Vega,” Sobel started. “It seems that you have quite a bit of contraband in your bunk.”

The words barely registered at first.

Isabella’s grip on the silk tightened, her breath hitching as she slowly lifted her gaze to Sobel.

Contraband.

Her journal. Her letters. Her kimono.

Liebgott took a sharp step forward, but Malarkey stopped him with a look.

Winters, however, was already moving. “Captain Sobel,” he said evenly, voice dangerously calm. “There’s nothing in Private Vega’s bunk that violates regulations besides the stuffed animals.”

Sobel barely glanced at him, his lips curling ever so slightly. “That’s not for you to decide, Lieutenant.”

The emphasis on the rank was deliberate. Petty.

Winters held his ground, but Isabella could see the flicker of something cold in his eyes.

Sobel turned his attention back to her, his gaze flickering down to the kimono still clutched in her hands. “It’s curious, isn’t it? Our medic, of all people, keeping something like this so close. A gift, I assume?”

Isabella forced herself to swallow the immediate response clawing up her throat. She could feel the men around her tense.

The men began to whisper, finally realizing what she had in her hands. What the words on her opened letters looked like.

Japanese.

The weight of their stares settled on her like a stone. The realization crept through the barracks in a slow, suffocating wave—whispers sharpening into quiet murmurs, disbelief flickering through the ranks like the first strike of a match.

She could feel it.

The shift.

The hesitation.

The doubt.

Penkala was the first to react, stepping just a little closer to her, his usual grin nowhere to be found. Skip wasn’t far behind, his brows drawn in something that wasn’t quite judgment, but wasn’t far from it either. Malarkey’s gaze flickered between her and the silk in her hands, something unreadable crossing his face.

Even Gene, quiet and steady as he was, looked like he didn’t know what to say.

Liebgott, though—he stiffened.

She could feel the heat of his stare, sharp and scrutinizing.

Sobel saw it, too.

And he fed off it.

“I have to wonder,” Sobel mused, loud enough for all of them to hear. “If you’ve been writing letters home, Private Vega, who exactly have you been writing to?”

The words settled like a lead weight in the room.

A pointed, deliberate accusation.

She couldn’t stop the sharp inhale that followed, her grip tightening around the silk so hard her knuckles turned white.

A bitter taste filled her mouth.

“You son of a bitch,” Liebgott muttered, voice low, simmering with something ugly.

Isabella swallowed down the immediate urge to lash out, to throw something, to snap.

She had always known this moment would come.

From the second she had signed her name on the enlistment papers, from the moment she had been assigned to Easy, she had known.

And yet, knowing didn’t make it easier.

Didn’t make it hurt any less.

She turned her gaze to Sobel, her jaw set.

“My brother’s wife,” she said, slow and deliberate, forcing herself to stay calm, even as her pulse roared in her ears. “She had it made for my birthday. It was made for my Coming of Age ceremony. Years from now.”

Sobel hummed, feigning interest. “Years from now? And yet you decided to bring it here. Why?”

She straightened her spine.

“Because I don’t know if I’ll live to see that day.”

Silence.

Complete and utter silence.

The murmurs died.

Even Sobel, for the first time in his miserable life, faltered.

For a moment—just a moment—Isabella allowed herself to meet the eyes of the men around her.

Skip, quiet and serious in a way he rarely ever was.

Malarkey, arms crossed, something like conflict flickering across his face.

Penkala, brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

Gene, unreadable, but his gaze never wavering.

And Liebgott—

Liebgott, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides, staring at her like he was seeing her for the first time.

She exhaled slowly, forcing her hands to stop shaking.

“My family isn’t the enemy,” she said, voice steady despite the way her stomach twisted. “And neither am I.”

No one spoke.

Then—

Winters stepped forward, putting himself directly between her and Sobel.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice even but firm.

Sobel’s mouth twitched.

But he didn’t push further.

Not this time.

He let the silence stretch for another moment before simply exhaling, shrugging like this was all beneath him.

“Pack it away, Private,” he said, tone dismissive. “And don’t let me see it again.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the barracks, the door slamming shut behind him.

The tension remained.

Isabella’s fingers curled into the silk once more, forcing herself to breathe through the sharp sting behind her eyes.

And then—

Malarkey, ever the idiot, broke the silence.

“Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was… a lot.”

Guarnere shot him a look. “No shit.”

Liebgott was still looking at her.

She met his gaze, shoulders tense, waiting for the first harsh word, the first slip of doubt, the first accusation.

Instead—

“…So that’s what was in the box.”

She blinked.

Skip let out something that might’ve been a laugh. “Jesus, Lieb, way to cut the tension.”

Liebgott ignored him, still watching her.

Something unreadable crossed his face.

Then, with a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “Guess we owe you a new box.”

Isabella stared.

And then—

A breathless, disbelieving chuckle escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Because of course that was what he focused on.

“You’re all idiots.”

Gene ran a hand over the flimsy cardboard box, his lips pressing together. “This thing’s not gonna last much longer.”

Isabella sighed, running a finger along the creased edges. The box had already been worn from travel, but now, after being tossed around and crushed underfoot, it was barely holding together.

Liebgott clicked his tongue. “Jesus, they couldn’t have at least left your stuff alone?”

Skip nudged him. “You say that like Sobel isn’t the pettiest bastard alive.”

Malarkey hummed. “Guess we better get you a new one, Vega.”

Isabella exhaled sharply, staring down at the kimono still half-spilled over her lap. The fabric was fine, smooth under her fingertips, a stark contrast to the rough barracks floor.

She was still trying to process everything—how close she had been to losing this, how quickly the air had shifted, how the letters scrawled in careful, loving strokes had nearly been turned against her.

“…What’s a coming of age ceremony?”

She looked up.

Guarnere had come over and was watching her, head tilted slightly, genuine curiosity on his face.

Isabella blinked. “Huh?”

He gestured to the kimono. “You said earlier… this was supposed to be for something called a coming of age ceremony, right?”

Malarkey perked up. “Oh, yeah. What’s that?”

The men, despite their previous tension, were now shifting back into that natural state of camaraderie, of intrigue. Even Liebgott, though still leaning against his bunk with arms crossed, was paying close attention.

Isabella hesitated, unsure of how to explain something that felt so deeply ingrained in a culture that wasn’t even hers by blood—but was still hers in every other way.

She smoothed a hand over the fabric, fingers tracing the delicate embroidery of the sakura blossoms.

“In Japan,” she started slowly, “when you turn twenty, you’re officially considered an adult. It’s called Seijin Shiki. A coming of age ceremony.”

Skip frowned slightly. “Twenty? That’s a little late, ain’t it?”

Isabella shrugged. “Maybe. But that’s how they do it. The girls wear furisode like this,” she gestured to the kimono, “because the long sleeves represent youth and new beginnings.”

Luz leaned forward, intrigued. “So it’s, like, a big celebration?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “They go to a ceremony, they hear speeches, and then they celebrate with their families. It’s a way of welcoming them into adulthood.”

The room was quiet for a moment.

Then Malarkey muttered, “…That’s actually kinda nice.”

Isabella huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. It is.”

Liebgott’s voice cut through, less sharp than usual. “So why wear it now?”

Her breath caught.

She stared down at the silk, at the careful folds, at the weight of it in her hands.

“…Because I don’t know if I’ll make it to twenty.”

The barracks fell silent again, this time heavier, weighted with something none of them could brush off.

Gene’s gaze flickered toward her, something unreadable in his eyes.

Penkala let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair.

Malarkey shifted on his feet, suddenly looking younger than he was.

Isabella swallowed, trying to shake off the unease. “Anyway,” she forced a small smile, “I figured if I wasn’t going to wear it for my actual coming of age, I’d at least wear it for something.”

Skip huffed, nudging her knee lightly with his boot. “Guess that makes sense.”

Guarnere, ever the one to break tension, grinned. “Well, Doll, it is a hell of a look.”

She rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest remained.

“I’ll wear it one day. If you guys are okay with it.”

Liebgott snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t go parading around Sobel, or he might actually drop dead.”

That earned a laugh from the group, breaking the heavy air just enough.

Isabella smirked, folding the fabric carefully, ensuring not a single thread was out of place before she tucked it back into what remained of the cardboard box. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Guarnere crossed his arms, tilting his head. “Y’know, Vega, if it’s that important to you, we’ll keep an eye on it. Make sure it don’t get messed with again.”

She blinked, looking up at him, at all of them—Malarkey, Skip, Penkala, Gene, Guarnere, Liebgott, all standing around her like they’d already made the unspoken decision.

Her throat tightened slightly. “You guys don’t have to do that.”

Guarnere scoffed. “Oh, please. You think we’re gonna let Sobel screw with you again?”

Skip nodded. “We’ll stash it somewhere safe. Just say the word.”

Isabella exhaled, warmth spreading in her chest. She glanced at the kimono one last time, running her fingers lightly over the obi before looking back at them.

“…Thanks,” she murmured. “Really.”

Guarnere grinned, giving her shoulder a firm pat. “Anytime, Doll.”

Liebgott, ever the smartass, smirked. “So, Vega, now that we’re all feeling sentimental, think you’re finally gonna tell us who’s getting that kimono treatment your sister keeps mentioning?”

She rolled her eyes. “You guys are impossible.”

Skip gasped dramatically, hand over his heart. “So there is a handsome soldier in the running!”

Malarkey snickered. “Bet it’s Winters.”

“Jesus Christ,” Isabella groaned, burying her face in her hands as laughter erupted around her.

It wasn’t perfect. There were still things unspoken, still tensions that couldn’t be fully erased in one night.

But as she sat there, surrounded by her boys, their teasing voices filling the barracks, she had a realization—

“Wait!”

Everyone quieted down and Isabella’s ears burned as she bowed her head down in embarrassment.

“Can you guys turn away? Not really comfortable with the whole platoon blatantly looking at my unmentionables.”

Skip was the first to snicker, throwing an arm around Malarkey’s shoulder. “Aw, c’mon, Doll. We’ve been through hell together. You mean to tell me you don’t trust us?”

Isabella shot him a glare. “I trust you just fine, Warren, I just don’t trust your nosy ass.”

Liebgott held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough.”

Skip nudged Guarnere with a smirk. “C’mon, boys, let’s give the lady some space before she loses her mind.”

With exaggerated sighs and grumbles, the men turned away, though not without a few last-minute jabs.

“Don’t take too long, Vega, or we’re gonna start charging rent,” Penkala teased.

“I swear to God, I will dump my entire footlocker on your bunk, Penk,” she shot back.

A few more chuckles rippled through the group, but they respected her request, giving her a semblance of privacy as she quickly reorganized her things.

Gene, who had stayed close, lingered for just a second longer before speaking quietly, “You alright?”

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders. “Yeah. Just—didn’t think I’d have to reorganize my whole life today.”

His lips twitched slightly.

She huffed a laugh, finally securing the last of her belongings before standing up.

“Alright, you idiots,” she announced, hands on her hips. “Crisis averted. You can turn back around.”

Malarkey spun dramatically. “Doll, you wound me. You think we were looking?”

Isabella scoffed. “Malarkey, if you don’t shut up, I’m feeding your socks to the laundry gremlins.”

He gasped. “Not the gremlins.”

Penkala grinned. “Alright, alright. Enough torture. What’s next, Vega? You wanna read our fortunes too?”

She smirked. “Depends. You wanna know how many more miles Sobel’s gonna make us run?”

A collective groan filled the barracks.

Guarnere clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Doll, you keep talking like that, and we’re gonna start thinking you like making our lives miserable.”

She grinned. “Maybe just a little.”

It wasn’t perfect. But they were hers.

And for tonight, that was enough.

translation: いさ-Isa, 素敵な兵士-Handsome Soldier, 着物- Kimono

taglist: @darling-heffron, @malarkgirlypop

#hbo war #band of brothers #fics #easy's songbird #band of brothers fanfic

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mangosundae · 3 months ago

Text

Hi. Little bit of backstory. About a year ago, I started writing a fic about my ni no kuni oc. 20,000 words in I decided the whole thing was dog shit and abandoned it. BUT I’m a better writer now, and I still like the story, so I’m rewriting it. Anyway, I present to you my ni no kuni oc fanfic. Title TBD because I can’t think of anything. OH ALSO I eventually plan on making an ao3 account and posting it there so I don’t clog up tumblr’s nnk tag, lol.

(Read to the end to see a silly drawing I made for this chapter!)

Chapter One: Hurry, and Flurry, and Worry (7,745 words)

Summary: Something is very wrong in the other world.

Returning to Motorville was far less relaxing than Oliver had expected it to be.

He hadn’t been expecting a cakewalk, mind. He wasn’t so naive as all that. But amidst his imaginings of learning to cook his own food (could it really be much different from alchemy?) and taking on more shifts with Miss Leila, he never accounted for the sheer amount of paperwork he’d be expected to deal with.

The day Oliver came home, he found a spotless lawn, courtesy of that sweet old woman down the block, and about a million stacks of paper shoved into his mailbox, courtesy of countless government middlemen who didn’t care a whit about an orphaned boy from Motorville. Also so much junk mail that at some point the poor mailman started folding them into origami hats.

Oliver and Mr. Drippy had had a helluva time, as Mr. Drippy would say, lugging the pounds of paper into the house. The junk mail was stowed away for kindling — save for a few hats, which Mr. Drippy insisted really showed off his figure — but they set aside the important stuff to be sorted through. Bills on the left, tax notices on the right, foreclosure warnings in the middle. Even after organizing them, the stacks reached Oliver’s knees. It was a miracle he still had the house at all.

(He would later learn that the house had, in fact, been in danger of foreclosure before his return, but the townsfolk had banded together to convince the government to ease off. When Oliver discovered this, he would go up to every person in town and give them the tightest possible hug.)

But foreclosure was the least of his worries. Tax season was right around the corner, all of his utilities had been shut off, and, lest he forget, he was only thirteen years old. Legally, he couldn’t live on his own — he certainly couldn’t pay his own taxes. He didn’t suppose they’d accept payment in guilders?

Mr. Drippy was no help, either. For all his boastings of being Lord High Lord of the Fairies, whatever that meant, the little man knew next to nothing about the legal world. He could be counted on to help with math homework, and that was about it. When asked what a W2 was, he could only reply, “Beats me, mun!” with a suggestion to check his Wizard’s Companion.

Of course, Oliver was no stupid child. He knew that if he asked one of the adults around town — Miss Leila, or Myrtle’s parents, or even Phil’s — they would help him without a second thought. He knew how lucky he was to be surrounded by such kind people. The problem was, if he asked any of them, they’d bring it up again: taking him in. Yes, after he came home and sorted through his mail, half the legal adults in Motorville stopped by, adoption papers in hand. He’d just shot them wan smiles and politely shooed them away.

Part of Oliver wanted to give in to temptation and agree, but the rest of him was too afraid. He knew what would happen to him if he said yes. He would move in with someone else, lose the house, and in so doing lose one of his last remaining connections to his mother. He couldn’t stomach the thought of another family living here, cooking on his stove, sleeping in the room where his mother passed away. How would she feel knowing her son was so weak as to abandon the home she’d given him? He doubted his neighbors understood the cruelty tucked within their good-hearted invitations, but it was there nonetheless. So Oliver spent his mornings at work, his days at school, his afternoons at work, and his nights toiling over papers, trying to see if a thirteen year old could emancipate himself.

This routine came at a price; children weren’t supposed to have adult schedules, and even most adults didn’t have schedules quite as hectic as his. So when Oliver slept, he slept hard, his best friend snuggled to his chest. His favorite days were Saturdays, where he could sleep in as long as he wanted. . .

. . . Except when Mr. Drippy slapped him in the face.

Now, it’s important to remember that this wasn’t an unusual occurrence in Oliver’s house. Drippy was a fairy with a lot of needs, and a big mouth. If Oliver was hugging him too tight, or he wanted a midnight snack, or even if his lantern needed shining, he would make his discomfort known. He did try to lay off on the weekends though, knowing his boy needed some well-deserved rest. It was for this reason that, at the feeling of a tiny hand slapping cheeks still chubby with youth, Oliver jolted straight up in bed and retrieved his wand from under his pillow.

“Fireball!” he shouted by second nature. Thankfully, in his sleep-fogged state, the spell came out as a single ember, which fizzled into his mattress and disappeared.

“Tell us how you really feel, eh?” Mr. Drippy quipped under his breath. He scooted down Oliver’s chest and landed by his feet with a plop. “You’ll need those reflexes soon, though, I’ll bet.”

Before Oliver sprang into action and sacrificed one of his few hours of rest, Oliver had to make sure this was an actual emergency. Mr. Drippy could have been annoyed by his snoring again, for all he knew. So, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he asked, “What’s the matter, Mr. Drippy?”

“Trouble! In the other world!”

Oliver jumped up so fast he knocked Mr. Drippy clear off the bed. As the fairy hopped back onto the mattress with a grumble, the comforter Oliver had sprung from fell down and covered him like a sheet ghost.

“Oi!” shouted a muffled Mr. Drippy, attempting to free himself from the blanket prison.

“Sorry.” Oliver removed the comforter and laid it flat on the bed. He hurriedly threw on the adventuring outfit he’d gotten from the Hootenanny so long ago. “What kind of trouble?”

After the battle against Cassiopeia, the royals of the other world became aware of Mr. Drippy’s psychic connection with Smiley and Surly. Oliver and his friends had stressed the seriousness of such an ability, but their warnings went in one royal ear and out the other. Oliver would occasionally be summoned back to the other world for an emergency, only to discover King Tom had simply missed him, or the Cowlipha had invited him to brunch. So it was always good to check.

“The weird kind, mun,” Mr. Drippy replied, handing Oliver his shoes. “The boys at home say it’s gone proper strange, like someone’s taken it apart and put it back together wrong.”

Oliver’s heart plummeted. Another villain? Surely at some point they had to stop. And yet, as his dark-ringed eyes imagined yet another foe with a misguided passion for world domination, he found himself excited. In Motorville, he struggled. He was an ordinary boy who knew nothing about the US tax system, and could do nothing to live up to his late mother’s wishes. But in the other world, he could be strong. He could prove his independence, be the hero she wanted him to be. The thought thrilled him. Gripping Astra in his fist, he held his hand over the fluttering pages of the Wizard’s Companion.

“Gateway!”

In the light of the dying fire, Esther wiped at her latest wounds with a wet cloth. Blood, already beginning to crust over, smeared away and left pale red stains as the only proof of its existence. She wrung out the wipe and dunked it in a bowl of water. Gogo cooed gratefully beside her as his own wounds disappeared. Esther smiled and raised a finger to her lips.

“We have to keep quiet, remember?”

Her father’s heavy snores punctuated her words. Though he sat upright with a hand around his staff, he was fast asleep. Sage training, or something. He’d gone to sleep a few hours ago, leaving Esther to keep watch until the sun breached Old Smoky’s peak. Not that there were many familiars around to bother them. Most around this area ran in fear at their approach. Guiltily, Esther was proud of that.

Esther was used to familiars running in fear, of course. With a Great Sage for a father, every father-daughter outing beyond the walls of Al Mamoon involved Green Bunchers and Turbandits tripping over themselves to get away from the great Rashaad. As a little girl, Esther giggled at the way they ran — though her heart always spiked with jealousy, knowing none of them were afraid of her. But now mere eye contact with a Sunshine caused it to spin away in fright. It was difficult to remember when surrounded by such powerful friends, but her adventures with Oliver had made her stronger.

Truly, the fact she was keeping watch at all was proof of her new strength. Her father would never have trusted her younger self with such a task. Any aforementioned childhood outings through the desert required them to move fast, or for her father to stay up all night to keep them safe. Esther always hated how helpless she felt, falling asleep and knowing she couldn’t protect her father the way he protected her. She hated feeling useless. The day Oliver cured her broken heart, Esther decided she would never be useless ever again.

That was why they were in the desert now, after all. They planned to eventually enter themselves in the Solusseum as a duo, which gave Esther the excuse to drag her father into the wilderness for a few days. They had to train, of course, to be ready for the competition. But really, the Solusseum was the furthest thing from Esther’s mind. Yes, the thought of fighting alongside her father as a team thrilled her, but really, she just wanted an opportunity to prove herself to him.

Esther’s father was a Great Sage. Esther’s father fought in wars, commanded his staff like a third limb, held the respect of the cantankerous Solomon himself. People bowed to him in the streets. Esther was the daughter of a Great Sage. When strangers came to her, that was what they mentioned first — not that she’d helped save the world twice over, or played the clarion that brought peace to the land. She would always, in everyone’s eyes, be her father’s daughter first and herself second. Her father tried to remind her of her own talents, but even encouraging her he’d always say, “You are my daughter.”

Esther was more than a daughter. She knew this, and yet it was so hard to be a person around her father. Every time they traveled together, she found herself deferring to him like a much younger girl. His presence was so imposing; she couldn’t help but feel like just Esther, despite her accomplishments.

So she’d dragged them both out to the desert under the pretense of sparring, in the hopes of showing them both who Esther really was. Her father had his spells, yes, but Esther was a songstress and a familiar tamer. She wielded her harp the way he wielded his staff. She could harm or heal with the stroke of a string. And though he could control familiars, as all Great Sages were expected to do, Esther’s mastery over them was unmatched. There was a reason serenading was her task alone; she understood the hearts of creatures in a way others couldn’t. Anyone could fight with a familiar, but Esther became them, minds and goals aligning to win the fight. Esther knew she was strong beyond her father’s influence. Under the glittering stars of the desert, she would make him see.

She cast her gaze to her sleeping father. She never saw him so peaceful while awake, even after saving the world. She tried to ask him what was wrong, but he would only ever reply that he had to stay vigilant. Though, watching the way his head turned at any sound, any conflict, Esther knew he feared the rise of another Shadar. He was an old man who’d known far less peace than Esther — had seen more bloodshed, too. Perhaps that was why he was too distracted to notice Esther’s inner turmoil.

She didn’t blame her father, of course. He had his own problems to work through. But she wished she could explain her feelings to him without the words getting trapped in her throat. The one time she’d tried, he misunderstood her, and only reassured her of her strength. Her insecurity ran deeper than that; she just didn’t know how to explain it to him.

But her musings would have to wait. There was a boom that shook the sand beneath her feet, then the sky in the distance exploded with color. Plumes of purple and blue obscured the stars and blended together like the hazy aftermath of fireworks. Yet there was no need for fireworks right now, especially in the dead of night. Then the colors streamed downward and evaporated — gone, just like that.

Esther looked to her father, who was already on his feet and wearing a grave expression. “That was near Castaway Cove!” she told him.

No more words needed to be exchanged. Fire abandoned, they rushed in the direction of Castaway Cove. Thankfully, they hadn’t been too far away — nor did they need to get very close to see the extent of the destruction.

“Oh!” Esther could only gasp, hands over her mouth, at the sight. Castaway Cove had been transformed beyond recognition. A giant dome of water encapsulated what was once the fishing village, its murkiness obscuring what lay within. Closer to the edge of the dome, Esther realized that most of the houses were turned upside down or flipped inside out. Some had been rearranged entirely, and now formed walls and strange shapes wherever Esther looked. The bridge that once spanned the village swirled around the enclosure like a water slide. Monstrous shadows prowled in the depths.

Esther and her father locked eyes. Her father rushed back to Al Mamoon, while Esther summoned Tengri with a blow of his horn. She leapt onto the screeching wyvern’s back and guided him towards Hamelin, her friends’ unofficial meeting place. Hopefully Swaine and Marcassin were already there — it seemed they had to save the world once again.

Even under the thick layers of his woolen jacket, Swaine shivered. He walked with a hunch, hands pressed to his chest for warmth, eyes half-shut in the blistering wind. His crystallized breath stood out starkly against the inky black sky. The only sound for miles was his chattering teeth and the crunching of snow beneath his booted feet.

No one and nothing could ever convince Swaine to like the Winter Isles: not the beautiful, glittering caverns, nor the kind and inviting native Tomte, nor even the local cuisine. Swaine had grown up in Hamelin, where the hot steam of the buildings overhead seeped into one’s clothes and the folds of one’s skin. With no weather inside the kingdom’s armored walls, there was no fresh air to ease the heat of the ever-present steam and smoke. Citizens of Hamelin grew used to such temperatures with age; they had to to wear the sturdy and practical outfits that defined Hamelin’s fashion. When Swaine moved to the Summerlands, he had no trouble adjusting to the similarly hot weather of Al Mamoon and Castaway Cove. Others had to wear loose or revealing clothing to get by, but Swaine wore a jacket, pants, and high socks without breaking a sweat. Yet nothing in his life had prepared him for how damn cold the Winter Isles were.

If it was up to him, Swaine would have been back at the palace, tucked away in his big plush bed, drowning in feather-stuffed pillows while he sipped his hot cocoa. Fireplace ablaze, he’d listen to the sounds of popping embers and the hum of the palace walls until he drifted to sleep. He’d be able to feel his bloody toes, at least. But Swaine was a good brother. So when Marcassin burst into his bedroom a few days ago, ranting and raving about his new pet project as Hamelin’s leader, Swaine packed up his winter clothes and set a course for Yule.

Still, if Swaine had to trek through the coldest continent in their world — at midnight, of all things — he thought he was well within his rights to complain. Surely Marcassin could have made the trip himself if he wanted to talk to Purrofessor Tabitha so badly. Perhaps he forgot that only one of the brothers could teleport, and he was currently toasty warm somewhere in Perdida.

Swaine bit his cheek to stop his teeth from chattering. Complain as he might, he wasn’t out here for no reason. He hadn’t caught the whole thing (Marcassin had the remarkable ability to speak faster than the speed of sound when excited), but in summary, his brother wanted to build a museum of the magical arts. To do so, he needed the assistance of Tabitha and Queen Khulan. Marcassin had already scheduled a meeting with Khulan, which left Swaine to talk to Tabitha. And since the grimalkin had a horrendous sleep schedule, he was out here at sweet buggering midnight.

Much as he complained, though, Swaine knew he couldn’t have refused this task if he tried. That would mean saying no to Marcassin, which any more he was physically incapable of doing. He’d been this way as a kid, too. One of the first to hold his infant younger brother in his arms, the boy had him wrapped around his finger since he’d literally wrapped his pudgy baby fingers around Swaine’s thumb. As children, Marcassin need have only batted his big greens and Swaine came a running. Their father told him off for this many times, insisting the future Hamelin emperor needed to learn some independence, but how could anyone want to let the boy down? Plus, Marcassin was one of the few people in Swaine’s early days who made him feel useful.

Around the palace, Swaine didn’t have much to offer. He was a mediocre marksman surrounded by world-renowned weaponsmiths. While he tinkered with his scrappy little pistols, warheads clustered in his basement to design the next far-range cannon or armored tank. He had no magic to speak of, a black mark in a kingdom where combining the magical and mechanical was key. And no emperor in his right mind would seek the advice of a barely teenager, so it wasn’t often that his father needed him for anything at all. Even the palace staff had their routines worked out down to a science. Young Swaine would have had nothing of use to do with himself — was he not the regular babysitter of his baby brother.

In theory, the young princes were placed in the capable hands of one Miss Portia, the governess of the palace. The ruddy-skinned woman, her uniform hiding strong arms that were often used to wrangle up the brothers, was in charge of their upbringing and education when their father was unavailable. She had every minute of their daily routines scheduled, down to the allotted time they had to brush their teeth. It was through these rigorous schedules that she intended to make good men of her charges and keep them out of trouble. But Miss Portia did have off hours after all, and as Swaine grew older she didn’t see a need to micromanage so much, and so it was that Swaine came to spend his free time watching Marcassin.

Most older siblings would balk at such a task. Of course, most siblings probably had other people they cared about, and who cared about them in return. Swaine had only Marcassin. He watched his brother not with a grudge, but with a sense of pride for finally being useful. He enjoyed his role as protector, and, yes, spoiled the boy whenever possible. He wasn’t Gascon, his father’s worthless lout of a son; he was Gascon, guardian of the future emperor of Hamelin. He felt a sense of gratitude to his brother — loyalty, like a knight pledges servitude to a king — for giving him purpose.

He’d . . . Forgotten that purpose, in later years. Spurred on by the desire to prove himself to his father, his country, Swaine ignored the role he played in his brother’s life. He was too blinded by Marcassin’s power to remember he was still just a child. Swaine would always regret leaving him, especially knowing now how the rest of that night played out.

They’d spent so much time apart after that. For Swaine, his return to the present lasted mere moments, but for Marcassin it was an entire lifetime. The kid barely knew him now, and at that knew him mostly as the brother who left when things were tough and came back when it was too late. He could say he forgave Swaine, but it didn’t count, and it wouldn’t count until Swaine could prove he was a brother worth forgiving. In the grand scheme of things, wading through knee-deep snow at midnight was the least he could do.

Finally, the wind and snow gave way enough that Swaine could see beyond his nose, and he found the entrance to Yule in the near distance. His shoulders sagged with relief. Beyond those icy walls was the warm bed he’d been practically salivating over since he arrived at the Winter Isles. He’d have his meeting with Tabitha — in an insulated building, no less! — and then go trotting off for a well-deserved nap at the Cat’s Cradle. And yet, without so much wind and snow in his face, he noticed something alarming about the place.

For one thing, the icy spikes that had erupted from the ground and surrounded Yule like a cage certainly weren’t there on his last visit. For another, the entire town, save for the walls of ice blocks surrounding it, seemed to have vanished.

Swaine managed to unstick his feet from the snow long enough to rush over to where the village once stood. He squeezed through the icy stalagmites to peer out into the trees beyond Yule — then down, down, down into the spiraling chasm that had formed. The buildings were frozen against the walls, forming slippery platforms of sorts. It was as though the village had collapsed on itself. Stranger yet were the creatures that roamed this new chasm: massive, white-furred monsters that prowled the perimeters and concerningly resembled Yule’s normally peaceful Tomte inhabitants.

Swaine stepped back before any of the creatures could spot him. His heart pounded. If these monsters truly were the Tomte . . . Was this another manna situation? Instinctively, he covered his nose with his sleeve. Then he thought of Marcassin, miles and miles away. If this was another manna situation, he hoped it hadn’t reached Autumnia yet. He ran faster than he’d ever done in his life and steered the Sea Cow back to Hamelin.

Outside the thin walls of the Cat’s Cradle, merchants pulled their wagons, wooden wheels going clunk-a-clunk over the aging stone paths. No doubt they were nearly empty after a hard day’s work. It was dusk now; time for the merchants to close up shop, the farmers to put their livestock to bed, and for Marcassin to get some well-earned rest.

It had been a fruitful day, all in all. He’d arrived early in the morning, greeted by Queen Khulan and a slew of villagers, who invited him to breakfast inside the meeting hall. After the war, Khulan explained over a plate of chilaquiles, she and the citizens of Perdida made great strides to rebuild the village, which had fallen into disarray during the queen’s period of brokenhearted-ness. The meeting hall, and many other rooms within what used to be Khulan’s ceremony chamber, were victims of her loss of love; now, slowly but surely, they were being restored to better serve the village and its people. Kublai helped when he could, but he and his crew were often busy with a reconstruction project of their own. They’d tasked themselves with helping people all over the land recover from Shadar’s reign and Cassiopeia’s attacks.

After a hearty and delicious breakfast of salsa and fried eggs, Marcassin and Khulan retreated to her inner chamber to discuss Marcassin’s plan. He relayed to her, with no small amount of enthusiasm and with an abundance of detail, his idea for opening a magical history museum to the public. It was a simple plan. He would build a museum in the heart of Hamelin’s entertainment district, an area that had received little attention from the Hamelin government until now. The museum would promote the preservation of all things magical: wands, spells, gems and artifacts, even weapons and armor imbued with magical properties. Marcassin would use the archives of each kingdom to craft a timeline of magic’s history in their world; its discovery, the progress it aided in, and its cultural impact all over the globe. His goal in making such a place was to give magical teachings back to the world, and to hopefully foster a renaissance of the magical arts.

Khulan hung onto his every word. She was especially enthralled by his promise to teach about the pieces of heart — their purposes, the harm missing a piece of one’s heart could cause, and how to spot brokenhearted-ness in oneself and others. Both sages agreed that neither they nor anyone else would experience the pain of a broken heart ever again. And so, Khulan required next to no convincing to aid Marcassin in his endeavors. She even had suggestions of her own, such as holding regular classes to teach spell casting and other forms of magic. Marcassin would see about enlisting Oliver and Esther’s help in these lessons.

They spent the rest of the afternoon poring over documents from Perdida’s archives, and what historical documents Khulan had managed to salvage from Xanadu. Marcassin was of course ecstatic to learn more about Xanadu, a place he’d only briefly visited with his father as a child, and was intrigued to discover that Perdida had a full history of its own. The pair sorted through each document in turn, deciding where in the museum each piece would go before setting it aside. Certain objects, like chunks of rock from the island that held Xanadu aloft, were best kept in their authentic forms, though many documents could be duplicated to better preserve the originals. By the time they’d made a decent dent in their work, the sun was setting. Khulan gave Marcassin a free room at the Cat’s Cradle, apologetically explaining that her chambers were currently unfit for hosting guests.

This returns us to the present. Marcassin twisted and turned in the plush bed so kindly given to him by the queen. After such a long but productive day, Marcassin wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, but his mind was abuzz with activity. Already he was making long-term goals for his project: improving relations with the other kingdoms, engaging his scholarly side like he hadn’t since he was a boy, encouraging even a casual interest in magic in the general public. He needed this to be a success. He, Marcassin, Prince of Hamelin, would be known for something grander than making ridiculous decrees and playing a small role in helping the Pure-Hearted One. He would finally be a ruler worthy of respect.

Gascon had always been the more capable of the brothers. More courageous, quick-witted, and independent than Marcassin could ever dream of being, his brother truly embodied the Hamelin way. As children, it was always Gascon leading the way, and Marcassin following behind. Gascon taking charge and Marcassin meekly supporting. When his brother left, and his father passing shortly thereafter, Marcassin confronted the fact that he just wasn’t meant to rule. He wasn’t meant to — nor did he have any interest in — commandeering battalions or constructing new machines meant for destruction, tasks which his brother and father would have no trouble doing. His only claim to the throne was the magical genes he had no control over. He thus found himself relieved when Gascon returned and took on the roles that Marcassin couldn’t handle.

And yet, was it not pathetic that the Prince needed his brother’s assistance for such simple duties? Shouldn’t a man of his standing be able to fulfill his role alone? Marcassin often worried that he’d lost the trust of his people, going from an emotional coward to being overly reliant on his older brother. He feared that his time with a broken heart had forever sullied his reputation; he would never be anything but the prince who shouldn’t have been. This was why his museum was so important. Finally, he had a chance to prove his worth as Prince — both to his people, and to Gascon.

It was Gascon, more than anyone, whose approval Marcassin sought. After all, Swaine was a force to be reckoned with. He’d done more good for Hamelin and the world in a year than Marcassin had done during his entire tenure as Prince. One might argue that Marcassin couldn’t hold himself to the same standard as his brother due to his broken heart, but Gascon had been brokenhearted too. Their dichotomy was the same as ever, regardless of circumstance: Gascon the do-er, and Marcassin the sniveling coward.

He thought of Gascon now, en route to Yule to recruit Purrofessor Tabitha to their cause. They were likely meeting at this very moment; the professor had a bit of a skewed sleep schedule. Staying up late helped her think, she said. Gascon, a man who hated the cold and late nights, was now enduring both for a project only Marcassin was truly invested in. Even now, his brother made sacrifices for him. He was a hero in every sense of the word, beyond Marcassin’s warped perspective of older brother idolatry. Marcassin had to prove that he was capable of those heroics, too. The museum was only the start.

If he’d been asleep, he might not have registered the rumblings beneath the floor that made his bed frame rattle. The nauseating shakes that came next would have roused him from his deepest dreams, however. He sprung from the bed with his wand in hand and ran for the door. Though natural earthquakes were not impossible in Autumnia, they were still rare; an attack was more likely. He rushed outside to help injured civilians and stop any attacks.

How fortunate that he’d chosen this moment to step outside. Had he remained in bed any longer, he would have been inside the hotel when it crumbled and collapsed. Judging by the piles of rubble littered about, it was not the only building to meet this fate, either. Civilians screamed and ran while dodging falling debris. Yet Marcassin had no time to stop and marvel at the destruction. He was more preoccupied by the ground, which writhed beneath him and threatened to push him off balance. The only way to keep his footing was too keep moving. He hurried further towards what used to be the edge of the village, only to discover the source of the supposed earthquake: the entire village had been transformed into a giant snake. Resembling the massive snake statues that once guarded Perdida, the creature had three heads, each of which snapped at the screaming villagers with gnashing fangs and lashing tongues.

Marcassin found Queen Khulan in the middle of the chaos, ushering her subjects to relative safety. They met eyes.

“Go!” she shouted, over the crunch of stone and the shrieks of terrified villagers.

Marcassin needed no further encouragement. He would aid Perdida however he could, but his people came first. The snake moved wildly and with no clear direction; how long until it crushed his kingdom beneath its stone scales? He cast Travel and returned to Hamelin in an instant. His mind raced. This was obviously an attack of some kind, but by who? And why?

Upon his arrival, he found Gascon, Esther, Oliver, and Drippy waiting for him by the palace entrance. Each wore haggard expressions that surely matched his own. It seemed their world was in danger once again.

The five heroes gathered in Marcassin’s private quarters. All of them squeezed together on the plush, velvet sofa, they’d pulled up a table and were now poring over an aged world map. It gave Oliver an odd sense of déjà vu; except now, instead of searching for Mornstar’s missing stones, they were marking the places that fell victim to whatever strange curse had afflicted their world.

Marcassin pierced pins through the map’s browning paper. “We know,” he said, “that Castaway Cove, Yule, and Perdida have all undergone this transformation. Anywhere else?”

“Al Mamoon seems fine,” said Esther.

“Hamelin too, obviously,” added Swaine.

From his spot on Oliver’s lap, Mr. Drippy chimed in. “My butties tell me the Fairyground is right as rain. ‘Course, with ouer luck, the whole world’ll be gone to pot by tomorrow.”

“That’s why we must move fast.” Marcassin put the rest of the pins away. “Only three places, then. But what is the link between them?”

Oliver hummed. “They’re all pretty small, I guess. Maybe they have less defenses?” It was a meager suggestion, even to Oliver. But he’d feel useless if he didn’t say anything.

Nodding, Swaine said, “That’s true, but who would want to target them? They’ve got nothing worth stealing, and they’re not big political players. Castaway Cove might mess with the economy, but then there’s no point attacking Yule and Perdida. Hell, sometimes I forget they exist.”

“Are we sure it was an attack?” Esther asked with furrowed brows. “My father and I didn’t see anyone before or after Castaway Cove changed.”

Marcassin tapped his pen on the table. “You’re suggesting it’s a natural phenomenon?”

“Or maybe an accident.”

“What kind of accident could do all this?” Swaine cut in. “If you ask me, whoever’s behind this is a Shadar copycat — aiming to be the next Dark Djinn.” He shuddered. “God, what a nightmare!”

A hum from Oliver’s lap caught everyone’s attention. Mr. Drippy had stood up, and was now pacing back and forth across Oliver’s thighs (ow), pinching his fingers around what might have been his chin. “Nightmare, eh? You know, Thief-Face, you might be onto something.”

“High praise coming from you,” Swaine snarked.

Mr. Drippy swatted him in reply. “No, you div, I mean it! When you all saw these places, what did you think?”

“That I’d had about enough of the whole hero schtick,” said Swaine, who had to duck to avoid another swat, this time from Esther.

“Well,” said the girl in question, “I almost thought I was dreaming.”

It was true; Marcassin had conjured up a memory of his own experience in Perdida, and the village’s transformation resembled something out of a fever dream. Everything shifted and changed in impossible ways, even in a world full of magic. It was like the big stone snake wasn’t bound by the laws of physics

“Exactly,” Mr. Drippy said, snapping his fingers. “Any of you kids ever heard of the Land of Nod?”

Oliver drew a blank. He’d pored over his map when he’d first arrived to this world, anxious to familiarize himself with so many new places, but he’d never come upon that name before. Though, if the words were too small, he might have just glazed over them; he hadn’t noticed Yule or Perdida for the same reasons.

“I’ve read mentions of it in history books, but only mentions.” Marcassin rested his chin on his hands. He peered at Mr. Drippy. “Why do you ask?”

With the spotlight now fully on him, Mr. Drippy hopped from Oliver’s lap and landed on the table. “Well, it’s an old story, see? A hundred years ago, give or take, Nod was the place to be. A real goldmine for creativity, like. ‘Course, then Shadar had to go and put a spell on it.”

“Why’s that?” said Oliver.

Mr. Drippy snatched up a pad of paper and a pen. He sketched out a (very) crude version of Nod, represented by a castle and some z’s. “So, what you need to know about Nod,” he began, “is that the people there, the Nodlanders, could bring their dreams to life. Anything they dreamt up, they could make it real. Dream Weavers, they were called — Weavers for short.” He drew some sleeping stick figures, with thought bubbles above their heads holding different items. “As you can guess, that’s a lot of power for one kingdom to have. They could’ve had Shadar with his tail between his legs in a day!” He drew a stick figure version of Shadar looking angry. “But he couldn’t have that, could he? So he put them all to sleep, cursed to have nightmares forever.” The final drawing depicted the Nodlanders frowning while they slept, with Shadar cackling madly in the background. Mr. Drippy may not have had a future career in the classic arts, but his cartoonism was nothing to scoff at.

“Alright,” said Swaine, crossing his arms, “so some poor saps have been having bad dreams for a while. Why does that matter to us?”

Mr. Drippy closed his eyes. “Give me strength, mun,” he muttered. “Well, say you’ve got magic dream powers. Then say you’ve been asleep for a long time, and all those dreams have been building up behind youer eyeballs. What d’you think happens when you wake up?”

“Their heads were probably fit to burst! When they woke up, the dreams had nowhere to go but out!” Esther pounded her hand with her fist, eyes bright.

Mr. Drippy nodded. “I can’t say for sure if ouer wonky villages by here are connected to the Nodlanders by there, but it’s worth checking out, en’t it?”

The group got ready to go, but before they could get up, Marcassin intervened. “Hold on a moment. If it was Shadar’s curse that caused this, wouldn’t the spell have been lifted when he was defeated? In that case, the transformations would have happened earlier.”

“Unless,” said Swaine, “Cassiopeia upheld the spell. She might not have even known she was doing it. We defeat her, she starts undoing all the spells she’s cast in however many years, and suddenly Castaway Cove looks like a fishbowl.”

Oliver shimmied himself off the couch, grabbed his wand, and headed for the door. That was enough of an argument for him. “Alright! Let’s go to the Land of Nod!”

Everyone else followed suit, but Marcassin lagged behind. Oliver hung back just in time to see Swaine ask, “Coming with?”

Marcassin shook his head and began putting away the map, pens, and papers they’d pulled out in their planning session. “I shall remain here. Perdida will need a place of refuge until this problem is resolved, and I want to be here if something happens to Hamelin as well.” He smiled at his brother. “Be safe out there, won’t you?”

Smirking, Swaine replied, “You can count on me.”

He left the room, and Oliver followed after him, feeling too much like he was intruding. But as he left down the hall, he heard Marcassin sigh and say, “I know you will.”

Oliver shut the door and caught up with his friends.

As it turned out, the journey to Nod was a short one. The city, situated in the heart of the Spindle, was only a brief Sea Cow’s ride away from Hamelin. The four of them arrived with plenty of time to spare, and now trudged up towards the signs of civilization in the distance.

The Spindle was just as rough and craggy as the rest of Autumnia. The smog wasn’t quite as bad here as it was closer to Hamelin, but everything had that usual Autumnia dimness. Grayish grass, grayish rocks, and minimal grayish shrubbery made up the less than welcoming landscape.

“Hard to believe there’s a whole kingdom here,” commented Swaine, forcing himself up a steep hill. “Hard to believe anyone lives here at all.”

Mr. Drippy clambered up Swaine’s shoulder and refused the man’s attempts to get him down. “Ah, you should’ve seen her in her prime. Beautiful, she was. You could see the lights for miles.” He trailed off, gaze far away.

“Um,” said Esther, “you’ve been here before, then? Only, I thought you said Nod had been cursed for hundreds of years . . .”

Drippy waggled his finger at her. “Ah, now. It’s impolite to ask a fairy’s age, you know.”

Oliver and Esther exchanged glances. Maybe they’d never know how old their fairy friend was.

Beside them, Swaine was waving his arm about madly, trying to unstick Mr. Drippy from his shoulder. Mr. Drippy, for his part, appeared unbothered; he just held on tighter. Between desperate waves, Swaine said, “Wait a minute. Why have I never noticed this place? I grew up here — I used to come to the Spindle as a kid. I think I’d notice a whole kingdom sitting around.”

When Swaine gave another frantic shake, Mr. Drippy smacked his stubbly cheek and moved to the other shoulder. “Shadar put a flippin’ disillusionment spell on it, didn’t he? Didn’t want anyone stopping by and waking them up. You could’ve walked all the way though and never noticed.”

“Why didn’t you mention any of this before?” Oliver asked. Mr. Drippy wasn’t exactly the humble type. If he knew something that the rest of them didn’t, he was pretty open about showing it. Not that Oliver would ever call his best friend a bragger.

“Well, it was a pretty handy disillusionment, wasn’t it? Couldn’t remember a flippin’ thing about the place before Cassiopeia took the spell away.” He pointed off in the distance, where the shapes of buildings rose above the cliff tops. “Land ho, littlies! Nod en’t much further now!” He took this moment to disembark from Swaine’s shoulders. The man in question heaved a sigh of relief.

Despite his tiny legs, Mr. Drippy wasted no time in rushing up the hill and to the gate mostly obscured by overgrown vines. He yanked the vines away with minimal effort; they crumbled in his grip. When they were all gone, Oliver could just make out the words engraved in the rusty metal. They read, “The Land of Nod: Where Dreaming is Doing.”

Swaine squinted to read the engraving. “They certainly had a brand.”

“Had to, mun!” Mr. Drippy agreed. He strained to open the gate, but it wouldn’t budge. Oliver and Esther joined him in pulling it open. Between labored breaths, he wheezed, “Nod was a real tourist trap, it was. They had to be in your face with the advertising to get people to visit.” The door swung open — and whacked an unfortunate Mr. Drippy in the face. He fell back with an “Oof!”

Oliver helped Mr. Drippy up while Swaine waltzed through the gate. “More of a performance than a kingdom, eh?” the tall man said, kicking up loose chunks of pavement.

When Mr. Drippy was back on his feet, he hurried forward like he hadn’t lost a fight with a door moments prior. Fairies were a hardy people, he liked to say.

Finally, Oliver had his first real look at the kingdom of Nod. It reminded him of a theme park his mother took him too when he was younger; candy-colored buildings, signs everywhere begging you to stop by, sprawling walkways crammed with storefronts. Yet the park he’d gone to as a kid wasn’t nearly so dilapidated. Here, all the colors had faded, windows smeared with dirt, mold and fungus taking root in wooden paneling and whatever food had been left out. Oliver peered through an open window with interest, only to flinch away at the sight of a massive spider taking residence in the room within. He hurried to catch up with the rest of the group.

“Hey, Mr. Drippy?” he said. If he stuck closer to his friends in this eerie place, that was no one’s business. “Didn’t you say the people here would be awake?” The place was practically empty, and the few citizens Oliver did spy were slumped over, fast asleep.

Mr. Drippy raised a brow. “That I did, Ollie-boy. Let’s take a look-see — could be some folks woke up faster than others.”

They wandered deeper into the city, but everyone they saw was passed out. Some were just visible inside their houses, while others appeared to have made it to their doorframes and collapsed. Those that were awake moaned and groaned, eyes squeezed shut, hands resting over their foreheads. Oliver couldn’t help but notice their outlandish clothes; most looked more like costumes than everyday outfits.

Oliver spied one man propped against the side of a building. His entire outfit was somehow made of yarn balls. His eyes were cracked open and lined with dark circles. Yet despite his obvious exhaustion, he was the most conscious person the group had seen yet.

“Excuse me?” Esther said. “Do you know what happened here?”

With some effort, the man forced his eyelids open just enough to stare at Esther. He blinked, frog-like, before closing his eyes with a mumble. His breath deepened; he was asleep like everyone else.

“You’re sure these people caused those weird transformations?” Swaine asked Mr. Drippy. “They can barely move.”

“Haven’t I done enough to make you trust me?” Mr. Drippy groused. “Some patience’ll do you wonders!”

Swaine grumbled but kept quiet. Maybe he was afraid Mr. Drippy would jump on him again.

They rounded a corner. This street was just as empty as the rest of the city — until a young woman emerged from a building with the door left ajar. She looked dazed and unfocused; she didn’t even notice the group’s arrival. Why, Oliver wondered, was she the only one awake?

One thing was for sure though: this girl was from Nod. Her outfit confirmed that. Her getup consisted of a starry purple nightcap with a yellow star on the top, a purple vest with a star on the chest, loose pants that matched her hat tucked into black leather boots, and, oddest of all, a lab coat that looked almost like a bathrobe. Or a bathrobe that looked almost like a lab coat? Like everyone else here, she dressed like she was trying to sell them something.

Mr. Drippy pointed. “Oi, look! A live ‘un!”

* * *

Congrats! You made it to the end! Penelope shows up in the next chapter, I promise. Also, fun fact: the title of each chapter is taken from Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s poem, “The Beautiful Land of Nod.” Anyway here’s the drawing I made. I just thought Drippy “helping” Oliver with his homework was a really funny idea.

#nnk #ni no kuni #ni no kuni oc #wrath of the white witch #writing #luring yall in like Esther gets a character arc in this oneeeee #and Swaine and Marcassin. come get yall juiceeee #don’t expect regular updates my darlings for you will be sorely disappointed #if anyone is out of character No They’re Not #hope the formatting’s okay I’ve never posted fic on tumblr before

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steddiebang · 2 years ago

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Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I'm Yours)

Author: @steddieasitgoes l Artist: @doomcheese l Artist: @strawberrysh0rk Posting on Sunday, November 5

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my terrible mailman,” the man jests, letting his weight fall against the half-opened door. “To what do I owe the pleasure.” “It seems like some of your mail has slipped through the cracks at the post office,” Steve says with an air of causality he hopes pay off. “M’just here to deliver it and apologize for them losing it.” “Right, ‘cause the post office lost it. Not my mailman who hates me house.” “I don’t hate your house!” Steve objects. “That’s two lies in under a minute. I don’t think your boss will be too happy to learn that you’re lying to your customers…” the man trails off, gesturing at Steve. “Steve.” “So you are the mailman that has all the Housewives of this hear street’s panties in a twist.” Or: The year is 1991 and Steve Harrington is working as a mail carrier who is pettily withholding mail from Eddie, who has just moved into the neighborhood. When Eddie threatens Steve’s job, he is forced t making amends by hand-delivering the missing mail. In a surprising twist, Steve and Eddie end up hitting it off and the two start spending an alarming amount of Steve’s lunch breaks getting to know each other. But the more time they spend together, the less time Steve spends delivering mail which might just end up costing him his job and his newfound relationship with Eddie.

Keep reading for a sneak preview!

Steve is about to cut his losses, set the bin of undelivered mail on Mr. Darkness's doorstep with a quick note of apology, and head back to Posty when there's a loud commotion from inside. It's hard to hear beyond the thick wood door, but Steve can faintly make out the sounds of someone cursing. Heavy footsteps race towards the door, voice becoming clearer as they get closer and closer.

"I already told you people. I've found something better than God. It's called marijuana, and it makes me a better man than any of your stupid books and pamphlets will!"

The door swings halfway open in a hurry. It's so fast Steve doesn't have time to make himself look even halfway professional, the overflowing bin of mail teetering in his hands. He manages to save it from falling on his feet, but he can't say the same about his jaw, which feels like it's just been disconnected from the rest of his head.

Truthfully, he hasn't given much thought to what Mr. Darkness might look like.

Sure, he's listened to the Birchwood Court Housewives sing their praises. And Robin's lamented about her own theories. That a guy who paints an entire Victorian house black-hole levels of black and is never around in the day must be a vampire type. Long coats and dark boots, maybe even a corset or cape or two. She even joked about him having those cheesy faux vampire teeth they sell around Halloween one night.

But other than their theories, Steve hasn't theorized for himself. Hasn't given Mr. Darkness's appearance any real thought, too consumed with getting his petty revenge instead.

That might have been Steve's biggest mistake yet.

Because the man in front of him isn't decked out in dark capes and soft linens, nor is he red carpet-ready with a swoon-worthy smile.

No.

The man in front of him is an utter disaster that makes Steve's heart race.

Wild curls radiate from his head in every direction, wispy bangs falling in his sleep-heavy eyes. One hand grips the frame of the door, large, gaudy rings adorning his slender fingers. The other forms a fist that he uses to massage the sleep from his eyes.

His lean but muscular legs are on full display, given his lack of pants. Light brown hair covers the expanse of his calves and thighs, blending with the rich colors of tattoos that ebb and flow with the contours of his muscles before disappearing under the most absurd apron Steve has ever laid his eyes on.

Garfield the cat is splayed out across his chest, eating a bowl of pasta. A word bubble above him noting that he's "an eater, not a cooker."

It's so cartoonish and out of place on his ink-covered body. Black lines weave up and down his arms, too. Drops of red and white accenting the purposely erratic lines. Steve can't help but stare at the work of art on this man's body. It's a glorified eye spy of sorts. Meaningful shapes and words hidden within the lines and floral designs. Steve thinks he makes out a music note in the mix, maybe even a heart with a W doodled inside.

Mr. Darkness clears his throat, pulling Steve from his ogling. He feels his cheeks burn under the intense gaze brought upon him. A pit forms in his stomach as he takes in Mr. Darkness's face again. He's sporting an equal look of utter confusion. Lips barely parted, owlish eyes beating into Steve's.

"Well," he clears his throat again before pulling at the hem of his tacky apron. "You're not the Bible thumpers."

"I am not."

It's hard not to squirm under the man's intense gaze as his eyes trail up and down Steve's body. Taking him in bit by bit — Steve can't help the rush of blood that pools below his belt. It's not his fault this man is simultaneously sizing him up and taking him apart.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my terrible mailman," the man jests, letting his weight fall against the half-opened door. "To what do I owe the displeasure."

"It seems like some of your mail has slipped through the cracks at the post office," Steve says with an air of causality he hopes pays off. "M'just here to deliver it and apologize for them losing it."

"Right, 'cause the post office lost it. Not my mailman who hates my house."

"I don't hate your house!" Steve objects.

"That's two lies in under a minute. I don't think your boss will be too happy to learn that you're lying to your customers…" the man trails off, gesturing at Steve.

It takes a moment for Steve to realize this is his way of asking for his name. Steve considered giving him a fake one just in case Mr. Darkness himself is serious about reporting his wrongdoings. But it would only take his boss a matter of seconds to figure out who he was really talking about, so Steve decides to tell the truth.

"Steve."

"So you are the mailman that has all the housewives of this here street's panties in a twist."

It doesn't seem possible, but Steve feels his face heat up even more. He's never been a big blusher, not even in high school when he was pumped full of alcohol and had girls dangling off both his arms. But he doesn't need a mirror to know he's been rendered into a blushing mess in under five minutes by Mr. Darkness. God, it's probably so obvious against the harsh backdrop of his house and the navy blue polo of his work uniform.

"Look," Steve trails off, eyes glancing down towards the mail bin in his hands. He tries to catch sight of Mr. Darkness's real name, but all the letters on top are still addressed to an E. Munson. And he's not about to call this guy Mr. Munson. That's reserved for his superiors and this guy is anything but.

"Eddie," Eddie supplies, the corner of his mouth twitching up momentarily.

Steve nods. "Right, Eddie, I don't hate your house, and I'm really sorry about the…" Steve trails off again. His nose turns up as he's hit with an overwhelming waft of something burning. A smell he's accustomed to smelling, thanks to Robin's need to cook despite the kitchen's hatred for her. "Is something burning?"

"My bacon!"

Read more on November 5!

#steddiebang23 #steddiebang23 upcoming projects

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adultswim2021 · 1 year ago

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Xavier: Renegade Angel #19: “Damnesia You” | April 10, 2009 - 12:15AM | S02E09

This was just so great, man. I loved this so much. I don’t even want to review this all that much. Fuck it! I won’t! There have been a bunch of special episodes lately. The Racist one! The one-long-sketch one! This one! This one starts off like Damnesia Vu, with Xavier in the room with all them colored doors. He’s in some kind of mind-palace, if you’ll recall. In this one the doors lead to different viewer-submitted home-made versions of Xavier: Renegade Angel. Some of them are animated (both traditionally and not), and some of them are live-action, and some of them are a mix of both.

A lot of the people and voices and styles seem vaguely familiar, at least to me. David Dineen-Porter is a guy I’ve seen perform comedy, and he is way brilliant. I read something on Reddit saying one of the guy’s is shmorky. I don’t actually know who shmorky is except for the fact that people say his name while grimacing and lowering their head in prayer. I googled it: it turns out he was involved in a “no bueno” situation. AHHH!!!

The episode takes the fan submissions and lets them play, sometimes. Sometimes the editors remix the entities a bit, which is nice of them.

Rather than talk about the content of the episode I am just gonna say this: I got high as fuck before watching it because it’s snowing outside, and that’s a good reason to use marijuana at 3PM. It probably helped me watch this three times, which I did. I watched it twice on the Adult Swim app, but the second time I pressed play was a mistake, and I just let it roll. “Roll that beautiful bean footage” I should have said.

The third time I watched it on DVD because I couldn’t identify the screengrab from shmorky’s cartoon, which I wanted to identify out of morbid curiosity, and the Adult Swim Roku app sucks for if you want to pause the episode. It sucks if you want to watch the last ten seconds of the episode without the screen dimming and being covered up by a big thumbnail of the next show in the autoplay, even if the credits are rolling over the final moments of the story. It fucking blows.

I broke out the DVD just so I could pause it properly and read the names of the entries. I made a list of all of them here, because I don’t think there’s a list of them online anywhere, and that seems valuable, maybe.

The only other guy I actually remember here is David Dineen-Porter, who I’ve seen perform comedy and thought was brilliant. His IMDB shows that he wrote on the James Corden show. I hope he made an obscene amount of money and is currently buying lots of guns with it (I mean this nicely).

Also, I found a link to every entry on it’s own.

Grant “Manfred” Duffrin - Xavier Lends a Helping Hand Eric “Emotikkkon” Binmoeller - Meerkats David Dineen-[“] Porter: Self the Eye the Sees The Cream Within Shelby A. Hohl - As Above So Below Andrew De“hole”Young - Prism Jay Z. Yum David “He” Health - Gazzavier Renegade Angel Goes Up A Mountain Chiyoung “2:29” Lee DDS - Catch They Neighbor Robert “t S”mith - Omnippletence/The Phone Call Colyn “Bynumb” Emery - Art What Art Thou Dave “Da Grave Slave” Kelly - Xavier Looks Behind His Eye Amy “Peanut butter” Warner - Dog Eats Ketchup (couldn't find) John “Bobby ‘the ‘der’ Sanch’ Sanchez” Santos - Sueo Mojado Jason Dorris - Portly “n’ Jelly” Porthole Bo “Bikey” Thrice - Superhole Shuffle

Also: Those CLOSING CREDITS! A friend of mine told me to look out for them, and I said "okay".

MAIL BAG:

the cinco brothers are electric. they should bring them back and let them tell more stories about their lives.

The Sinko Brothers are in jail for nasty crimes and I hope they stay there. This thought is crude. Shame on you

#adultswim2021 #adult swim #xavier renegade angel

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spoiledleaff · 1 year ago

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🌿✨ silly little sleep token bracelet giveaway!!✨🌿

hey, hello! :D this post is a give-away post!! i've never done one of these before so forgive me if the setup is a little funky, haha! :') but, anyways! i attended the nyc sleep token ritual at radio city music hall, and i made a massive amount of bracelets for it! :) i did the same thing when i went to see ghost last summer, but this time i unfortunately wasn't able to take the time to make sure i gave all of them away, so i have some extra bracelets left!! :D it feels a little weird to keep them for myself, haha! so this is where you might come in! >:)c

out of exactly 100 bracelets, i'm happy to report that i only have 9 bracelets left! 🌿✨ the 9 that i do have left consist of 2 bracelets for iii and 7 bracelets for iv! :)

these are the bracelets i'm offering up! :D but — since the circumstances for this giveaway are a little more unique, haha! — what are some rules for this? :0 well!

✿ this giveaway is aimed towards anyone and everyone who attended a ritual during the teeth of god tour! you don't have to have attended specifically the ritual at radio city music hall! :) however! please be aware that if i happen to receive multiple/more than one messages at a time, people who did attend the nyc ritual will receive priority/first picks. i don't mean to be rude to anyone! this is just because i also attended the nyc ritual :) i hope that makes sense! i won’t be asking for proof, but i also don’t expect this post to just magically blow up, haha! so i’m taking everybody’s word for this :)

✿ ideally, to give many people a chance to snag a bracelet, i would like to limit the amount of bracelets to one per person!

✿ i hope to mail the bracelets to people who would like one, so, needles to say, please be ready to offer up a valid mailing address where i can send the bracelets to! however, because i hope to mail these little guys, i'm afraid i'm also going to have to ask that this giveaway stays in the united states. ugh! i know, i know! i really wanted to extend this silly little thing to outside the usa, but i think it might be wiser for me personally — since it's my first time doing something like this — if i kept this to inside the usa. i'm so sorry to my dear friends in other parts of the world!! QAQ

✿ lastly, this giveaway is completely free!! :D however, i did have some lovely people ask if i wanted to take a 'tip' for various reasons and, even though i did say 'no', there were some kind people who really insisted i take a little something :') so! if you would like—though this is not at all necessary! i do have some additional means where people can send a small little tip if they might like to :)

✿ finally, please feel free to dm me if you're interested at all!! :D please include the aforementioned proof as well as if you have a preference for which bracelet you might like to receive! :D also please feel free to dm with any questions about the bracelets too! :) i know i don’t take the greatest pictures, haha! so if there’s one that catches your eye, please feel free to ask to see it up close! :D

oki-dokie! i think that's pretty much everything! :) haha! i've never done one of these before so i do apologize if this is very rambly//over explaining and whatnot :'D but! i had such a fun time making these bracelets, and an even bigger of a blast handing them out and meeting new people and experiencing the nyc ritual with everyone too :) thank you for reading!!! ♡♡ and thank you for participating if you so choose to!! :D

also, haha! if anyone was curious as to if you happened to meet me at the ritual, here’s a silly little fit pic featuring my housemate’s cat saying hello, haha! ♡

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quietwingsinthesky · 2 years ago

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Question: cringe culture is 100% dead, but I'm curious what you'd pick as your most embarrassing fandom, past or present? I know some people consider supernatural to be a guilty pleasure but honestly there's some other fandoms that I'm way more embarrassed to still like

Generally, I’m not really embarrassed about any of the stuff I’ve been into. If I liked it, clearly it brought me joy at the time and that’s what matters. You know, how would I be the person I am today if I didn’t play Undertale or even if I didn’t read every creepypasta I could get my hands on as a kid? That plus my memory problems means no cringe for me lol. But I guess I could talk about a few.

MLP was back when the show was still airing — I want to say 3rd or 4th season? — and I just dove into the fandom because ‘woah guys did you know that people write stories about the ponies? That there are infinite amount of stories to read?’ Which, you know, ups and downs, you got your Keepers of Discord but you’ve also got your Cupcakes. (Though, to be honest, the fact that I had a reading of Cupcakes bookmarked on my computer to listen to to help me fall asleep? probably explains uhm. Some Stuff About Me.) Honestly, wouldn’t trade my time with MLP for anything, and I still love the show and a lot of fanworks dearly. I rewatch Lullaby for a Princess every few weeks, I reread Something Sweet To Bite every Halloween, and when I can’t sleep, I still find myself going to ObabScribbler or TheLostNarrator’s YouTube channels to find fic readings to calm my brain down.

Dream SMP is… more complicated. Obviously, if you know anything about it, you know all the shit that came out. I won’t get into that here because that’s not really a part of my experience? Just sort of a gross thing that overshadows it all, even though I was out of the fandom before any of that stuff was known. I actually got into it to bond with my little sister, she loved that stuff, and damn it all, but I got unironically sucked in by just the fantastic work that came out of a fandom surrounding a minecraft roleplay server lol. They aren’t wrong about the art that got made for those YouTubers, it’s all stunningly good. And it’s how I found Sad-ist’s animations on YouTube. Still subscribed to them, their work is always beautiful to watch, the old Dream SMP stuff and the new stuff. And I liked bonding with my sister over the bonkers minecraft lore. The end of that hyperfixation was when Technoblade died. Got too real, all of a sudden, too close to home, and I peaced out hard. It was good, though, while I was there. I liked having something to talk to my sister about.

Uhhhh okay out of that downer ending let’s talk about Sherlock. Yes hi hello original superwholock-er here, despite only seeing the first two seasons of doctor who but IT COUNTS. I can’t even be mad at past me for liking Sherlock because I probably wouldn’t be as close to my friends as I am if we hadn’t all been watching s3-4 live. And dunking hard on s4. I was never a johnlock conspiracy person, so that helps. There was the time my friend read us outloud some Johnlock mpreg ass birth fanfic in math class. That was… an experience. I give this a “I can’t plug my phone in without being haunted by his voice”/10

And finally, back to serious town, Harry Potter. I don’t even have anything good to say here, really. The whole “mourning something important to my childhood” phase is long over, the damage continues to be done, and. And nothing. I just don’t want to see it anymore. It’s not shame or cringe, I guess, it’s more like… disappointment. Not at myself, because fuck it, dude, I was a kid, I knew everything there was to know about the books, I waited for the mail when I turned eleven, I wrote “Hogwarts is my Home” on the inside of my closet like a ward to keep me safe. The first thing I ever read about being trans was a damn Harry Potter fic, one of the first podfics I ever made, too, though I was too chicken to post it. So what’s left except disappointment, even the anger long gone because it just keeps happening. I just don’t want to see it anymore.

Anyway, uhhhhm. Hope that suffices as an answer lol, I rambled on way too long.

#sorry wow lol you asked for one I gave you four #I am bad at being concise sorry #anyway if you want me to say which one is most embarrassing — it’s Sherlock. that’s the only one I’m a little embarrassed about.#ask #mlp #dream smp #harry potter #sherlock #< in case anyone has those blocked o7

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securelifetimelegacy · 1 month ago

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#Secure Lifetime Legacy

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linkablewritingadvice · 2 months ago

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How To Get Ghostwriting Romance Gigs

First off, what is ghostwriting? It's writing novels for other people to publish under their own pen names. You get paid a flat fee, and then they collect whatever royalties the book makes. Any work you write and sell under a ghostwriting contract no longer belongs to you, and you cannot sell or publish it under your own name.

This can be a good way to start making a predictable, consistent amount of money writing fiction. You will likely make less money than whoever is selling the book, but you will also probably make more money than you would trying to sell the book on your own via Kindle or other platforms, at least at the start. The person paying for your services has done the work ahead of time to identify what their readers want and build a reader base who will buy it. (And if they haven't, that's not your problem - they pay you for the work regardless.)

Ghostwriting is a good way to learn whether genre fiction writing for profit is something you can and want to do. From working based on other people's outlines, you'll get a sense for what type of writing sells and how to, which can set you up to try starting your own pen name if you want.

Building Your Portfolio

The first thing you need to do is build a portfolio of samples. Samples should be between 1k and 5k words, and show off your knowledge of specific genre tropes.

Your portfolio samples can’t be anything you’ve already written for another client and gotten paid for. All of that is under contract that prevents you from taking credit for it or submitting it elsewhere. Also, when you submit samples to a studio, they will run it through a “plagiarism checker” - so it’s bad in both directions. So you’ll need a body of samples that you fully own and can share under your own name.

It seems weird to start writing without any guarantee that anyone will pay you for it, but if you invest a few weeks in banging out 10-30k words worth of sample work, you are doing future-you a huge favor. Plus, if you start this work and realize you don’t like it or can’t do it at a pace that would make this profitable, you’ll learn pretty quick.

Research

Poke around on Upwork jobs and see what is currently being hired for. Generally, there seems to be a lot of interest in:

Clean/sweet romance with a Western/Cowboy twist and often a slightly Christian flair

Mafia or other “bad boy” romance

Billionaire romance

Royalty (prince or sheik) romance

Romantasy/Fantasy romance

Paranormal romance

Animal shifter romance

Historical Western romance, specifically 1800s cowboy and mail order brides

Scottish historical romance

Regency historical romance

For all of these, there are niches and sub-genres and tropes. You’ll also find “steamy” and “clean” categories for all of them - so you could write Regency with sex, or royalty without sex, etc.

Identify a few genres/niches that seem interesting to you. Don’t worry about what you already know or like. Think about what type of worlds and characters you would find fun to make up details for. Cast a wide net and keep an open mind.

Go on Amazon and look at books in those genres. For some of the most popular ones, buy them and read them through. For a bunch more, browse the summaries and free sample chapters. After you read a few complete novels and a bunch of sample chapters, you should have a good sense of what kind of tone and style they’re looking for.

This should help you narrow down what you’re interested in, and/or give you more specific ideas about what you’re vibing with. Keep reading and researching and poking around until you feel like, yeah, I could write one of these. You’ll see what patterns and tropes are popular, the general shape and structure of the genre, and what kinds of details make each story.

Write!

Then, write samples in all the genres and niches you’re interested in.

Your best bet is to have a pretty wide ranging portfolio with a handful of things you can stick together to show all the skills for a specific project - for instance, an animal shifter sample that’s also lighthearted and comedic, a billionaire romance scene with luxurious sex, a bad boy in a magical world with some grit and angst.

Most of my samples are the first few chapters of a romance in various genres, but variety in types of scenes is good too. You could have an action scene, a “happy ever after” epilogue, a climax or turning point scene, a characters just hanging out together scene. Just have fun showing off the genre traits.

If you’re looking to specialize in something with sex in it, include at least one erotic scene in your portfolio.

Clients also like if you can develop plots or outlines, so if you want to try that, have a few samples of those in your portfolio too. Outlining an entire novel, then writing the first few scenes or a few specific scenes, is a great way to get two pieces for your portfolio.

“Portfolio Builder” Jobs vs. “Sample Work”

A job to help you “build your portfolio” is the equivalent of asking musicians to play for free in exchange for “exposure.” Don’t do free work as a “sample.”

However, when you’re first starting out, you CAN offer to “provide a sample based on a specific request for a reduced fee.” That means that the client will give you a prompt for something they really want to see from you, BUT you clarify contractually that it’s not a ghostwriting project for them, it’s sample work that you’ll retain rights to, for your portfolio.

That way, you basically get to interview for a potential client after taking a peek at the answer key first, AND you get stuff for your portfolio that you know people are looking for.

Once you get a robust enough portfolio, stop doing this.

If someone asks you to start work on their project as a “trial” or a “sample,” politely remind them of your rate per word and then cheerfully note that you will do sample work at a discount. Most times they’ll just offer to pay your rate per word for the first few chapters, then see where it goes. If you send them what they want by the deadline, they’ll keep you on.

Organizing Your Portfolio

It will make your life so much easier if you save all of your sample pieces as PDFs. Make sure they all have the same formatting and naming conventions. Make sure all of them have a header with your name, contact info, and a professional note about this being sample work.

Save them all to an easy to access folder.

In this folder, also put a PDF of a resume that shows off all your writerly accomplishments and accolades, with your contact info. Keep an editable copy of that handy too.

Create an editable copy of your generic cover letter and keep it there too.

A Somewhat Shady Portfolio Tip

If a client asks you if you have experience in a genre and you don’t, you can always say that you do but all your work is under an NDA so you can’t send them specific samples but that you would be happy to provide a sample for a reduced fee. The fact that most of this ghostwriting happens under NDA style contracts means that you can claim to have a much larger body of work while also demonstrating respect for the privacy of previous clients. If you trust yourself to be a quick study on a new genre or whip out a quick sample for a specific client, this works great.

Finding Work

This section is specific to the website Upwork, where I found all my gigs. There are other platforms out there, but most of this is likely to apply generally.

First, you’ll have to make an Upwork account. Don’t spring for any of the “premium” features, but fill out your profile and portfolio completely.

Fill in every single piece with as much stuff as you can. Include any writing awards you won in undergrad, any and all of your publications, any positions you’ve held that have anything to do with with this, etc. Put up a neutral but friendly headshot.

Put your portfolio up in a way that feels really professional and easy to navigate. Make all of the documents PDFs with headers that include your contact information and the fact that this is sample work, and format them all the same way. Give them clear file names, etc. This can be supremely tedious but in my experience really pays off. Also upload your PDF resume.

Search Jobs

Go on Upwork and search for jobs! Search for terms like fiction, novel, romance, ghostwriter, and/or other genre keywords like erotica, thriller, mystery, etc.

Be patient - it takes at least a few weeks to get the ball rolling on enough of this to start seeing real money coming in; longer if you’re not focusing on it full time.

Be selective, but also be realistic. Unfortunately, Upwork strongly prioritizes people with established work on the platform, so just to get “on the board,” you might need to bite the bullet and take some rather foolish or underpaid gigs to get started. If you’re doing something for less than your rate, negotiate it into being sample work you can use for your portfolio.

The good news is that once you have a few completed jobs and positive reviews, you’re golden. You just have to get over the initial hump of going from “none” to “some.”

DO NOT EVER TAKE A GHOSTWRITING JOB FOR SOMEONE’S “PERSONAL PROJECT.” Do not help write MeeMaw’s family history. Do not help that former Navy SEAL write a humorous memoir about his time in the service. Do not help a dude script his D&D game into a YouTube graphic novel.

Write formulaic genre fiction for publishing studios looking to up their Kindle Marketplace game. Other projects may seem cool or lucrative. They are neither. Stay focused.

Upwork Connect Points

Upwork does require you to spend points (“connects”) on reaching out to clients. This is to discourage a shotgun approach.

As a new user, your points will be limited. You will be encouraged to spend money on more points. In general, if you’re being asked to spend money to make money, you are being scammed.

However, on this platform, as a new user, it can really help to throw down $10-25 once or twice so you can start to build momentum. I personally spent about $40 when I was getting started. Now that I am an established user of the platform, I don’t have to worry about connects.

Setting Your Rates

You’ll need to set your own personal rate that you will not go below. It should be per word - like three cents, four cents, or five cents a word. Get familiar with what each rate means for a 50k words, 60k words, 75k words, and 80k word.

Play around with this tool: https://essayscam.org/word-price-calculator/ (I have no idea what’s going on with the sketchiness of that website, but it’s the best tool for this that I’ve found.)

Look at how many words you can comfortably write in a week and whether that translates to an amount of money you’d take as a salary for that much work. Compare your rough hourly rate to a living wage.

Be realistic about the value of your time and never be negotiated into a flat fee that would be less than your personal rate.

If it turns out that this wouldn’t be worth the effort for current market rates, or specific projects, don’t force it.

Pitching/Bidding Rates For A Project

A lot of these clients will set very low costs on their listings, like saying they want to pay $600 for a 50k word novel. I think there’s some clunky design on the place where clients are asked to input their budget. Most times, it’s an arbitrary number and they are willing to pay you your rates if you state them very clearly.

Because the site makes it feel like you’re “bidding” on the project, the temptation is to try to undercut everyone else. Don’t do this. Just state your rates very clearly and cheerfully as they relate to what the cost would be based on what the client stated in their listing.

So for the people claiming a budget of $600 for a 50k word novel, you might say: “My rates are $.04 per word, which would be $2,000 for a 50k word novel, or $600 per 15k word installment.”

Sometimes they’ll ask you to put your cost for specific milestones. Even if you’ve explained this in your application letter, put the exact same numbers in there. So, I’d “set” a proposed milestone of 15k words for $600.

If they don’t have this weirdness going on for a listing, it’s basically the same thing. State your rates clearly in your application, connect it to their project, then set whatever milestone prices make sense.

Actually Applying To A Job

Once you’ve found a job that looks like something you’d be interested in doing for rates that are reasonable (or potentially reasonable, see above), you’ll fill out an application!

You’ll be asked to send a cover letter. I keep a standard one saved on a document so I can copy and paste and then add specific details for the project. Here is my example:

To Whom It May Concern,

[INTRO]: My name is [NAME], and I think I'd be an excellent fit for your project! I have years of experience reading and writing in the romance genre.

[THIS IS WHERE I ADD STUFF SPECIFIC TO THEIR LISTING, FOR EXAMPLE:]

I am very comfortable writing steamy romance and love to raise the heat, but also have lots of experience writing clean or sweet romance and can write at any heat level.

I especially enjoy billionaire and royalty romance - I love the luxurious settings and fantastic adventure of it all!

I love writing sweet, inspirational romance and am a weekly church attendee, so I can give each story a faith-based touch.

[THEN I GIVE MY BACKGROUND AND HYPE MYSELF UP]: I have been a freelance fiction writer for over ten years now. I have a varied background that includes teaching, writing web content for Silicon Valley tech giants, and experimental fiction. I am a quick learner with plenty of experience working with existing guidelines, formats, and styles for different studios or clients. I am a professional who believes in sticking tightly to deadlines, and all my work is guaranteed to be 100% original and free of errors.

[POINT TO SAMPLES] I have attached some relevant genre samples here, but you can see all of my romance work on my Upwork profile. If there is a specific type of sample you need, please let me know and I can provide sample work for a reduced fee.

[STATE MY RATES AS THEY APPLY TO THE LISTING] My price is $X per word, making a Xk word book cost $X.

I look forward to speaking with you!

[NAME]

In addition to the cover letter, you may also be asked to answer a few other form questions; they are often annoying and patronizing but it’s whatever, and is more a feature of the Upwork platform than a sign of how the client will be to work with.

I suspect that Upwork allows potential clients to auto-screen out applications without attached files, so always attach your PDF resume and whatever samples you have that are most relevant to what they’re looking for. (Even though those samples are all already linked on your profile, make sure to grab the most relevant ones from your folder to also attach.)

If they’re interested in you, they’ll reach out via Upwork. Most clients keep their communication entirely on the platform, so make sure your notifications are set up for that.

The platform is kind of clunky sometimes, and they do take a cut of your earnings, but it seems to be the industry standard. You also have some protection against fraud and other sketchiness, which you don’t have when you’re just PayPalling some dude.

Actually Doing The Job!

Some clients will send a really detailed outline, some will just send a premise. Some want to be your best friend, some want you you stop existing between when you get the assignment and when you send them the finished manuscript.

Try to be extra communicative with the first project for a client. After that, if you can snag someone for repeated work, just fly through the projects as fast as you want and let the money roll in.

As for the writing itself, I just set a timer for 40 minutes, jam out as many words as I can, then take a 20 minute break, repeat. I like to do these “sprints” with my friends and it’s pretty quick and fun.

Also, everyone in the industry wants to work via Word, not Google docs.

#ghostwriting #writing #writing for profit #working write #writing advice

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avni8044 · 2 months ago

Text

If You Dream of Being a Writer, Maybe Read This First, Okay?

A few words to hang on to when you’re drowning

Linda CarollFollow

8 min read

Dec 3, 2024

14.9K

362

You need to get a job, she says.

It’s a tired old conversation but she thinks she’s right. So she’s going to keep bringing it up again and again. For my own good, of course.

I’m doing fine, I say.

No, she says. You’re not doing fine. What you are is irresponsible.

I’m mad and she can tell, but she doesn’t care. Because she’s so darn sure she’s right I can see it written all over her face. Makes me determined to wipe that smug look off her pretty face. It’s just — how to do that.

I’m getting a dollar a word, I say.

The look on her face makes me laugh. Because I know. She had no idea. How much a writer can earn, what’s even possible. So I rub it in a little. Tell her I’m just finishing a twelve hundred word piece. Let her do the math.

But I know her. She’s not done until she has the last word. So she says sure, but it’s not going to last and you’ll be scrambling again. Like I don’t know that. Tells me I’m a single mother, like I don’t know that either.

She’s watching, waiting for me to say something else she can shoot down.

My thoughts are wild horses. I want to tell her about Bukowski working a job he hated. His rooms of the dead, men without eyes and voices. Men with newspaper brains, television souls and high school ideas. Talking about how soul sucking it is to do work you hate because you have to.

I want to read her T.S. Eliot. The Hollow Men. Read the lines about stuffed men in shadow lands, cactus lands. Men with no voice. Souls that are fading stars. Want to tell her I can’t do that. I can’t be that.

I want to remind her she has a house filled with words. Books, newspapers, magazines. Ask who she thinks writes all that. Some magical fairy people? Words falling from the sky to land on the printing presses?

Want to whisper that no, it’s people. People like me. Who dream of being a writer. But I know. She wouldn’t care. Because that’s how it goes with people who think they know what’s “best” for someone else.

There are no eyes here. In this valley of dying stars.

First time I wrote for pay was in print magazines. Sent my writing out in a manila envelope and waited, fingers crossed.

Hand hovering the phone like a hummingbird, heart racing a hundred beats a minute when I see their number on call display. Pick up, try not to cry when they offer a crazy amount, twice what I was expecting.

Try not to cry. Hold it back. But oh, I want to. I want to yell to the treetops that a real magazine editor likes my words. Enough to pay me for them.

Yes, yes of course I’ll make edits. Happily. So happily. No problem.

Hang up the phone, sink to the floor and finally cry because back then five hundred dollars went a lot farther than today. For one piece of writing? I’ll take it. As many times as they’ll say yes. And thank my lucky stars.

Until it ends.

Because it always ends.

Stephen King has a story about papering the wall with rejection letters but not all places sent those. Book publishers and literary magazines, sure. But a lot didn’t. A lot just asked for send a self addressed stamped envelope. So if they didn’t want your piece they’d mail it back. Buy stamps by the sheet.

Get too many envelopes sent back, I’d be running classified ads and writing resumes to make ends meet. Send out more envelopes in the mail.

But sometimes? Phone would ring and a voice at the other end would offer some crazy amount of money and I’d be over the moon. Buy the sneakers my kid needs, splurge on dinner and a movie. Go to bed and sleep like a baby, knowing everything that needs paying is getting paid.

And everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

We’re sitting in some chain restaurant that’s long since closed their doors when Mama puts her fork down and looks me in the eyes. Tells me I have more internal fortitude than all the rest of her children put together.

And I know. She’s not talking about my writing. She’s talking about all of it. Leaving. Filing for divorce. Being a single mom. Working so hard. It’s like she’s not seeing one singled out part of me, but all of me. For a minute.

Puts a lump in my throat. Compliments from Mama are not something I’m used to. She loved me, I know. But we were oil and water. Over all the little things. Too opinionated. Too stubborn. Always too something. So I say thank you, Mama, and I hold on to her words when I’m drowning.

Because you do, some days. Feel like you’re drowning. Drowning in bills, drowning in debt and doubt, drowning in rejection, drowning in fear and sometimes, drowning in other people’s doubts and opinions, too. People who love you mostly. Just want you to be safe, whatever that means.

When you first start, you think you need advice. Looking for someone, anyone, to tell you how to get a foot in the door. How to get started. But no. That’s not what you need. You need a rock. Even if it’s one sentence like the little strip of paper in a fortune cookie. To say hey — you got this.

The internet changed everything for writers. I know it sounds trite, but it’s true. Doesn’t matter what you want to do. Find an agent, build an audience, or find writing opportunities. It’s all out there. No end to what’s out there.

But in some ways, the internet made it harder for writers, too.

For starters, before the internet if you weren’t dead serious about writing, you weren’t doing it. No one thought mailing manila envelopes was an easy side gig. People who weren’t compelled to write looked at people like me, called us crazy. And I guess we were. Crazy to write, anyway.

It’s harder to find good writing gigs now. They’re hidden. You can earn a thousand dollars for one piece of writing but good luck finding those jobs because too many side hustle people saw dollar signs and bombed them with submissions without bothering to read the submission guide first. Now you sometimes need connections to find the jobs that pay well.

Probably the worst hurdle is misinformation. Like you’re not already lost in the woods, there’s people out there planting more trees to get lost in.

Just the other day, some random advice giver said the only way to make any money is to write about making money and I replied to say no, you are so wrong but he ignored me because negativity is his schtick and I wonder how many people read things like that, let it suffocate their dreams.

And the courses. Cripes. I have no problem with teaching or learning, but why is it that so many of those people have never made an income selling essays, fiction or poetry? They make money writing about making money and they’re better at pushing pain buttons than at selling actual writing.

Here’s the thing. It’s hard. Mama used to get so upset that I wanted to write and paint and draw pictures. She’d tell me go into business or accounting because writers and artists go hungry. And I’d say all those people in the unemployment line are hungry too. Laid off from jobs they hated.

And I’m glad. Glad I quit the last day job while Mama was alive. So I could say see, Mama? I did it. Work from home writing words and making pretty things. Selling art and photography and words. And I’m doing okay, Mama.

I wish I could tell you steps. But I can’t. Because success looks different for every writer. There’s not just one dream or one way to make it come true.

Like Paul Harding, who wrote a book and got so many rejections he threw it in a drawer. Years later took it to a tiny press and said he just wants to see it in print. They agreed to print it for a profit split. Then it won a Pulitzer.

Know why? Because librarians loved it. Nominated it without telling him.

I could tell you stories like that all day. Because I hunt them down. Read stories about the people like me who chased a dream. And I learned there isn’t just one way. And sometimes, there’s zigzags in the path.

Like Bronnie Ware, who threw in the towel. Gave up trying to write and got a job in a care home. Months later, dawned on her that all the dying people had the same five regrets. So she blogged about them and some publisher called her with an offer. So now she’s a writer after all.

Know what she said the top regret of the dying is? They wish they’d had the courage to live a life that was true to themselves instead of doing what other people thought they should do, told them to do.

Boy that hits me hard. I think about that a lot. All those years of family telling me I’m irresponsible. Sending me job listings. And here’s me. Tapping away at my keyboard all these years later.

It’s not easy. There’s no map. And success is often short lived. Because then the worry begins. That you’ll never create anything that good again.

Liz Gilbert told that story in a TED talk. Said after Eat, Pray, Love went bestseller she was terrified to write again. Because what if that was it? What if that was her moment, and it never ever got that good again.

I’m no great success story. I’m not a household name like Stephen King or Margaret Atwood. Maybe one day I will be. Or maybe I never will.

Some months I earn more writing whatever I want. Other months I earn more writing copy for clients. But all these years later, I’m still here. I’m still writing every day. Still rowing my little boat to the moon.

And I just want to tell you. Hang in there. You got this.

“Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.” — Edgar Allan Poe

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