#so demure of me but not very demure of the job market to have almost 0 offers for people like me... its gonna be fun

[springsteens]

guess who officially has 2 master degrees and has finished the university journey forever and just applied my cv to a few places 🙃

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Glass Swords

Summary:  Tovar knew he had bad luck–it came with the curse the witch gave him on his thirteenth birthday. Trapped in a contract by a band of bloodthirsty noblemen who use Tovar for his skill with a sword, he has all but resigned himself to a life of servitude. But then a job shoves him into the path of a princess who almost makes him smile. (Cinderella!AU)

Pairing: Pero Tovar/F!Reader

Warnings: None really. I make an allusion to the events of the movie but you don’t have to have seen it to understand this. 

Word Count: 4.8k

(Banner by my darling @starlight-starwrites​)

Or you can read on Ao3!

Once upon a time, there was a boy who seemed to have remarkably good luck. He was born to a wealthy, aristocratic family, and being the firstborn and a son guaranteed him a title of his own. His horse always came first in races, his opponents were always making simple mistakes in duels. He always had the keen eye to find a forgotten bit of coin on the ground. His first shot always hit its make when he was hunting.

Yes, Pero Tovar was lucky.

Until his luck soured at the hands of a woods witch.

On his thirteenth birthday, on a hunt with his band of friends and loyal servants, he darted into the forest to call for the hunting dog that had gone after gods-knows-what instead of the fowl they’d been hoping for when they set out. Again and again he called for the hound with no luck.

“Your dog has ruined my garden,” came a sudden voice behind him.

Pero turned to see a woman, old and shrouded in tattered grey robes, emerging from the forest shadows. An answering howl soon followed and a muddied hound bounded up to him, remnants of flowers and trampled vegetables hanging from his panting mouth.

And Pero laughed. What else was he supposed to do?

“For too long I have been held at the whim of your family. They have forgotten the treaty they signed when they came here, building your castle on my land and promising that you would provide. That you would never forget. But you have. And then you laugh when my little source of happiness was trampled by a hound.” Words tumbled from her chapped lips in a language he did not recognize and soon felt as if a bucket of icy river water had been dropped over his head.

“What did you do?” He hissed, feeling himself shake like a scared deer.

“I have made sure the world treats you as it treats me.” Her weathered mouth stretched into a smile he could see beneath the cowl. “But I am not cruel. I only want you to learn a lesson. But your lot seem stubborn so I would not be surprised if it took you the rest of your life.” She stepped forward and pulled a blade from the folds of her robes and Pero took an instinctive step back.

Almost instantly, his heel caught on a root and he tumbled to the moss-covered ground, pain zig-zagging up his spine as he landed.

The witch only laughed and continued forward. She twisted the blade in her hand and she held it out to him. And it was not as if he could say no. Not now. The short sword was clear—like glass. As soon as his hand wrapped around the handle, he felt the cold stone form to his grip, imprinting itself to his touch.

“When you’ve pierced the heart of a princess with your glass sword, then and only then will the curse lift.”

“A-a-a princess?” Pero parroted, feeling his stomach drop.

But the witch was gone and all he had was the glass sword.

His bad luck made itself known when he collided with his sister as they both rounded corners and she tumbled down the stone stairs of their home. Sancha was fine, thankfully but Pero would never forget how the blood pooled around her head or the scream she let out as she fell.

That was his fault. He knew it would only get worse as time progressed. He would not endanger his family. And so, Pero left a short note for his mother and father, telling them that he would return once he’d earned his honor on his own. The note he left for his sister told the truth, apologize for her injuring asking for her forgiveness even though he knew he already had it. Sancha was too pure of heart to ever hold any anger.

He set out. At first, trying to find another witch to counteract the curse. Then, to healers who promised anything and everything for the right price. And then, little by little, his hope faded. For a moment, he did consider driving the short blade through the heart of a princess—any princess—to just be rid of the curse. So he could see his family again. So he could live without worrying about bridges, loose bricks, or roots—or the millions of other things that the witch had made unlucky.

But he couldn’t. And in desperation to stay fed, he took up work as a mercenary. Another unlucky decision. It had led him to far flung lands that would have been an adventure to rival any explorer—he had fought creatures from another world!—but he did not enjoy any of it (aside from a few fleeting moments). And he could kill people who were trying to kill him all the time. Pero was good at it, he found. But it did not necessarily give him much opportunity to even know any princesses or be able to pick them out of a crowd so he could…stab them.

His bad luck continued.

When he failed to return to his employers, a group of nefarious noblemen from some country he didn’t care to remember, with the Black Powder they had requested, there were consequences. And now he was stuck in a contract, unable to leave his ‘employment’ because a bottle of ink had spilled across the contract and blotted out a very telling bit of information. He could not leave unless they were all dead. And if he broke that contract, his life would be forfeit.

He never would have signed—obviously—if he had been able to read that line.

But it was done. He was trapped. His bad luck mostly did not endanger his life—and he was sure the witch made sure of that. It would be no fun if it killed him and he was able to rest in death. The closest he had come to death because of his luck was when an ornamental sword fell from its hold on the wall and nearly took his eye.

One of the noblemen who benefitted from his terrible contract said the scar made him look fearsome. But he said it with a curdled milk smirk that rolled Pero’s stomach. It wasn’t a compliment, he knew.

And now he was called in by his ‘employers’ to settle another job. He vaguely listened—something about needing the little kingdom’s valuable port for some trivial reason and the easiest way to acquire the port was for Pero to kill at least the king and his eldest son so the second-born son could become king. Apparently, the noblemen who were employing him had an agreement with the power hungry prince. Pero was sure there were more details but he did not care to commit them to memory. He knew how to kill and his timeline.

That was all that really mattered.

But first, he needed to scout through the dense forest surrounding the castle to find a way in.

He weaved between trees as he started toward the castle. The outer perimeter walls had been easily climbed without drawing attention and while the surrounding grounds were vast, they were not heavily patrolled. As he continued to close the distance to the dark stone of the castle, Pero started to believe that this might the easiest job his contract had ever permitted him. The one solace he had was still being able to learn languages easily so he was able to learn of this mostly-unattended part of the perimeter wall by listening at the nearest market.

The sound of a horse’s hooves on the drying leaves drew his attention, his head whipping to the side, to one of the few bits of sunlight that slipped through the thick trees overhead.

It was a woman—one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, if he was being truthful—sitting atop a horse. She was smiling up at the birds as they sang in the branches. She was dressed in a simple smock and her horse was unsaddled. She was probably a maid from the castle.

But that did not detract from how his throat tightened as he looked at her. She was, after all, beautiful. It was almost embarrassing how he didn’t even realize she had spotted him until it was too late.

“Hello, sir.” Her voice was kind on his ears and he was instantly wondering if she would speak again.

“Hello, my lady.”

“Are you lost? It is not often I see strangers in the kingswood.” She nudged her horse toward him, uncaring of the danger strangers often present. Or maybe she was unknowing. There was a certain sweetness to her that Pero knew could not be feigned.

“I am hunting, my lady. I hope I did not disturb you.”

She shook her head. “I was not aware the king was having a hunting party today. I hope I did not scare away your prey.”

“No, my lady. I have just lost the rest of our party. Do you work at the castle?”

“Yes.” Her smile seemed to be hiding something but Pero thought little of it, instead focusing on how the light made her eyes sparkle.

“Do they treat you well? I am sure I could put in a good word for you,” he said, knowing his roguish smile was starting to cut across his face. He might have the worst luck but he still knew how to make a pretty woman smile.

And it worked because she demurely averted her eyes before biting her lip for a moment. “They treat me much better than they should,” she said with a shake of her head. “But I thank you for the offer.” She cleared her throat before looking at him again. “I can fetch you a bit of water or ale from the kitchens, if you would like? You must be parched.”

“No, no, my lady. But you are kind to offer.”

The sound of someone calling out in the distance had her turning her head with a frown. “I’ve lost track of the hour. I must go.”

And then her dark horse was setting off, galloping between the black-barked trees, and disappearing from sight before he could even ask for her name.

Pero did not find a way into the castle that day. He could have, but he didn’t. His employers allowed him another day of scouting in the woods and he happily took advantage of it and hoped his curse would subside just for a day, or even a few hours, so he might happen upon the maid again.

And his silent plea was heard as he found her at the base of a large tree, a well-worn book settled on her lap.

“Hello again,” she said as she spotted him.

“Hello, my lady.”

She patted the bit of grass beside her and Pero wavered for a moment before taking the offered seat. “Hunting again today?”

“No. I must confess that I was hoping to see you.”

Her answering giggle had something squeezing in the deep recesses of his chest. “Well, you have found me.” She closed the book carefully and turned to face him a little more. “What is your name? I have tried to guess it but I do not think any name I might have conjured would suit you.”

He could have told her his true name. It was not as if she would be able to stop him in his quest. But he knew to never think he could outsmart his curse. “I am Tovar.” And then he quickly added his title that he had not used in decades: “Marquess Tovar.” As if that would somehow make his lie about hunting with the royals more believable.

She gave him her name in return and then started to gently, simply pull him into conversation about anything and everything—from the animals he was unfamiliar with in the forest, to learning how the she grew up inside the castle and still got lost in its twisting, turning halls and rooms.

He knew he should be committing the hints she was giving to him about the castle’s layout to memory but didn’t want to. He only want to continue to hear her speak. She would ask him questions too, about how he was finding her homeland and if he still “did not require a bit of drink to slake his thirst from the kitchens.”

She was…sunlight. And such a sharp contrast to the darkness of the kingdom she resided in with its masses of dark stone, fog, and black wood trees. She did not deserve such darkness. Sunlight. She should have been bathed in sunlight, in warmth, in all things light and lovely. Not here. Not in the dark and cold. Even if it was her home—even if she called it home with a tilt of her beautiful lips.

“Tell me, Tovar. Are you coming to the Masque tomorrow night? I would like to see you again.”

“There is a Masque tomorrow?”

She nodded with another smile and stood, brushing the moss and dirt from her little dress and apron. “The King is celebrating his birthday and his daughter has finally returned from her time abroad.”

“A princess?”

She laughed and held out a hand toward him, helping him to his feet. “Yes. I thought the king would have told you about her when you were hunting.”

“I’ve only heard of his sons,” he said, not entirely lying.

“Either way, will you come to the Masque tomorrow?” She looked so hopeful, so happy. He could not tell her no. And it was with a soft kiss to his cheek that she bid him goodbye and he was left in the dark of the forest, watching her disappear again.

A Royal Masque. And a princess. Perhaps his luck was turning on its own.

This would provide the perfect opportunity for him—kill the princess and be able to dance with the woman whose lips pleasantly burned his skin.

**

It had been easy to procure an invitation to the Masque. It had been harder to find an outfit that would not gain him unwanted attention. The shops were nearly all too busy or too empty but he did eventually find a decent enough ensemble and matching mask without emptying his coffers too much. His employers had been pleased to know he had found a way into the castle without too much fanfare and seemed to approve of his plan to carry out their plot at the masque. (And if another royal died that night, who would think that it was not part of a larger plan instead of a desperate man trying to break a curse?)

Pero handed over his invitation to the major-domo standing in front of the black and gold doors and was finally ushered inside—even after a few of the knights eyed the short sword sheathed at his hip. The halls were filled with more shining dark stone and gilded suits of armor from centuries past. Paintings and tapestries were hung along the walls, depicting the kingdom’s fabled rise to power. Blooms of white flowers were littered about, a sharp contrast to the darkness that seemed to permeate each corner of this little kingdom.

No couples had already to the floor to dance yet but he did spot a few practicing an almost-familiar set of measured steps away from onlookers. The raised dais filled with a few ornately carved chairs—thrones, he supposed—was empty. His targets were not here yet.

But perhaps she was.

He scanned the crowd but did not spot her—even with everyone wearing masks, he was sure he would recognize her from leagues away.

Music suddenly blared, announcing the arrival of someone important. He turned with the rest of the crowd and listened as the royals were announced. There was the youngest son, the next, and then the eldest. The king was escorted by his daughter, but the answering applause and cheer drowned out her name and Pero could only crane his neck too much to try and get a look before he started to look suspicious.

The first official song was called and the heir apparent took the dance with his betrothed before other couples were allowed to join them on the gleaming wooden floor.

Pero continued to scan the crowd, briefly touching the small vials he’d hidden within his doublet, and found the servant in charge of bringing goblets of wine to the king without much trouble.

It was easy.

But then a woman dressed in fine clothes of the kingdom’s sigil was striding toward him, uncaring of the masses of people bowing and curtseying in her wake and she only slowed to a stop when she was right in front of him. This must be the princess. A mask of gold covered most of her features but her eyes sparkled in such a way that Pero could have sworn he had seen them before. They were alight with recognition and mischief.

“Dance with me,” she whispered.

“Your highness, I-”

The princess tilted her mask up and…

And that was when he realized, the girl from the forest and the princess…were the same person.

His fleeting moment of happiness had actually been another stroke of bad luck. How cruel.

She looked just as beautiful in her finery and jewels as she did in the smock she had donned in the forest. Her grip was gentle as she carefully started to lead him in the dance and didn’t laugh when he stumbled over her gilded shoes. Eventually, thankfully, he righted himself and was able to properly dance with her, letting the music guide his steps with her gentle corrections whenever he missed one or two.

“You’re a princess,” he said, hating the moment they left his lips.

“I am. Very astute of you, Tovar.” She laughed and stepped back from him as the song ended with a flourish and clapped for the minstrels. But then she turned back to him “Come with me,” she murmured, just low enough for him to hear. The princess didn’t wait for his answer and grasped his hands, quickly leading him through the crowd, some of whom tried to stop them, asking for his name, for a moment of the princess’ time, on and on it went. But she did not falter. Her grip did not loosen.

Not until they were out of the humid air of the ballroom and in the beautiful, cooled night air did she finally stop. Her smile was still wide and his face hurt as he felt himself trying to, unconsciously, mirror her expression. His face was not used to the movement. “What are you up to, princess?”

“I have something to show you.” She squeezed his hands once. “Do you have somewhere else you’d rather be? I don’t mean to steal you away if you have someone else waiting for you.”

Pero shook his head. “No. No, princess. I am happy to know you want my time as much as I desire yours.”

She bit her lip with a soft giggle. “Well, I do hope you like it.” She stepped back to link her arm through his, and continued to guide him down the shining palace steps and into the lush, green gardens. It was as easy for her to pull little bits of information from him as she tossed her golden mask into a bush without a care.

“Tell me of your homeland.”

“It is beautiful, your highness. Filled with sunlight and…” he drifted off, finally allowing himself to think of his home and family for the first time in years. “I miss it very much.”

She was quiet as he thought and did not seem to mind as he came back to himself—a familiar, gentle smile on her lips as she looked at him. “You do not strike me as a man who would leave someone or someplace you love so fiercely without cause. What pushed you to do so, if I may be so bold?”

“Bad luck,” he answered simply. “But tell me, why were you in the forest? Not once, but twice and without an escort or lady’s maid.”

Her face twisted into a pout for a moment. “I must admit that I do not care for every bit of royal life. It can all be so…tedious.”

“So, you snuck away?”

She nodded. “Donned my maid’s dress and took my horse from the stables while the hand was busy tending to my brother’s mare. It took hours for them to even notice I’d missed luncheon.”

“Did you not just return from abroad? I would have assumed that they would scarcely let you out of their sights.”

She shook her head with a laugh as they slowed to a stop in front of rusted gate she opened and waved him through. A secret garden greeted them, filled with all the color that the rest of the kingdom seemed to lack. Even in the moonlight, he could see the vibrant yellow, pink, red, and orange hues of the flowers that were growing haphazardly and unkempt by practiced hands. It reminded him, achingly, of the gardens his mother and Sancha would tend to on their own at home. They had always liked the free-roaming blooms over the careful structure of the manicured grounds.

“They like having me close, true. But underfoot is nothing but annoyance for everyone involved.”

“What is this place?” He asked, letting her pull him onto a simply carved bench in the center of the garden.

She turned to him with another smile—she seemed so fond of smiling. “This was my mother’s secret place. Free from the confines of my father’s kingdom and his advisor’s disapproving eyes. She would bring me here when I was little and teach me the names of all the flowers and how to care for them.”

It did not take long for Tovar to recognize the hurt in her tone.

He wondered if she heard it in his voice when he spoke of home. Of his beautiful family in Spain. Perhaps that was why he rarely spoke of them. But he wanted to tell her. Wanted to tell her everything. So, he tried. He told her of the gardens his mother grew and refused to let their servants touch. Told her of how the fields around his home smelled sweet in the spring. Told her of all the colors he had seen on his adventures—even if he had to omit some bits of information to not reveal his true profession. And she listened keenly, asking questions and always seeming to think whatever he had said was interesting. In turn, she told him of her brief time in her mother’s ancestral kingdom, learning all she could and feeling torn when she knew she had to return to her home kingdom.

He was hardly aware of time passing, or how close they had grown on the bench until he heard a crier announcing the time—it was nearing midnight. He turned at the sudden noise and his hand slid across the bench—and quickly earned himself a handful of thorns to the webbing between his fingers. He hissed but hurriedly stopped himself as her gentle, soft hands cradled his and started to remove the thorns one by one. “Bad luck indeed,” she said, teasing. “I had trimmed those blooms back.”

Bad luck.

Bad luck.

Bad luck.

The sword at his hip grew heavier.

He could do it. He could run the blade through her chest and pierce her heart and be done with this wretched curse. But her eyes were shining in the moonlight and she smiled at him and he…couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Seeming to sense his distress, her smile faded. “Tovar? What ails you?” She reached out toward him and the moment her soft hand touched his cheek…he fled.

Decades of running toward dangers left him in an instant and he ran like a coward. Out of the garden, through the crowded ballroom where people shouted for him to stop, and out into the courtyard.

He fled. He ran until his legs gave out.

And it was only then that he noticed his sword was missing.

**

Hiding in the woods was not the most comfortable of living quarters but it was not the worst he had used since he had run from home.

He would not face his employers’ wrath. Another job left unfinished would cost him his head, he knew it. To survive, he hunted and forged, only moving into the outskirts of the market when he truly needed to buy something—like healing herbs for when he cut open his arm on a low hanging branch, or new boots after his toe caught on a sharp stone and tore the sole clean off.

Perhaps it was his need to survive and not be noticed, but it took Pero weeks to realize that the kingdom was in a tizzy.

The King had nearly been murdered as the masque and his second son was implicated in the plot. A band of foreign nobles had been arrested and their heads now sat on spikes outside the castle.

But that was not all.

Apparently, the princess had been scouring the kingdom looking for the man she had danced with at the masque—who had left behind a very peculiar short sword; its handle seeming to fit only one man’s hand.

It felt silly to let himself hope.

Could he? Should he let her find him? The curse still loomed. He would not subject her to the danger that seemed to follow him. He could not-

“There you are.”

Apparently he had been ruminating too long and had not noticed the small band of people approaching him at the edge of the market. The princess—and he was loathed to admit that he had momentarily let himself refer to her as His Princess—was standing in front of him with her familiar, beautiful smile on her lips and his sword in her hand. She turned it over, holding the hilt toward him as he hastily bowed.

“This is yours, yes?”

He nodded and reached out for it, feeling the familiar hand fit into his hand like it had for decades. But soon a gentle warmth bloomed up his hand until he could feel it burrowing in his chest. Something had changed.

**

When the king learned of Tovar’s true identity, he was able to grant his daughter’s wish of allowing their betrothal. A son of duke of a wealthy kingdom was a worthy match—and the king liked to make his daughter smile, too, even if it was at the side of a foreign duke who came into palace looking slovenly.

But Pero was still nervous. Even if he no longer tripped on stairs, bricks did not fall and nearly crush his skull, animals did not dart in front of his feet. He wanted to be sure—after all, he had not delivered a heart to the woods witch.

But, on the eve of their wedding, as Pero paced in his ornate and comfortable bedchamber, a sudden blast of cold air had him turning. In front of him stood a familiar woman. Her robes were still tattered but she was…glowing. Near ethereal. The woods witch had come again.

“I could feel your worries from leagues away, little duke.” Her smile was all teeth and he knew to keep quiet. “While I would have preferred the actual heart of that beautiful princess, the curse has been lifted. That little glass sword led her heart to you. You are free. I promise you that.”

“I am sorry,” Pero said, feeling the words rush out as he looked at her. “I am so sorry, my lady.”

“I know,” she hummed before she glanced around the room. “She will like Spain more, little duke. I promise you that.”

Before Pero could ask for specifics, the witch was gone in another gust of cold wind.

**

Pero watched his wife’s smile grow broader and broader as their carriage drew closer to his castle.

The sun was shining. The air was sweet with the scent of springtime flowers and green grasses. It was filled with the colors he had promised her that night in the garden.

His family greeted them warmly and his sweet mother and sister cried in joy at finally having him back home while his father did look quiet near tears, too. Pero just watched it all with a smile on his face, so large and persistent it hurt his face.

“It is beautiful here,” she whispered to him that night in their bedchamber. “But, of course, I would expect nothing more from the land who gave me you.”

Pero kissed her, smiling against her mouth.

His glass sword was forgotten on their bedside table.

He had all he needed, all the good luck in the world, right here in his arms.

And they lived happily ever after.

The end.

A/N: please let me know what you think! 

[thevioletjones]

Congrats on the kudos, u deserve it! I did not undestand if I'm supposed to choose one of the lines for the prompt or if I have to combine two or more lines lol. But if it is to choose only one: number 5. If more than one: 5 and 45. *---*

Thank you! I used both. Great inspiration, actually. It spun out of control! 😀

Prompt 2: “How much of that did you hear?” + “Why are you helping me?”

Interloper

“Jesus, Iggy, I’m gonna fuckin’ murder you myself one of these days,” Mickey threatened in exasperation.

They were both leaning over, hands on knees, gasping for air, just having run full-speed for at least twelve blocks. The pillars beneath the L tracks were now providing the mild seclusion they needed to wait out a cursory police search of the area.

“Ain’t my fault!” Iggy exclaimed defensively.

Mickey’s face scrunched up to a degree that only his dumbest family members could make it reach. “Yes it fuckin’ was! Who else’s fault would it be?”

He’d always kind of wondered how he was the only one in his crap-ass family to be gifted with at least half a brain. Well, him and his younger sister, Mandy. She was alright. Skanky and crazy, but not a total idiot. He couldn’t say the same for his brothers, male cousins, father, uncle, etcetera. Mickey couldn’t even get his begrudgingly favorite brother to follow a simple goddamn plan that would’ve kept them out of trouble when they were out committing crimes. He was just gonna have to start doing everything himself. Safety in numbers didn’t apply when the other member of your team seemed to have been lobotomized when no one was paying attention. It was probably all the meth. Mickey was smart enough to stay away from that particular bullshit. Didn’t want to become a scabby, denture-wearing, toothpick skinny, low-life with no mind left to lose. He was content to stick to coke and weed like a normal person.

“That old bitch came outta nowhere! Self-defense!”

“It ain’t self-defense if you’re robbin’ the joint, numbnuts! We’re lucky you fuckin’ missed!”

If he had it his way, Mickey wouldn’t be doing these petty robberies anymore. He much preferred bigger jobs, like gun and drug running. But times were tough, and he had to do what he had to do. He’d even considered getting a legit job for once in his life, but the skills he possessed weren’t exactly easily adaptable to the straight and narrow path. Being a criminal was how he was raised, and all he knew. It brought heat, but it was still a comfortable fit. Living without the constant presence of major risk would probably feel so foreign as to drive him crazier than a meth addiction in the long run.

The job Mickey’d lined up involved hitting up a few different borderline upmarket stores that’d opened up in their neck of the woods since the gentrifiers had set upon The Yards, then selling the goods to a guy he knew in the online black market trade. Not as lucrative as heavy metal and funny powder, but a decent payday nonetheless. Except fuckface over here who had to ruin everything by getting trigger-happy on Main while they were attempting to heist merchandise from location number two of three. If the pigs nabbed either one of them, they’d be going down for at least five to ten. Years. Mickey was done donating years to the prison industrial complex. The most he could afford was months at best.

“When’d you turn into such a giant asshole?” asked Iggy. “Oh, nevermind, probly when you started gettin’ it railed on the reg.”

A giant smile stretched across his perpetually dirty face, causing Mickey’s eyebrows to lift dangerously high on his forehead. Occasionally, his dumber-than-rocks older brother managed to think up some admittedly clever asides. Mickey didn’t know whether to punch him or give him daps.

Before he could decide, however, he heard a distinct little snicker from the other side of the large concrete column they were leaning on, raising his hackles to invisibly join his eyebrows in their heightened incredulity.

Mickey hastily rounded the pillar and grabbed the giggler by the shirt collar, hauling him to their side and pinning him next to Iggy with his forearm. He looked into the guy’s eyes, and finally registered who it was. He kinda sorta knew him from around town. Used to hang out with his sister back in high school. He was a lot scrawnier then. This version of the dude could probably hold his own with Mickey in a fight. He’d built some definite muscle.

“How much of that did you hear, asshole?” Mickey demanded, seeing Iggy flash the gun in his waistband in his periphery.

This idiot didn’t look as rattled as he should be, though. He just shrugged his shoulders.

“Considering I was here first, I guess… all of it?”

He was wearing an annoying little smirk, his green-blue eyes shining bright, and his red hair distracting Mickey as much as the light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He had a stupidly ultra-defined chin, and Mickey immediately hated it. His chin hadn’t looked like that when he was a 15-year-old pipsqueak.

“Wipe that smile off your face, bitch,” ordered Mickey, pressing his arm harder against the guy’s pale throat. “You think this is fuckin’ funny? You know who we are?”

The guy shrugged again, like this was all a casual conversation on the corner. “Mickey.” He glanced at his dumb, blonde, curlicue brother. “And Iggy, right? I used to hang out with Mandy all the time. Have a good memory.”

“Yeah? Well I remember your goofy ass too, Gallagher. I know where you live and I know who your family is, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your big mouth shut or I’ll pick ‘em off one by one and save you for last. Got it?”

The dude snorted, and Mickey wondered if he was some kind of crazy tweaker with no sense of propriety or self-preservation.

“You outta your goddamn mind or somethin’?” Mickey added. “I ain’t jokin’.”

“Look, Gallaghers don’t snitch, alright?” He held his hands up placatingly. “I promise not to say shit to anyone. It’s none of my business, and I really don’t care. That good enough for you?”

Mickey loosened his hold, but sized him up all the while. “Maybe. But it’s possible you need a little lesson to remember it good. Wouldn't want you to forget about the consequences of you breakin’ your word.”

The dude winced and shoved Mickey off. “I don’t need a fucking beatdown, Mickey. I get it.”

“Ohhhh,” Mickey singsonged derisively, meeting Iggy’s gaze. “He gets it.” He thumbed his eyebrow. “Guess I’m just s’posed to believe you, huh?”

“That would be ideal, yeah.”

Mickey had to give it to him; he almost cracked a smile. The kid had balls. Most people around their neighborhood cowered before a Milkovich like spring lambs. Still, he lived by a code, and letting some rando walk away unscathed when he had dirt on him just didn’t fit the rules.

He cocked his fist back to knock it into tall, pale, and red’s pearly white teeth, just as the stunted siren of a cop car rang out very close by. Their collective heads all snapped toward the sound, and after sharing a meaningful look between brothers, Iggy took off running once again, without a word.

Normally, Mickey would’ve followed hot on his heels, but some unknown force was keeping his useless feet stuck to the dirty ground, eyes watching as Gingerballs glanced around the column at the flashing lights, taking a very long look that wasn’t suspicious at all.

Before he could react outwardly, Mickey was pulled against a hard body, Gallagher’s warm breath sending a shiver down his spine as he whispered, “Be cool. I got you.”

Suddenly, big hands were caressing Mickey’s back, and despite a part of him not minding in the least, the rest of him stiffened considerably.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he rasped out, hearing the telltale slam of a car door, and attempting to pull away. But a strong grip held him close, spinning him around so that he was the one up against the concrete now.

“Saving your thug ass. I know this guy, okay? Just chill and follow my lead.”

Okay, what the hell was this surreal turn of events? Gallagher was bold as shit, cradling Mickey all gay like. Sure, Iggy had made a fag joke earlier, kicking off this whole… whatever it was, but still. This guy had no way of knowing it was based in reality. Did he?

And had Gallagher really been gay this whole time? How had Mickey never sniffed this scorching information out?

“What’s going on here, boys?”

The copper rounded the corner, genuinely swinging his nightstick like a cartoon character, and Mickey had to suppress a deep roll of his eyes.

“Milkovich?” Mr. CPD continued, extreme disbelief coloring his voice.

Mickey was abruptly reminded that he was currently stuck between a rock and a hard body, and nothing about their entanglement screamed anything other than gay, gay, super-fucking-gay. Not that Mickey hadn’t come to accept who he was and what he liked, but he didn’t go around spreading the truth all over town either. This could seriously damage his carefully crafted reputation.

“Tony!” Ian interjected, sparing him from having to invent some lame excuse, and the cop’s eyes snapped to him instead.

“Ian?” His tone was still dripping with astonishment.

“Yeah! What's up? How you been?”

Mickey shot him an ‘are you goddamn serious right now?’ look, and Ian just squeezed his hip in tacit reply.

“Uhhh… gooood? Care to explain whatever…” he waved his stick between them, “this is?”

Ian laughed and he figured the dude truly was a nutcase. Mickey was going to jail for sure.

“Um, well,” answered Ian, suddenly playing it very meek and demure, “Mickey and I were just… you know…”

“You and… Mickey?”

“Not fucking or anything! Just... hanging out?”

“Hanging out.”

“Yeah, you know how it is. I’m tryin’ to convince Mick here to come home with me, but he’s being squirrelly.” He shook his head and shrugged. “South Side guys.”

“What the fuck?” Mickey whispered harshly, completely taken aback.

Ian just squeezed him tightly again, which was not helping his whole brain scramble situation.

“Huh,” said Tony, a tone of acceptance seeping in. “Mickey Milkovich, eh? Wow.”

“Come on, Tony. I don’t have to tell you this is all a big secret, do I?” replied Ian.

“And blondie who ran away like there was a damn fire? Did he flee a threesome?”

Mickey frowned and fake-wretched, finally speaking up. “Fuck no, man. That was my dumbass brother. He don’t like cops.”

“Uh huh. And you and your brother didn’t happen to be getting into trouble about 15 minutes ago, did you?”

“No sir,” Mickey said with a mock salute.

Ian kicked at his foot in warning.

“He’s been with me since like 3 o’clock, Tone. Scout’s honor.”

Officer Tony eyed them both with a look of skepticism, but didn’t contradict Ian’s word. The CB sounded from the open window of the black and white, with some cop-speak crackling over the airwaves.

“Stay put,” said Tony, eyes lingering longer on Mickey’s than Ian’s. “Both of you.”

He retreated to answer the radio call, and Mickey let out a deep whoosh of air.

“Goddamn, Gallagher. You’re spinnin’ quite a yarn here.”

“Yep,” Ian agreed. “A big gay yarn.”

“How the fuck did you know—”

“That you’re gay? Well, I heard Iggy make that joke, obviously. Pretty specific bottom joke to make if you weren’t actually into it. Plus, I always had my suspicions.”

Mickey scoffed. “Yeah fuckin’ right!”

“I did!”

“Whatever. Why are you helping me?”

“Out of the kindness of my heart?”

“Try again.”

“I don’t know. Why not? Makes us even or something. Now you know I won’t rat you out. About any of it. I wouldn’t out someone like that, and I don’t give a shit about the illegal crap you’re wrapped up in. Tony Markovich is like turbo gay too. Used to bang my sister, I think, but he came out a couple years ago. He won’t let it slip about you. He’s not a total bastard just cuz he’s a cop, ya know?”

Mickey bit his lip in contemplation. Gallagher seemed pretty genuine. Still didn’t much make sense in his brain, but whatever.

“Fine. But you know what’s gonna happen if—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, kick my ass, kill my family, got it.”

“You’re a cocky little shit, ain’t you?”

Ian smirked again, and it was pretty sexy, actually. “Maybe.”

He had the gall to push against Mickey more fully, pressing the bottom halves of their bodies closer together.

Mickey gasped. “Gonna have to ask you again… what the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

“You wanna go out sometime?”

Mickey cackled in his face. “You’re off your fuckin’ rocker for sure.”

“Am not! I can tell you want me.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Cocky little shit doesn’t even begin to cover it, does it?”

“Come onnnn,” Ian prodded.

“Do I look like I date, Gallagher?”

“A date can be whatever we want it to be, Milkovich. I’m easy.”

“Yeah, I bet you are.”

“Okay,” Tony interrupted, coming back into view. “Get the hell outta here. You wanna bang, do it indoors somewhere, or I’ll have to arrest you for public indecency or worse. And Milkovich… if I find any evidence of what I’m sure you know I’m talking about, I’ll be paying your ass a visit real soon.”

Mickey let the eyeroll loose then, withholding a flip of his middle finger, and deadpanning instead, “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, officer.”

Tony sighed loudly. “Whatever.”

“Thanks, Tony!” Ian cried at his retreating back.

“You always kiss cop ass like that? Cuz that’s not the way to get into my pants, Red.”

Ian just grinned, finally pulling his body away as he looked around. “You gonna follow me home or what?”

Mickey wanted to tell him to go fuck himself and swagger away like a badass. But was he not a thirsty man being propositioned by a hot guy who just randomly saved his ass from a trip to the slammer?

He at least feigned protest, huffing and puffing as he kicked at the dirt. “Goddamn it, Gallagher, you drive a hard bargain.”

Ian’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, as Mickey added, “Lead the way, weirdo.”

[herenortherenearnorfar]

Final graduation ficlet (which got quite long). A-Qing lives (sort of) and channels ghosts while living out her fashionista dreams. Jiang Cheng is identifiable due to his clothing choices. Light violence and zombies. 

The best thing about living in Koi Tower is the clothing. Silk that runs like water between her hands, brocade heavy with embroidery, jewelry that chimes and sings as she moves. She doesn’t feel heat or cold, can’t sense gentle changes in pressure or even most pain. There’s still enough perception in her fingers to map out the bamboo grove and song birds stitched on her favorite dress and feel the whorls of gold and inset jade on her new bracelet. 

After the first impolite insinuation about their friendship Jin Ling stopped buying her gifts more excessive than those he gave to the rest of his friends. Ouyang Zizhen, who can describe the grandeur of Lanling’s markets so clearly she can see the hawkers and jewel-bright fancies in her mind’s eye, has been thoroughly scolded by his father on her behalf so many times that they’ve regretfully halted their shopping trips. 

Wei Wuxian makes up for it. He doesn’t have money of his own, but his husband is rich and lets him do whatever he wants, and what he wants is to spoil A-Qing whenever he’s in town.

He calls her cousin (biao zhi mei, an affection which makes several martial relationships familial and she thinks retroactively enforces at least two adoptions) and takes her places the boys are too scared to go. Good company though they usually are, they’re rich kids to the core. The streets A-Qing grew up on, back alleys and muddy side streets, are too lowly for little princes. They aren’t like Wei-qianbei, who can banter with street walkers and haggle with counterfeiters. His company is a welcome escape from the pompous brats in Koi Tower. Together with Wen Ning they walk the streets, wearing high collars and low hats for disguise. They sniff about the food vendors until oil and salt fill A-Qing’s throat and coat the remnants of her tongue. Wei Wuxian buys her trinkets, little squares of silk and jangling bracelets of gilt and enamel, louder and more delightful than the demure ostentation of the Jin. When she was young and dreamed of being rich she wanted bracelets up to her elbows, not “restraint” or “taste”.

At the end of every outing Wei Wuxian hands her a little parcel. “From your shushu by the water” he says, as if she has any idea who that is. They’re nice gifts through. Scarves and robes in fine cotton and brocade. There’s stitched florals and ribbons. She makes Jin Ling describe them to her and he reluctantly tells her about violet and turquoise geometric patterns, waxed pale into fabric. There’s one overrobe she especially likes— dark blue, Jin Ling says, with a cracking pattern like mud under the sun, like lightning, like the death lines on her own skin. She can feel the stares on her when she wears it.

The old men certainly stare when she slams open the door and begins tapping her way into the conference room, though she can’t tell whether it’s the crackling midnight robe, the green jade pins in her hair, or the fact that she’s here at all that has them so startled. That’ll teach them to try to distract her with poetry and fancies. As soon as the fine cultivator ladies, who normally scorn Koi Tower’s corpse, swept her away, she knew something was wrong. 

It’s bold of them to try to ambush Jin Ling in his own home. They’re going to regret it. 

“Xiao-guniang,” Jin Ling says, sounding relieved. A servant takes her arm and guides her over to the table, and A-Qing doesn’t snap at them. She’s learned to pick her battles. “I was just about to send for you. These kind elders have quite the suggestion for me and I wanted your input on it.”

“Is this really the place for a young... lady?” come the protestation. 

“My shibo thinks highly of her judgement.” Jin Ling says, leaving everyone to put together in their own heads who his shibo is.

That stirs up whispers. It always does. A Sect Leader, almost grown, consulting her? A corpse under the Yiling Patriarch’s protection, a barely civilized street rat. They might have given her Xiao Xingchen’s name (it still hurts to hear it spoken, still scrapes every time someone calls her Xiao Qing, though even Song-daozhang insists he would have wanted her to have it) and a backstory worthy of tears (’she survived Xue Yang!’ Ouyang Zizhen would cry, passionate and sweet, and Jingyi would add a story of her bravery so embroidered it was unrecognizable) but she’s still a parentless urchin. A girl. A dead thing. There are a dozen reasons she shouldn’t be here. 

Jin Ling has the full support of the Jiang and the Lan behind him though, and Nie-zongzhu always compliments her accessories. None of the other, weaker sects can do a thing about it. Politics is a lot like living on the street; the big people make the rules and everyone else puts up with it. The old coots make some noises about propriety, forcing chaperones and moderating the affection A-Qing and her friends can show each other in public, but they can’t get rid of her or mitigate her influence on their young ruler.

At best they can insinuate, and since Jin Ling started making eyes at the visiting cultivator from Dali those insinuations have had increasingly little weight.

What are their words? A-Qing signs, even though she knows perfectly well why they’re ganging up on Jin Ling in a side room. She won it out of Duanmu-zongzhu’s wife, who was sent to distract her. It’s amazing what people will say in the presence of a mute girl-- they think she’s deaf too and talk quite freely. You would think they’d be more careful, since she is, by their own accusation, a conniving abomination, but for all their fear they never quite take her seriously. 

“They had some suggestions about the salt trade.” Jin Ling is doing an admirable job of playing the mature diplomat. “Surely they can explain it better themselves.”

“We merely wished--” one of them starts stammering, and another one takes over. “We thought to inform Jin-zongzhu of the opportunity to centralize control of the salt market. The Jin, Qin, and Lan together hold most of the salt marshes, and Jin-zongzhu’s great-aunt ruling in Meishan mean he would be able to get the western brine wells to cooperate with a taxation pact. It would be very beneficial to both the sects and the merchants!”

“They want to put limits on who can buy and sell salt, and they’re willing to levy a tax to make it worth our while.” She can practically hear Jin Ling’s posture, arms crossed, defensive. “Xiao-guniang, I don’t suppose you have any thoughts on that?”

I’ve walked in salt villages, A-Qing replied, leaning her cane against the table so her hands can move furiously fast. It’s not a good life. Brine and heat. If they could only sell to a few merchants they would be underpaid. No choices.

(A maid helpfully murmurs a translation of her words to the rest of the room. Few people have bothered to learn the language she now uses, the one she pieced together with the help of her friends.)

Jin Ling hums. “That makes sense.”

“There’s no reason to hesitate on the behalf of some peasants,” a very bold voice complains. “Their state won’t be improved by empty sympathy.”

“They’re just boilers, of no concern to you Jin-zongzhu. We treat them well.”

Oh. Oh. 

She was going to hold back, for Jin Ling’s sake, but now she’s angry. Who of you is Hu Anshi? she demands, mouthing out the sounds of the name and punctuating it with the bracketed meaning (beard, safe, stone) over and over until it’s duly translated. 

Reluctantly, one of the many voices in front of her says, “I am, xiaojie.”

Even with her ever sharpening sense (honed by cultivation that she came into late and kicking) it’s hard to differentiate him from the rest of the horde of weakly pulsing qi before her. They all have ghosts attached to them, hovering resentment like a cloud about their heads. Rich men attract desperate hatred better than anyone else. But she thinks she can single out one fuzzy figure with a particularly heavy load of sins and a familiar tinged energy over his shoulder,

A-Qing takes up her bamboo cane and strikes it once on the ground. I talked to your ghosts, she signs with her free hand. They had a lot to say. 

That silences them. 

Jin Ling inhales sharply and moves closer to her side, hand grazing her sleeve in support. When she shakes her head he withdraws, leaving her alone on in the cool air of the Koi Tower, shivering in her fine cotton and silk. Shivering because she’s letting the change come over her, letting the whispering, angry ghosts attached to Hu Anshi’s back have their say. 

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when she took up this route of cultivation. Mediumship is... frowned upon by the sort of people who bear swords and seek immortality. The common people like it though and before she knew Xiao Xingchen, A-Qing made the acquaintance of a number of temple diviners and spirit writers. Some of them even offered her apprenticeships-- blind girls made for good optics. Spirit specialists willing to take on a pickpocket without the slightest inclination towards ghosts were unfortunately untrustworthy by definition. She never took them up on the offers. 

Then she died and, like many of the restless dead, needed a way to communicate. Lan Sizhui played her Inquiry a thousand times in those first weeks, to ask her if she was comfortable, to field questions from the other giggling Lans. Eventually A-Qing memorized the song and began to play it on her own, tapping it out with bamboo against earth and fingers against wood. The spirit language, limited in form and structure, was easy to pick up and didn’t need a tongue or eyes. 

When you played Inquiry, ghosts answered. A-Qing didn’t mention the questions at first, just did her clumsy best to give offerings to those whose names she learned, to give justice to those small inequalities her late night listening uncovered. 

Wei-qianbei, who had what he called a “vested interest” in her wellbeing, learned about it eventually. He was the one who found her in Caiyi town (hidden from Lan and Jin elders alike while some ridiculous politics happened) fighting off possession by the little girl who’d been murdered two doors down a year ago. He was the one who helped her curse the wrongdoer, soothe the restless soul, and settle back into her own cold skin. After that he taught her Inquiry, and how to use the meditations Xiao Xingchen had happily guided her through to solidify her presence and strengthen her energy output. If she was going to get possessed, he suggested, she should be purposeful about it.

He didn’t teach her how to use her corpse strength to drag evildoers into the light. It came naturally enough and only needed a few suggestions from Wen-qianbei and Song-daozhang. 

After that things had sort of... spiralled. By the time she went to join Jin Ling, then Jin-zongzhu, in Lanling a few months later, A-Qing had found herself an avatar of vengeance for any number of unquiet spirits. The living consulted her too, when there was bad luck or poltergeists, hauntings or incomplete burials. 

As it happened, the highest halls of cultivation have hungry ghosts in need of justice too. 

She lived in the north, in a village with no name. A-Qing says as icy incorporeal fingers close around her neck. They were poor and made money by selling salt, because one woman could bring up enough brine in a day to provide a whole family with salt for a year. And it paid. Until one day the merchants came to town with you at their head. 

You have to give Zu’er, the maid who’s translating, credit. Even though the hand language drops lots of in-between words by necessity and requires creative substitutions-- earth for salt, sky for day-- she always picks up on A-Qing’s meaning. And she doesn’t flinch as smoke, hot and roiling, begins to peel off A-Qing, which speaks to her nerve if nothing else.

A-Qing taps her staff again and begins drumming out the song of opening, of offering. 

Under your guidance they wouldn’t pay them enough to buy firewood from the inland where trees grew, or rice from the flood plains that weren’t salted beyond survival. Salt worth a fortune sold for scraps.

So they starved. Working, salt crusted, they hungered and hated you.

Footsteps echo on the cold marble floor.

“Bar the door,” Jin Ling says next to her, mild and spiteful. Whatever spirit he channels in clan politics, it’s a vicious one. “I think everyone should hear this.”

So a woman took salt on her back and went to sell it someplace else. And who did she meet on the road but the merchants? Do you remember what you did?

“She’s a witch and a liar,” someone, maybe even Hu Anshi claims. A-Qing is too deep in to care. The ghost, who came to her instantly when she played Inquiry this afternoon, looking for answers about this purported plot to head a monopoly, is particularly insistent and clever. She’s been following Hu Anshi for a long time, too weak to strike, too smart to get caught by protective charms and spirit dispelling talismans. 

Now she finally has a chance to speak, in a sense of the word.

There is a complication to channeling without a tongue or eyes. She can get around just fine in this body of hers but spirits are rather less experienced. Without Sizhui or another Lan expert most can’t make their wishes known. So A-Qing has to get creative. 

As much as she hates to admit it, she knows who she learned this mean showsmanship from. Three years with Xue Yang teaches you a lot about drama. 

Cane held out like a divining sword, she advances, letting the spirit half sunk in her flesh and a faint memory of the room’s layout guide her around the table towards the bundle of quaking men. Like cowards, they scatter before her, not even trying to fight back (just as well; she can’t be killed but a sword in the stomach doesn’t make anyone happy). The ghost over her shoulder knows which target she wants to pick and swings about as frightened bodies swirl around her. Hu Anshi might be able to dodge but he can’t hide, soon she has him cornered. 

His friends abandon him quickly, fleeing to the edges of the room as she advances. When her bamboo strikes his shaking legs, she gives in and lets the ghost have its way. 

The problem with possession is that you have very little control. Locked away in the cool dark of her own flesh, A-Qing can’t even see what’s happening. Jin Ling is there, though, with his Clarity Bell, so she’s comfortable sitting back. 

She gave the ghost pretty clear directions; no permanent damage, show how you died. At worst she’ll choke him for a bit before Jin Ling snaps her out of it. 

For the sake of her friend, A-Qing tries to be subtle about her skills. Jin Ling helped her form her sign language, stuck with her even in the earliest days when the other frightened juniors were suggesting they report her to the Chief Cultivator, sent her long letters that Lan Jingyi would sprint down from Gusu to read out loud to her. He brought her here, gave her pretty dresses, listened when she talked about hungry children and towns that cultivators never visit. Listened when she talked about frightened female ghosts, begging for their lives, and murdered servants who have never gotten justice. Even his dog has been kind to her, has guided her through gardens and chased away bullies while Jin Ling sat in stuffy rooms doing grownup work. In deference to his family and responsibilities she doesn’t swear even when people act like bastards, she doesn’t run, she doesn’t summon evil spirits indoors without cause. 

Sometimes she wonders how long their friendship (bound by oaths though it is) will last. In the three years they’ve known each other he’s gotten tall and deep-voiced, while she’s stayed the same. By the calendar she’s a decade older than him but she’ll never be fully grown. A-Qing is a creature of boundaries, not a girl and not a woman, not living and not dead. Not a destitute orphan anymore but not made for places like this. 

More accurately, places like this aren’t made for her. It’s a shame because they clearly need her badly. Who else will give the ghosts and forgotten people a voice? 

When the Clarity Bell finally shakes the ghost out of her body, she’s throttling a man with exquisite delicacy, holding his warm and moving throat like it’s the finest china ware. This is how she died, A-Qing thinks. You strangled her and left her body by the roadside. You took her salt and sold it and her family starved. 

There’s a heavy hand on her shoulder. “That’s quite enough, I think.” says Jiang-zongzhu, whose voice she bothers to remember.

A-Qing lets the man fall to the floor, gasping even though she barely choked him. 

“I told you all to stop talking about your salt plot,” Jiang-zongzhu is shouting above her. “Now you’ve tried to convince Jin-zongzhu alone to go along with your little price fixing scheme? Pathetic. I’ve heard enough of it. Get out. Don’t ever bring it up again.”

There’s a desperate skittering that A-Qing barely notices in the post-possession fog. She assumes the room clears. 

“We’ll send the accusations of foul play to the local authorities?” When faced with his uncle Jin Ling always phrases orders as questions. 

“A good idea,” Jiang-zongzhu agrees. “Send some cultivators too-- it’s outside of our wheelhouse but there’s bound to be some resentment built up if a merchant syndicate has been running wild through the marshes. Where did you say they were active, Xiao-guniang?”

He’s always polite to her. At first it was a disgusted sort of politeness, a politeness that suggested that she didn’t belong anywhere near his precious nephew. Over time it’s mellowed into frosty gentility and the occasional hand on her arm when she’s lost. 

Qing province? she shrugs. South Bo Sea coast.

Signing proper nouns is like playing charades. For qing she points to herself (the words are close enough in pronounciation) for bo she taps her staff. It must make sense though because Jiang-zongzhu doesn’t even wait for Jin Ling’s swift interpretation. “That’s closest to Laoling. Qin Cangye has had a lot on his plate lately. Best to send a letter and some of your men.”

“I guess I should go do that. And I have to reassure the sect leaders I’m not doing demonic cultivation again.” A-Qing frowns and Jin Ling hastily amends, “You did great though.”

“Great is pushing it,” Jiang-zongzhu snaps. “You’re getting a reputation.” 

Jin Ling, whose voice is already by the door, isn’t impressed. “They can get over themselves.”

Then it’s just her and Jiang-zongzhu in the room. One heartbeat, one steady warm core. A-Qing turns to go, only to be caught by the arm. 

“Thank you.” Jiang-zongzhu says slowly. “You’ve been a good friend to him.”

A-Qing remembers the courtyard with the lotus pond, where she and Jin Ling and Lan Jingyi swore to be siblings in the eyes of the gods. (Though they love their other friends, they were excluded for practical reasons. Sizhui is already related to all of them and needed no further binding. Zizhen is a little in love with everyone and Jin Ling claims it’s bad form to sleep with sworn siblings, so for them to keep their options open he had to be excepted.) It’s a secret oath; Jin Ling doesn’t need the political complication of open sworn brotherhood. It’s still binding. 

I try.

Jiang-zongzhu always smells like thunderstorms when he’s stressed. Right now all she can smell is the cloying Jin incense and a sweetness of lotuses. “Keep trying. And don’t be afraid to send for me again if you hear they’re ganging up on him.”

As he lets go of her her hand brushes his trailing sleeve. In an instant her fingers graze over silk brocade and fine patterned cotton. The texture is familiar and she instinctively grabs the fabric to feel the delicate embroidery and the stiff, thick woven cotton that still smells ever so slightly of wax. She can imagine the patterns inked on, maybe lotuses? Greenery? The colors are definitely shades of purple, blue and green. 

A-Qing smiles as Jiang-zongzhu pulls away and stalks out. 

The best thing about Koi Tower is the clothing, which sits against her skin and reminds her of the people who have taken her in. 

The second best thing is getting to terrorize entitled rich people.

[ego-driven-one-wing-angel]

1.6 DEMURE | Sephiroth

A/N: Here’s one of the chapters I promised! The next one will be out Sunday/Monday so keep an eye for it!

WARNING: THIS BOOK IS RATED 18+, READER DISCRETION ADVISED. THERE WILL BE SEXUALLY EXPLICIT SCENES, SWEARING, ADULT THEMES SUCH AS PAST ABUSE, ALCOHOL, AND AGAIN SEXUAL SCENES.

TAKE CAUTION.

Chapter one can be found here

1.6 - Chapter 6

Magic

“This is an occupation known as painting, which calls for imagination, and skill of hand, in order to discover things not seen, hiding themselves under the shadow of natural objects, and to fix them with the hand, presenting to plain sight what does not actually exist.” - Cennino Cennini

[TRACK: Non-Applicable]

Kalista’s paintbrush dropped onto the floor as Adras grabbed a few wine glasses 

It had only been a few hours since Kalista had taken her relaxing bath. Where the warm bubbles eased her sore muscles, the minty and herbal shampoos soaked into her hair, curls smelling much more like a garden and less like a sweaty brothel worker. Those very oils now moistened her skin, soft and delicate to the touch, and she felt brand new, almost. Her thighs still shivered at the thought of Sephiroth’s fingers running across them, and she wanted to wear her best lingerie the moment she got out in case he returned to finish the job.

But instead, Kalista picked up her brush off the wood floors, wiping it with her towel as she tried to keep her thoughts a smidge more pure since Adras watched with curious eyes. Knocking open a wine bottle Daring hid in the back of the cupboards for special occasions. A very old, and very dusty bottle that had writing no longer visible. No doubt expensive and delicious. 

That early afternoon, Kalista and Adras were prepared to spend it in Daring’s quiet lobby together. The honey smell had faded since Sephiroth had been wandering in its walls, but pretty soon, Daring would turn back the incense and diffusers on and let them feast on the paint. Filling it with its usual honey odor and vanilla perfume that left anyone a little dizzy from the fumes.

But for now, it was only the smoking guns of Poppy Circus who looted the bars. Adras, and Kalista, both uncertain on their contracts with men who left them rather unsatisfied, now drinking their problems away as the other girl’s occupied themselves in the markets in sector six. 

“One for me,” Adras poured the bottle until the final drop fell in the wine glass, setting it to her side as she slid the half-filled goblet towards Kalista, “and one for you. Sounds like you need something stronger, but I’m sure this will hold us out while you entertain yourself.”

Kalista cleaned her brush with a little paint thinner as she took a sip, tasting the bittersweet peach tart against her tongue. “Daring certainly hid this one for a reason.” Kalista coughed, shoving the glass far from her table easel and far from where her hands could reach for it again. It didn’t burn, but it felt like her tongue had dried up from the alcohol. 

“Tastes fine to me,” Adras said, taking a long sip from her cup before plucking one of Kalista’s tattered brushes from the table. 

Fine brown hairs, the brass covered in various colors of paint, the wood chipping off the handle clearly old from standard wear and tear. Kalista’s fingerprint was even caked in with red paint right at the base.

Adras was fond of watching Kalsta work her magic on the canvas. Not because of the obvious dedication to sit and draw for hours on end, or how one block of color could turn into a portrait of beauty and realism, she was far more impressed with Kalista’s dedication to looking in a mirror, changing her form to a completely different human being. 

They had all known Kalista as the one with eyes of amber and hair like a raven’s wing, curling near her ears and framing her delicate face. But when she painted, she became a new person. The selling point of Daring’s phrase we have a girl for all your fantasies. She could change, like magic, to whatever you wanted, to whoever you wanted.

Adras admired Kalista with hair reminiscent of sand, her lips now thin, eyes as slender as her button nose. No freckles, no moles, nothing but the natural rose of her cheeks and overly pale complexion. A different person indeed. Looking more like the standard girl-next-door.

Everyone wondered whether Kalista really showcased her true self in the Poppy Circus Outlet, but with the power to be as beautiful as you wanted, there was no mistake Kalista wasn’t actually Kalista. Those pillow lips and slender waist, her fingers delicate and smooth with small imperfect moles and freckles in just the right areas were too coincidental. Even her large eyes, like whiskey set in the sun, had been too perfect for a single woman to possess. Too dreamy. More like a drawing herself made from a male fantasy.

“You’re really making an image,” Adras said, taking another large sip of her drink. If Kalista didn’t finish her own glass, Adras would gladly finish the whole bottle herself. She once claimed she loved wine more than water, and it was still standing true three years later.

“I’m trying to make a blue light reflect on the face, but we don’t have any sort of blue light in these godforsaken walls. Do you think you could grab me some sort of blue paper the next time you leave for Wall Market? We can put it over one of the bulbs or something.” Kalista said, laughing to herself at the thought of causing some sort of fire simply for a painting, “I have to wait anyway, the first few layers need to dry before I can continue.

Adras nodded, but she was sure she was going to forget the request in a few hours. Just like the horrid customer she had to bear with the night before. His mannerisms alone caused her vagina to dry up like the wasteland, how his kisses were drunk and sloppy, stick fingers crawling on her breasts with long fingernails. She had small grazes where he dug a bit too deep. Nothing too dramatic, and something she hadn’t dealt with before, but if a customer ever comes to her and says I’m going to eat you out like you never have before followed by a distinct nom nom nom. She was done. She was packing her bags and heading west.

Kalista laughed for nearly twenty minutes when she heard the story, and Adras couldn’t help but chime in with her own heavy laughter as Kalista continued to tease her. Now Adras would never live it down, but hearing the other girls laugh at the craziest stories made the experience much more thrilling and fun.

“I’ll be sure to write it down for you.” Kalista reminded, “that and the millions of other things the girls will forget.”

“Like condoms?”

“Exactly. 

Kalista’s blond appearance washed away as she sat down at one of the bar stools, like water on a shore, fading into more natural hues of brown and gold before Daring’s voice echoed from the hallway, clearly speaking to someone before Adras stopped to take another drink, as did Kalista, still unnerved by the bitter taste rolling through her mouth.

“Never did like wine.” She said as she tried to ignore Daring’s voice. His usually boisterous and rambunctious tone was aggravating, especially after his new set rules about windows and doors needing to be locked. They’re going to break in, he’d say, despite those from Wutai unlikely to be found in a brothel in Midgar. He was just taking advantage of the fear brought on by war.

Typical.

“She’s in here,” Daring said, turning into the lobby as Adras finished off her glass, taking Kalista’s from her hand as Sephiroth walked in. 

Her stomach dropped, and she put a smile on her face despite still being a little pissed. She’s been thinking about his godly hands all day, and she was certain he wasn’t going to show unless she sent some sort of apologetic letter in the mail or an indecent photo of herself, both of which were even beneath her. 

Adras tried not to smile as she bit her lip, leaning in with a low whisper of “guess you really did hook him in, huh?”

[thetravelerwrites]

Verith’s First Halloween (Orc) NSFW

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Female Orc x Female Human Additional Tags: Exophilia, Orc, Orc Girlfriend, WLW, Halloween, Trick or Treating, Halloween Party Content Warnings: Pregnancy Mention, Corsets, Sex, Oral Sex, Tribbing, Strap-Ons Words: 4922

A special gift for @aelia-likes-monsters​ for being a wonderful friend, supporter, and bouncer of ideas for me and this blog. She’s the best and I hope this fic brightens her day! This is both a fic for Halloween and Orctober. An orc woman who has always lived in a closed orc community begins dating a human and starts participating in human customs. The first one is Halloween. *Note: "Samhain" is pronounced "Sow-in." Because Irish. Please leave feedback!

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“You’re not making your case very well,” Verith said as tucked the folded sheet down over the corner of the mattress. “I don’t understand this human holiday of yours, I never have.”

“Haven’t you ever celebrated it?” You asked her as you tucked the opposite corner down.

“No, of course not,” She said scornfully. “The gym is closed for human holidays and I stay in the community during most of them. Just watching about it on T.V. was mind-boggling.”

Verith was an orc and had lived in a closed orc stronghold community just outside of Willowridge for her entire life. The stronghold, called Willowshield, did a lot of things the old way, as in they made a lot of their own things themselves. You’d been there a few times with Verith to visit her family and was amazed by the weird mix of modern and medieval. They did have some modern things, like wifi and cell phones, but they had their own grocery, farmer’s market, butcher, home goods store, and even had a real blacksmith, cobbler, and glassblower. But they didn’t have a cafe or a crafts store or a gym, so many of the orcs took jobs in town to enjoy a few outside luxuries that Willowshield didn’t yet have.

Verith worked at the local gym as a personal trainer, and you were immediately attracted to her. However, knowing she lived in Willowshield made you feel hesitant to ask her out, fearing that perhaps she just wasn’t interested in humans. Even still, you took extra classes with her to the point where she suspected you were addicted to exercise, but in reality, you just wanted to spend as much time with her as possible, too chicken-shit to ask her out.

It wasn’t until she got annoyed with you following her like a wounded puppy that you were forced to admit your feelings for her. She was surprised, but open to the idea. It only took one date for you to fall in love with her, and she wasn’t far behind. In fact, it had been her idea to move in together.

You’d expected that she’d want you to live in Willowshield, as some non-orc mates had done, but she actually left the community and moved into your small apartment. She said she wanted to understand more about the human world, having been cut off from it most of her life. She’d lived with you for almost three months by this point, but she still struggled to understand human customs and cultures. The newest struggle was Halloween, which was just three days away.

“So people dress up, eat candy, get drunk, and act like assholes? That’s the premise you’re trying to get me to go along with?”

“Please, I’ve been to orc weddings,” You told her, throwing a decorative pillow at her. “I seem to remember a certain hot personal trainer who got drunk at her brother’s wedding and ended up wearing the ceremonial communal wine chalice on her head.”

“Hey, that is a well-respected tradition, I’ll have you know,” She protested.

“Sure, it is,” You said skeptically.

“Okay, well, explain it to me,” She said as she shook out the quilt. “It’s a holiday about being scared? That’s so unnatural to an orc. Orcs aren’t supposed to get scared; we see fear as weakness. Hell, we growl and make terrifying faces at our children when they’re infants to teach them not to fear anything that looks or sounds frightening. We certainly wouldn’t dedicate a holiday to being afraid.”

“That’s not exactly the point of it,” You told her. “See, it originated back with the celts. The Irish practiced Samhain, which literally means “summer’s end,” and they would have a three day revel to celebrate a successful harvest. It was all about the change of the season and prosperity.”

“So, what the hell happened? How did it turn into a glorification of fear?”

“Because Samhain was seen as the death of the year, as in winter, when things die. People are scared of death, so people began associating it with fear. They also saw it as the day when the veil between the living and the dead thinned and the dead walked the earth to haunt and terrorize the living. There was only two ways to prevent the dead from coming after you and playing tricks on you: one, you could leave gives of food or treats on your doorstep, or two, you disguised yourself as a ghost so they wouldn’t know you were part of the living.”

“I guess that makes sense. So why are there little kids running around dressed like Captain America and Disney princesses begging for sweets? Where did that come from?”

“Well, when the Christians tried to purge pagan holidays by appropriating them, they changed it to ‘All Soul’s Day,’ where children would go from door to door, singing songs or performing for the people inside, and would get small cakes, called souls, as a reward. That’s how trick or treating started. Although, nowadays, All Soul’s Day is observed on November 1st, and people just go to church.”

“How do you know all this?” She asked, flopping down on the newly-made bed, ruffling it a bit. “Do all humans know this?”

“No, no, I dated a witch in college. She was so obsessed with the history of Halloween that she often forgot to enjoy it. She saw it as a holy day and used it for remembrance and contemplation. I just wanted to hand out candy and wear cute costumes.”

She frowned and leaned against the headboard. You snuggled up against her very hard, muscled body and sighed.

“It’s fun, I swear. You get to watch scary movies, dress up, carve jack-o-lanterns, go to parties, give kids candy, go to haunted houses and ghost tours. Ooh! We should totally go to New Orleans one year. They’re ghost tours are second to none. Well, besides Georgia’s plantation ghost tours, I guess.”

“A lot of what you just said made no sense to me,” She grumbled, wrapping her arm around your shoulder.

You kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry. By the time Halloween rolls around, you’ll love it just as much as I do.”

“Promises, promises,” She said in a snarky voice.

The next afternoon, the two of you were at the store, trying to shop for a costume. Verith was being rather pessimistic.

“A lot of these are speciest, you realize that.”

“I’m not going to buy one of those, Vee,” You said, looking through the racks. “What about a slutty nurse?”

“But you are a nurse,” She protested. “Why not just wear your scrubs?”

“Because I don’t wear corsets to work, babe. Don’t you want to see me in a corset?” You asked her cheekily.

She snorted, but didn’t disagree.

“What about you? You need a costume, too.”

“Why?”

“Because, my love, it’s a costume party. That’s what one does.” You take two from the rack, examining them judiciously. “I’ll need two, actually.”

“Why?”

“For the trick or treaters! I’m not going to wear my sexy costume for a bunch of kids, that’s gross.” You held up a costume to her body, and she looked down at you quizzically. “No, that won’t fit,” You grumbled to myself.

“Honey, I highly doubt any of these will fit me,” She replied. “I’m 7’5” and built like a brick shithouse.”

“You need to stop listening to slang at the gym,” You said wryly. “Anyway, I think you may be right. We’ll just have to make something. Ooh! What if you wore your running clothes and we pin a number to your back and you go as a marathon runner.”

“But I am a marathon runner,” She growled.

“Fuckin’… I know that, babe… could you just… work with me here, okay? For fuck’s sake?” You groaned in exasperation, clutching her arms. She sighed and shook her head at you.

You ended up buying the sexy nurse costume for the party and a more demure scary Victorian ghost outfit for the trick or treaters. You figured you’d cobble something together for Verith when you got home.

The next day, you went out to a pumpkin patch to pick out a few so that the two of you could make some jack-o-lanterns.

“So what’s this all about?”

“What?”

“Carving faces into vegetables.”

“Oh, that,” You said, picking up a largish one. “It’s another tradition that originated in Ireland, but they didn’t use pumpkins, because they didn’t have pumpkins in Ireland back then.”

“So what did they use?”

“Turnips and gourds and things.”

“Wha…” Verith’s face pinched in confusion. “Ancient humans were so fucking weird.”

You chuckled. “You’re telling me a pregnant woman eating an entire raw horse’s liver in front of her entire extended family is supposed to be normal?”

“There is absolutely nothing weird about that. Pregnant women need the iron.”

You shook your head. “There are several versions of the story about jack-o-lanterns, mostly about warding of spirits and fairies, but a lot of them are about Stingy Jack.”

“Who?”

“Stingy Jack. He was a miserable old drunk who liked playing tricks on people. One day, he tricked the devil into climbing up an apple tree and then placed crosses around the trunk of the tree so that the devil couldn’t get down. Jack made the devil promise him not to take his soul when he died. The devil agreed, and Jack let him go.

“When Jack died, he went to Heaven and was told that because he was mean and cruel, and had led a miserable, worthless life on earth, he wasn’t allowed in, so he was sent to Hell. The devil kept his promise and wouldn’t allow him in, which meant Jack had nowhere to go and would have to wander Earth forever.

“Jack asked the devil how he could get out of Hell, as there was no light. The devil tossed him an ember and Jack hollowed out a turnip, which was the only thing he had with him and placed the ember in it to light his way. When the Irish immigrated to America, they discovered pumpkins were bigger and easier to hollow out than turnips, so they used them instead. Now it’s all anyone uses.”

“And we’re supposed to carve scary faces in these to ward off bad spirits?”

“Essentially.”

“I doubt spirits would find vegetables very scary.”

“And why is that?

She picked one up and put between her thighs, crushing it as if it were made of light cardboard. Pumpkin guts and juice ran down her bare legs and into her shoes.

You took a very deep breath and said, in as even a tone you could, “I see your point, but as hot as that was, and as much as I enjoyed it, we do have to pay for those.”

“Hmm,” Verith said, her lips pursed. “Can we buy some extra ones so I can crush them with my biceps at home?”

After a contemplative moment, you replied, “I think that would be… yes, please, let’s do that. But only if you do it shirtless.”

“Deal.”

That evening, you had a messy carving lesson that led to a pumpkin pie, toasted pumpkin seeds, a small fight of flung pumpkin guts, and kissing on the couch with a scary movie on T.V. and the snacks you’d made that night.

On Halloween afternoon, you had the genius idea of putting Verith in a slapdash scarecrow outfit to scare the trick or treaters. After she jumped up and roared at the first crop of kids and they ran off screaming, she laughed and admitted, “Okay, that was fun.”

She did it a few more times, but couldn’t bring herself to do it to the family with three small half-rabbit girls, hardly more than toddlers adorably dressed as the three little pigs, and she simply sat on the stoop with you, handing out candy to the kids. The father, a tall rabbit man dressed smartly in a white shirt and black slacks, handed us a treat bag full of cookies cleverly decorated like Day of the Dead sugar skulls before they left, their human mother winking as they walked away.

At about eight o’clock, when the trick or treaters began to dwindle, you left the candy bucket on the front step for anyone who came to help themselves, and they two of you went to get dressed for the party.

You ended up doing the marathon runner for Verith, insisting she wear the sports top with her midriff showing, and she huffed that she didn’t understand why she needed one at all as she laced you into the corset of the nurses outfit. You told her to stop griping and led her out of the house and down the street to the party at your friend’s place.

You were ashamed to know that there were “human only” parties going on in town, one of which your own sister was throwing, but the one you and Verith were going to was an open to all kinds party. Anyone who wanted to have a good time was welcome, regardless of tentacles, teeth, or temperament.

The party was huge, and you immediately sought out your best friend since highschool, Rachel, who owned the house with her girlfriend. She was also an orc, but she hadn’t lived in a community like Verith had; she had grown up on a cattle ranch that her family owned on the edge of town.

Her brother and all four of her sisters were at the party, too: dancing, drinking, and having the time of their lives with their various significant others. These orcs, at least, knew how to celebrate Halloween.

Rachel’s brother, Varik, was back in town visiting his family for the holidays, wearing a doctor’s coat. He had moved to the city a few years ago with his fiance and was the first orc in history to be accepted into an accredited medical university. You had worked with him in the hospital before; he was a really nice guy, and his fiance, Elena, who was currently dressed as a renaissance-era bar wench, was incredibly confident and capable, despite her disabilities. They were a really good fit for each other.

“Hey, you got Verith to come!” Rachel said as she came. “Awesome! Let’s turn this party into a huntcraic.”

“A what now?” You asked.

“It’s an ancient custom of throwing a week-long party after a particularly good hunting season,” Verith explained in an undertone. “We rarely have them anymore.”

“Girl, let’s show these tiny humans how orcs party,” Rachel said, grabbing Verith’s arm, who grabbed you in turn, and dragged her through the horde.

“Varik! Elena!” Rachel called, and the pair turned. “Look who’s here!”

“Hey!” Varik said, swooping down on you for a big hug. He was three sheets to the wind and in a great mood, and Elena looked at him with an exasperated smirk. After handing him off to Verith, you went to give her a hug.

“Hey, girl, good to see you,” You said.

“You, too,” She replied, squeezing your back with her forearms. “Got yourself an orc, too, huh? Aren’t they the best?”

“Definitely,” I replied, watching the three orcs talk to each other. Verith seemed to be more at ease since she arrived now that she was with familiar faces. “Is that his real doctor’s coat?”

She scoffed disgustedly. “He never takes it off. I swear, he’d wear it during sex if I let him.”

The two of you giggled.

“I haven’t met your girlfriend yet,” Elena said.

“Oh, that’s right. Verith!” You called, and her head came up. You beckoned her over. “This is Elena, Varik’s fiance. They’re getting married in the spring next year. Elena, this is Verith, my girlfriend. We’ve been dating for about half a year. She was my personal trainer.”

Elena held out her hand, covered by the long bell sleeve of her gown. Verith took Elena’s hand, and you saw a moment of confusion cross her face, but she said nothing and shook Elena’s hand gently.

“So, Varik likes the city?” You asked Elena.

“He does now, but it took some getting used to,” Elena replied. “He lived in the country for most of his life, so it was a bit of a culture shock for him. He eased into it after a while, and now it’s like he was born there.”

Verith’s face was thoughtful, but she didn’t say anything.

Another familiar face caught your eye: the librarian from your college, Holly, although she hadn’t worked there since last year. She’d also been in your creative writing elective several years ago. She was there in a ghost bride costume with another orc dressed like a mechanic you hadn’t met before. They were both looking a little anxious and out of place.

“Holly!” You called, excusing yourself from Elena and making your way toward Holly.

She looked up and saw you, relieved to see a face she recognized. She grabbed her orc by the arm and led hem over.

“Oh, hey, good to see you again,” Holly said, giving me a side hug.

“Yeah, you too. You sort of disappeared for a while, there,” You told her.

“Getting my life sorted out, is all,” She said, smiling. She gestured at her companion. “This is my boyfriend, Ravadhi.”

You shook his hand. “Haven’t seen you around.”

He shrugged. “I keep to myself, really. Or I did. Holly insists that we’re too isolated. That’s why we’re here, actually. She thinks we need to get out more.”

“I agree. It can help you get out of a rut, for sure.” You pointed at his outfit. “Nice costume.”

He laughed a little self-deprecatingly. “Actually, it’s my uniform from my last job. I just couldn’t find a costume that fit me.”

“Oh, yeah,” You laughed, pointing at Verith in her marathon outfit, who was laughing with Rachel, Varik, and Elena. “We had the same problem.”

“She’s community, right?” Ravadhi asked. “How did you get her to agree to celebrate Halloween? Communities turn their noses up at stuff like this.”

“Believe me, it was like pulling teeth,” You said. “How’s your sis?”

“She’s great,” Holly said brightly. “She’s going trick or treating for the first time in her life, and then spending the night with some friends. Now that she’s allowed to have friends.”

You smiled sadly. It was an open secret how Holly’s father treated her. You were glad that secret was out and over now.

“Well, good for her. And good for you guys, trying to get out more. It’s a chore getting Verith out anywhere besides the gym.”

“Talking about me, are you?” Verith said as she wrapped an arm around you, an open container of vodka in her hand.

“M-hm,” You said, pulling her down for a kiss. “Just talking about what a hermit you are.” You turned back to Holly and Ravadhi, who were grinning. “She loves to tell me the only reason to leave the house is for the gym and Chinese food.”

“And I stand by that,” Verith said, taking a swig from her bottle. Ravadhi nodded and chuckled and Holly shot him a dry look.

“Oh, my gosh!” Rachel called over the noise. “Tuck is about to tie a bottle rocket to one of his tusks, just to see what happens. I’m not going to miss this.” And she dashed outside.

Tuck was a troll married to Rachel’s sister, Keter. You didn’t know him well, but from what you did know, this was not out of character for him.

“That’s another Halloween tradition,” I said wryly as people began flooding out to the backyard. “People doing really stupid shit just for laughs.”

“Now that’s a tradition I can get behind,” Verith said, kneeling down so you could piggyback and carrying you through the crowd.

The party was as epic as you expected it to be, and you and Verith made your way home, only slightly tipsy, at around midnight.

When you got in the door, she grabbed you by your arms and held your back against her front, growling in your ear.

“Someone had a good time,” You smirked, reaching up to snake your arms around her neck.

“Despite myself, yeah,” She mumbled, kissing your neck. You bit your lip and moaned.

“So, did you enjoy your first Halloween?” You asked her as her hands traveled up the sides of your corset and over your breasts in the bodice.

“Don’t know,” She said seductively. “It’s not over yet.”

You turned and jumped up, wrapping your legs around her waist. She held you up and kissed you hard, kicking her way past every obstacle and taking you to the bedroom, where she laid you down on the bed.

You reached back to undo the laces, but she stopped you.

“No,” she said in a low growl. “Leave the corset on.” She bent down to take off your high heels, then kissed up your calves, using her tusks to split the pantyhose upward. You felt a shiver in your back as the cold, dry, sharp bone scraped up your legs. When she reached the apex of your thighs, she ripped off your hose with little effort and snapped your underwear off as well. The muscles of her arms barely twitched.

She flipped up your skirt while kissing your inner thighs and massaging the skin. Her tongue flicked out to press itself to your bud, and you moaned. She licked a long strip from bottom to top and teased you with her nose. You whimpered and wiggled, and she grabbed your hips to keep you still.

She put her whole mouth over your slit and sucked, gently at first but gaining intensity as she continued. You gasped and your legs shook, and you tangled your hair in the long mohawk style cut of her hair that she usually let fall over her left shoulder. She reached up and pulled the cups of the corset down and kneaded your breasts, pinching and rolling your nipples between her fingers.

One hand continued its massaging while the other came back down and stuck two fingers inside you, crooking them and rubbing that delicious place only she had ever been able to find.

You were almost crying over how good it felt. No one you’d ever been with was as good as Verith at finding all your sweet spots. She could have you cumming in less than two minutes, if she really wanted. But she was drawing it out, working up to the bigger event.

She pulled away from you and reared up, pulling off her pants and underwear and throwing one of your legs up across her torso, positioning herself so that her lower lips were touching your own. She began to rock against you slowly, sweetly.

You reached up under the sports top to grip her breasts and she moaned as the place where the two of you were joined got hotter and slicker. Looking down at it, it almost looked ask if they were kissing down there.

“Oh, fuck,” You moaned. “Faster, baby.”

She was more than happy to obey, grinding her clit into yours vigorously. You could feel the orgasm coming up hard and the wall of pleasure crashed into you that you nearly blacked out. He own pace slowed as she also came, shouting and grunting and biting your ankle gently.

As you were trying to catch your breath, she grabbed you and easily flipped you onto your stomach.

“Don’t you get cozy yet,” She said. “I’m not done with you.”

You grinned and looked up, watching her pull her favorite strap-on for your “special” drawer. She took off the rest of her clothes and climbed over you, kissing your shoulders and back, carefully scraping her tusks across your skin, enough to give you chills but not enough to harm.

She pulled your rear up forcefully and positioned herself against your entrance, and then leaned back down on her hands so that she could kiss your mouth as she entered you. You gasped and laughed. She’d chosen the big one.

Without warning, she sat back up and started ramming into you with enough force for it to hurt slightly, but god, it felt so good. You pressed your face into the pillows and screamed as she thrust hard and fast. You could hear the faint buzzing of the rabbit vibrator built into the strap on and knew she was ready to get hers, and all you could do at this point was ride her wave.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” you cried.

She grabbed your hair and yanked you up. “Couldn’t hear you, baby,” She said. “Does it feel good?”

“Fuck, yes,” you whimpered.

“You look so fucking sexy in that tiny little corset. I just want to rip it off with me teeth.”

“Fucking do it,” You snarled at her. You felt her bend over you and grip the corset in her teeth. You heard ripping, and the rather sturdy fabric of the corset was yanked away from your body as if it were made of paper.

You came. You came hard. You came screaming and swearing. You fell to the bed, and she pulled you back up by your hair. Her speed quickened even further until she finally came too, grunting and growling. She collapsed on top of you, and you collapsed back onto the bed, her body pushing you into the mattress.

But she still wasn’t done. With one hand she hooked an arm under your waist and used the other to cover your mouth, thrusting slowly, and then quickly, with the both of you laying flat against the bed. You cries were muffled against her palm, and her heavy breath blew across your shoulder. She bit down in the same place she always did, her mark, the one she’d left on you the first time you made love, and you came together, panting and growling and cursing. Finally, with the strap-on still planted firmly inside you, she became still and quiet.

You both lay there, gasping for breath. After a few moments, she got up and you felt the toy pull out of your body. You lay there on your stomach with your eyes closed and heard her busy herself with something, but you were so exhausted, you didn’t look to see what.

Not until she lifted you into her arms and took you to the bathroom, putting you in the giant tub she had insisted you install and got in after you, arranging you so that your back was against her stomach and your head was leaning against her chest.

“To answer your question,” She said as she stroked the midline of your abdomen up and down. “I had a great Halloween. Thanks to you.”

“See?” You said. “It’s really a fun holiday. I knew you’d like it once you warmed up to it a bit.”

“Yeah,” She said. “Going to the party helped, honestly. When I left Willowshield, I felt really isolated. There aren’t very many orcs in Willowridge, so I felt kind of alone. Seeing the other orcs not participating made me feel less… out of place.”

You turned to look at her with concern. “Is that what all this has been about? Honey, you should have told me that’s what’s been bugging you. What did we have that conversation about communication for if not for situations like this?”

“It’s different for orcs, babe,” She said. “Admitting you’re worried or nervous is the same as admitting that you’re scared, and to orcs, being scared is just about the worst thing you can be.”

“But I don’t think that way. It’s okay to be anxious about new things, Vee, that’s completely normal. Especially if you’ve always done things differently.” You straddled her lap and pulled her face down for a kiss. “Look, I get that you’re supposed to be this big, bad orc paragon to your people, but you don’t have to be that with me. If you’re worried or nervous about something, tell me and I’ll help you. That’s what I’m here for.”

She smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, I know. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Vee.” You took the loofah from the shelf and poured soap onto it. “Now hold still, you’re literally covered in glitter. Did Dinae hug you? She was dressed as the biggest, sparkliest unicorn I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Verith belly laughed, nearly dislodging you from her lap, and let you scrub her down.

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sleep deeply

part five of into fairy, with Meg and the temple.

(previous - part four) ----

The Towers were on the far side of the country from Cal’s holdings on the western river, and the dragon, eager to have its turn at ruling rather than overthrowing for a change, obligingly flew them to Sanin. Sanin was nestled between two tributaries of the eastern river, and after the day-long flight, they would only need a find a boat to take them a week downriver, to the town closest to the Towers.  

It was an easy trip, and Meg filled all their spare moments of it with research, listening to any long stories of the Peddler, fairy, and Arina Firedancer that Cal and the other passengers could tell her.  

“Do you think they know what we’re trying to do?” Meg asked one night on the boat. It was hot enough that they had opted to lay outside on sleeping rolls on the broad, flat deck, and Meg enjoyed the movement of the warm breeze.

Cal’s voice had a smile in it. “Of course,” he said. “If the oracles are talking, it’s only a matter of time before everyone begins looking for the Peddler.”

“Do they know this road will lead them into fairy?”

She felt Cal shrug in his roll beside her. “Most merely look for an excuse to travel far from home, and return a new person.”

“Guess we can’t blame them for that,” said Meg, and Cal laughed.

“I did run from my responsibilities after rumors of a disappearing lake and a maiden trapped there.”

“We don’t need to remember that,” Meg decided, making a face into the darkness. Cal seemed to agree with her, because they laid there comfortably in silence, listening to the water as it trickled up against the hull and feeling the current tug the boat gently against the weight of its anchor.

“Also,” Meg acknowledged, breaking their contemplation of the thin clouds that turned silver with the moon’s light. “If they didn’t know what we were doing from the oracle rumors, they probably could’ve guessed at it from the direction we’re headed, and all the stories I’ve been asking everyone to tell me.”

“Yes, that as well.” Meg interpreted Cal’s politeness to mean mostly that, actually, and she shuffled sideways in her bedroll so she could elbow him in the ribs.

*

The town closest to the foot of the Towers was called Auphont, and it was a surprisingly large town, with a bricked center and everything.

“Of course,” Cal said to Meg’s surprise. “It’s a main point of trade with Aden-across-the-Towers.”

Meg hadn’t actually thought of the mountains as having another side. She had imagined the whole place as a gloomy and overcast hinterland, but it was high summer and actually quite pleasant. She was further shocked when she figured out that Aden-across-the-Towers was still a part of the same kingdom; it wasn’t even a strangely self-sufficient hidden mountain city-state or anything.  

“You’ve been listening to too many long stories,” Cal suggested.

*

They were not the first ones to reach Auphont. In fact, when the riverboat docked at the town, Meg and Cal were joined by another trio from the very same boat. They had been far more discreet however; they bought passage to a destination beyond Auphont, but just happened to prefer to leave earlier due to one of their number’s boatsickness. Boatsickness or no, no small number of towns had passed by while their friend was ill all over the place, before they finally chose to stop at Auphont, with its easy road to the Towers pass.  

“Hullo,” Meg greeted, as the trio joined them on their walk from the dock to the center of the town. Auphont was situated on the bend of a river, which partially encircled it, and aside from a few stretches of grazing land and some farms and tree groves, the only thing close to the town were the trio of tall mountains looming in the not-so-distance. The Towers. “You lot had some really gruesome tales of the Peddler and the Towers. Are you really going to try this?”

The travelers looked at her in disbelief. 

“Lady, but you know the stories too,” said one of them—Kantor, who had had some of the more entertaining long stories, almost as good as Cal’s.

“Yes, but we don’t actually expect to find anything. Right, Cal?”

“What Lady Meg means to say,” Cal said patiently, “is that she’s humoring my love of adventure. Though it is true neither of us are looking for any of the bounties. We’re curiosity seekers more than anything else, and my lady is very curious.”

Meg didn’t notice the tension that had been building until it began to dissipate with Cal’s words.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh yes, I’m uh… You know, asking after everyone’s... motives, so I can write heroic songs.” Kantor’s amused look told Meg it wasn’t great as far as recoveries went, but it was still a nicer thing to say than so are you idiots looking for a mystical death?, which her first question pretty much amounted to.

“Be sure to get our names right,” another of the three said, and he had a point. Meg had struggled with their names throughout their short journey together. They were Kantor, Isoldel, and Naskem, Meg knew, but she kept getting the two who were shit at storytelling mixed up.

“Of course,” Meg assured either Isoldel or Naskem, breezy as the wind on the riverboat. “We’ll sing of Master Storyteller, Master Sick-a-lot, and Master Smiley.”

“Lady Meg,” Cal chided, but the smiling one was still smiling, and Kantor even laughed, so that was that.

*

The bricked town center was where the trade markets were held from after the spring melts to before the caravans left for the winter. There were also a few inns by the center, a blacksmith busy with the caravans’ repairs, and even seamstresses’ stores and a cobbler.

“What the hell do they need a cobbler for?” Meg asked the first morning they set out to explore the place. They were alone again; the three travelers had elected to stay in a different of the town’s inns from Meg and Cal, and Cal thought they had the look of folk who planned to rise early and depart before anyone could get a good read on their plans.

“For shoes,” Cal replied. Though he hadn’t intended there to be sarcasm in his voice, Meg heard it and grinned down at her own boots. They were a pair made of supple, comfortable leather, and while Cal had seemingly just procured them for her when her sneakers had finally bit the dust, in hindsight Meg now wondered how long in advance he’d had them ready for her. His town undoubtedly had someone whose sole job it was to provide those sorts of things for the castle’s inhabitants alone.

“Right,” Meg agreed. “But how many shoes can one little town need?”

“Usually the caravans keep me busy,” said a musical voice from behind them. “But lately the adventurers have been giving me plenty of business.”

Cal and Meg both turned quickly, Cal a little more steadily than her. The speaker was a tall, thin man, with curly auburn hair that was starting to grey. He had a strong nose and deep-set eyes that were a pale grey, and he smiled at them politely.

“Oh,” Meg said. “Sorry.”

The shoemaker’s smile remained placid, but he offered them a shallow bow. “I am used to it.” Meg thought that had to be a polite lie.  “I am the cobbler of the town, and you both have the look of adventurers about you. How about a new pair of sturdy soles to carry you through your wanderings?”

“They would be too long in the wearing in,” Cal demurred, before Meg could put her foot in it again. “And we have reliable shoes already.”

Looking down at their feet, the cobbler nodded. “So you do,” he acknowledged. “But do you really want to wear them out in the Towers? They say that those who seek to lose themselves deliberately will wander even rougher terrain than the caravans’ pass.”

Meg looked down at her shoes, and smiled a the man. “Maybe we’ll come find you for a mend or a new pair when we finally give up and come back.” 

“Yes, maybe,” agreed the cobbler, pleasantly noncommittal. Nodding at them again with the good-natured air of a vendor who knows the interest is lost, he disappeared into the morning’s small crowd of traders.

Cal watched him go, and then turned and silently offered his arm to Meg. She laughed, accepted it, and they set off together to explore and learn what they could of the Towers from the town.

*

Meg was sprawled across a simple wooden bench, one arm dangling over its side so her hand rested in a tuft of grass. Light shone through the simple wooden arches, wound through with ivy, and when it fell across Meg’s torso it was easy to see the gentle rising and falling of her chest. She slept deeply.

The Three-Quarters Prince sat cross-legged on the dais. His arms were crossed as well, and he stared at Meg intently, neither blinking nor breathing.

----

<3 @thewinedarksea. i see u and i love u. 

[korizar-shademyst]

Miasma (A Glimpse)

(( CW: Abuse to minor ))

Istera always made sure she had the upper hand. It was a heaving daily dose of ritualistic training, nutrition balance and historical studies that filled the majority of Korizar’s young days, guided by a maternal iron fist that was unrelenting in its strict manner. With his father stationed at a post for three of the four weeks per month, everything fell on her (a retired arms master) to see their child raised in the fashion she saw most fitting to become a worthy citizen of Quel’thalas.

This morning was no different, torn from his bed at far too early an hour to be decent for most, taking a rapid cold shower to startle himself into functioning (as well as diminish the morning’s physical frustration in his lower half, an impediment with his current state of puberty), dressing and breaking his fast as quickly as possible. It would be a short trip to market, both Istera and her assistant Daeli walking a few paces ahead of him as they discussed the political climate and current law. He only half listened, neither topic very interesting to him, focusing instead on the warmth of the rising sun and the various passersby. The closer they got, the more people who were joining them on the road, his mother none the wiser as she stayed locked in conversation with her companion. Being far more of a crowd watcher, his crystal blue eyes darted from body to body, noticing everything from the cut of their garments down to the body language they held when with another.

“Good morning, Korizar,” a voice chimed up soft and demure, nearly sending him stumbling into the dirt from surprise. His head twisted around to find a pretty girl perhaps a few years older just a footfall behind, her chestnut brown hair pinned back from her face but rolling in loose curls over her petite shoulders. She was dressed in a thin tucked blouse and royal blue skirt, the former of which hugged her in all the best ways without being too revealing. He felt his cheeks flush and cast his eyes down, adopting a crooked smile. “Hello.” He recalled the spattering of freckles over her nose and knew what family she hailed from, but couldn’t remember a time when they had actually interacted or where she would have learned his first name. “Korizar Thelanos!”

Oh, that was how. With a fleeting look back over his shoulder to her that was rich with regret, he trotted up in line with Istera and clasped his hands behind his back, a soldier’s stance that adopting usually got him some credit. He could feel the heat of her glare on the side of his face, knowing better than to look over. The rest of their outing was spent right there, at her side in silence, observing plainly as the two women picked their fruits, vegetables and meats for the next few days. The smell of rolls from the bakery had him salivating but asking would be a futile attempt, so he resigned himself to only the whiffs of sweet dough. It was always the same.

Their lunch, once home, passed without much fanfare (as it typically did) though today Istera was rather keen on drilling him on his lessons in between bites of his sandwich and garden salad. Making it through a recounting of the siege at Blackrock successfully, he cleared the table of their various dishes, got them properly washed and dried and then changed into his sparring clothes for an afternoon of combat training. He was just tying his dark hair back when Istera snapped out for him to stop dawdling, rushing out into the open area behind their back door where the multitudes of dummies and equipment were forever at the ready.

Try as he might to focus through their polearm session, he kept getting clipped every time he allowed his mind to wander to the sapphire eyes and dotted skin of the girl’s face in his mind which only made Istera more furious with each failure. One particular instance nicked him strong along the ribs, tearing his shirt and welling up a few drops of blood; he hissed even as she chided him for lacking any drive to do well, rubbing the sticky substance between the pads of his fingers.

He met her worn face then, reading the disappointment and malice in the navy glowing orbs right to the slight downturned lips. It set his brain on fire in that moment, frustrated beyond reproach with the constant pressure and discontent. Unleashing a battle cry, he set into a series of blows that she met turn for turn, always a step ahead and never relenting even for the sake of his self-confidence. It wasn’t until a masculine voice rang out over the air that she faltered, a grievous misstep that he decided to follow through on even though it was not the most sportsmanlike conduct. Screw it, this was war, right? She hit the grass with a loud exclamation of protest, his upper body heaving with exertion as he stared down at her in triumph for a few seconds.

It wasn’t until the thud of plate boots sounded out in heavy clunks through the yard that he realized his mistake. His father, Lorivel Lightmyst, offered his wife a hand before Kori could even think to move to do the same, shifting his helmet in his armored hand as he looked his only son over with a careful contemplation. “You did what must be done, hmm?” That was the only sentence he received, though he was almost sure there was a glint of pride in his father’s eyes as the pair walked back into the house talking of the current War efforts, leaving him there to polish the weapons before tending to his rather superficial wound.

The evenings were his small reprieve, in the hours after dinner when he was left alone to read, draw or play an instrument. Tonight he had chosen his guitar, sitting on the window ledge staring out at the expanse of dark emerald grass as he plucked out chords and melodies that came to mind as he let his mind wander. It wasn’t until he was bent over putting it away in its case on the floor that he heard the crack, a searing jolt through his spine turning his limbs momentarily to mush as the weapon licked at his bare back.

“How dare you make a fool of me in front of Lorivel, you cheating little shit!” His palms pressed against the wall as he endured another lash, knowing the sensation of splitting skin well enough but never able to control the way he yelped as it hit. She continued berating him as she punished him, from the training to the tender lady who he had taken pause upon to greet, digging his nails to bleeding along the thick wooden wall of his bedroom.

Korizar was left to huddle in shock, as he always was after such treatment, a washcloth carelessly thrown his way as she slammed the door closed as if it would be of some use to him. Breath hitching in his chest from pain and rage, he got himself to his feet on shaky legs and opened the journal that sat on his bedside table, flipping through the pages until he reached one that only had little slashes of lines on it like a prisoner counting days locked away inside a cell. He tore at it and crumpled it up with an angry growl, beginning on a blank sheet with a single stroke of his quill. Tonight, it has begun. Dinner had been the start of something altogether different for this family. Poisoning might be considered a “woman’s tool”, but it was a beacon of Light for him and he had certainly put it to good use. It wouldn’t work quickly, no, but he had plenty of time. Little by little, he’d get back at her...at them both. He’d find a tiny piece of freedom at the bottom of every small vial.

Little did he know, the scourge would finish the job before he ever could. No foresight, all feeling. A taste of Shade in the Light.

[thewrithingtwilek]

The Writhing Twi’lek - Prequel

There is a lot of mention of past abuse in this bit here and a lot of Ben not caring about what happen to him because of the life he’s been forced into.  So if you’re not down for that, please move on.  :)

Maul is hungry.

It's not a hunger that food can solve.  It's a specific hunger.  Specifically it's the red head twirling artfully around the pole on stage, making it look easy, as if he's some double jointed Twi'lek instead of a skinny human who Maul shouldn't be finding attractive.

Sleek lines and barely enough fat on him to cover the lines of his ribs or the knobs of his spine.  Though Maul knows, not from any personal experience, that to be doing the kinds of moves the lithe, redheaded twink is pulling off, he's stronger than he looks.

Either that, or the tingle Maul has been feeling in his spine all night is the force at work.  But no one on this backwater moon knows that the force is, which is specifically why he comes here.  No one to fear him as a Sith lord, no one to care about his tattoos other than how attractive they make him.

Maul gets more ass on this little shitstain of a moon than a fresher seat and he's not ashamed of admitting it either.

He likes sex.  He likes the power of it. The control of it.  The way he can make his sexual partners write under him with lust and pleasure.  Sex out here, where no one knows his reputation is the only real time he can allow himself to be soft with another living creature.

And right now, he wants to be soft with the pretty fucking thing on stage who's going through his routine with an almost bored look to his face.  As if this is just another night to him.  As if he isn't about to meet the Zabrak who is about to change his entire life.

  Maul swallows the rest of his beer and sets the glass down on the stained and dirty table, getting up and making his way to the stage, a fifty credit stick set between his fingers like the cigarettes he likes to smoke when his master isn't around.  Blue-green eyes latch onto the credit stick, greedy and calculating as they flick up to Maul's.

"Haven't seen you around here before."  The pretty thing purrs and slides down to his knees in a practiced move that puts him on eye level with Maul.  "I'll give you a discount for a first time customer."  

"Yeah?"  Maul leans in and the pretty thing ghosts lips against Maul's before he slips away and out of touching range.  

"Two more of those and I'm all yours for the entire night."  He gives Maul a coy smile and rubs a palm over the shimmering fabric that's just barely covering his cock and balls.  He'd let the Zabrak have him for fifty credits, but if the Zabrak is stupid enough to be flashing that kind of wealth around, Ben is going to milk the idiot for all he's worth.

"Who do I pay for the pleasure of having you?"  The Zabrak purrs and Ben gives him a slow, pleased smile and moves in a slow circle, hips undulating against the air as he turns, showing off his body.  He's a fast healer, always has been, and the lessons he remembered from the temple about using the force to aid in healing injuries means any scars he might have carried are nothing but thin white lines against the paleness of his skin, almost invisible with the shimmer he'd painted on before he'd taken the stage.

Out here the folk are dusty and tanned-leather and there's more than one alien, like the Zabrak, who will pay more for a pure human who looks like Ben does, and he knows it.  He's learned that no one wants to pay more than they have to for sun-freckled skin when they can pretend to be lords for a night.

"You pay me, handsome."  Ben slides back down onto his knees and this time, he lets the Zabrak touch.  Tease them, draw them in, make them him enough they'll pay anything to get their hands on him for a few hours.  He's played this game long enough and well enough that he's almost got enough money saved up for a down payment and first months rent on an apartment near the market.  One hundred and fifty credits puts him that much closer to his goal.  "And then you get to do anything you want."  He leans in again, lets his mouth brush the Zabrak's plush lips.

"Anything?"  The Zabrak quirks a tattooed brow and Ben gives an artful shrug and nibbles over the Zabrak's lower lip, tugging gently.

"Throw in another fifty credits and you can put me in the medi-center."  Ben purrs.  He wouldn't be the first client to like the idea of putting marks on lily-pale skin, punishing the whore as it were.  

The Zabrak chuckles and flicks his tongue over Ben's mouth.  "You like it rough, little one?"

"I like whatever you want me to like."  Ben says with a smile and a flutter of his lashes.  For one hundred and fifty credits he'll let the Zabrak brand him and deal with Kau'an's temper in the morning.  The Zabrak will have to pay a fine of course, but Ben isn't about to tell him that when he's got the biggest payday in a month sitting right in front of him.

The Zabrak draws back and Ben angles his head, watching the Zabrak under his lashes, a move he's perfected in the mirror.  "You have a place?"  The Zabrak asks and Ben slides forward and down, slipping off the stage.

"Of course."  Ben smiles over his shoulder as he starts for the back room, where paying clients get to enjoy their purchases for the night.  Maul watches him walk for a moment, cataloguing the slight limp, the way the pretty thing moves on his toes.  He's got a dancer's way about him, but there's something else, something that Maul can't place.  It makes his eyes narrow and he follows the pretty dancer into the hallway that stinks like sex and then into a little room with a bed and a mirror on the wall.

Maul puts one hundred and fifty credits down on the small table by the door and watches, curious as the pretty thing moves around the room.  There's something *about* the way he moves that makes Maul's horns itch and it stands where he is, just watching as the pretty thin slips up onto the bed, arranging himself as if he's some sort of prize Maul has won.

"Soresu."  He says after a long few moments of watching and it's curious to see the pretty thing startle like a newborn fawn.  Those pretty blue eyes go wide and then dart around the room as if looking for an exit, and that pale skin goes nearly ash grey with a panicked sickness that shows on the pretty things face.

"I-"  He swallows, fighting against the nausea that threatens at the name of the fighting form and then the hot shame of someone *knowing* passes and he raises his chin.  "And?  What of it?"  The pretty thing arches a perfectly sculpted brow and sneers, taking on the perfect air of some Coruscanti courtesan that Maul has had the misfortune of fucking once or twice.  

Maul's face contorts into disgust and for a moment he thinks about taking his credits and finding some other pretty thing to sink his cock into for the night.  It must show on his face because the pretty thing goes from combative to demure and submissive in a heartbeat.

"I'm sorry.  I don't have many lovers who are so in tune with the fighting forms as to know them from the way I move."  Ben purrs the words and moves onto his knees.  "How about we forget about the last three minutes and you come over here and give me something to fill my mouth with."

Maul pushes his cloak off and starts to undress, showing off his body.  His tattoos and the scars almost invisible against the red and black that tangles together from his head down to his feet.  The pretty things breath hitches and Maul smirks.  "Like what you see?"

"You're beautiful."  The pretty thing whispers it and then seems to come out of his trance.  "You know, in a very rugged, handsome way."

"I'll accept beautiful if it's coming from your lips."  Maul says, enjoying the way the pretty thing flushes for him.  "Give me your name."

"Ben."  It's offered up with a smile and a hand held out for Maul.  "Come to bed, mas-"

"Do NOT call me Master."  Maul has to work to not snarl it and there's a carefulness in Ben's eyes.  

"Sorry.  I'm used to -a lot of my other.....they like it."  Ben shrugs and then gives Maul a curious look.  "What do you want me to call you?"  

“Sir.”  Maul says and kicks off his boots, shoving his trousers down to follow them, kicked into the corner.

“Yes sir.”  Ben sits back, knees folded while he waits to figure out what the Zabrak wants from him.  He thinks privately that the Zabrak doesn’t know what he wants, but he’s not stupid enough to voice it.

“Lay on your stomach.”  

“Yes sir.”  Ben gets himself settled, waiting for whatever is coming next.  He slows his breathing, following the old mediation lessons he once hated.  They’re the only reason he hasn’t killed himself yet.  He’s expecting the biting pain of a whip, the burning, lasting sting of the thin rattan stick in the corner, the bright flash of an open handed slap to his ass and thighs.

What he’s not expecting is the weight of a body over his and then a line of soft kisses trailing down his spine.  His entire body tenses up for a moment before he forces himself back into a relaxed state.

“I have a very violent job.”  Maul explains, voice a quiet purr.  “The last thing I want tonight is violence.  Do you understand?”

“I understand, sir.”  

“Good.”  Maul nuzzles a nearly invisible scar just above the swell of Ben’s ass, smiling when Ben shivers.  “Now spread your legs for me.”

XxX  XxX

Ben wiggles his way out of under the Zabrak’s heavy arm as soon as he’s sure the Zabrak is sleeping.  It’s not often he has a gentle client for the night, and the Zabrak had been so gentle with him Ben hadn’t known what to do with himself.

He’s still not sure what to do with himself.

He takes a breath, rubs a hand over his face and gets up, moving quietly to the table by the door and grabbing the credits the Zabrak left for him, slipping out of the door and heading to the dancers lounge to shower and dress, thankful he doesn’t have any injuries to take of.

He’s halfway to the market to shop for food and whatever trinkets catch his eyes when a strong hand grabs his arm.  Ben has his hidden vibroblade out of it’s sleeve pocket before he spins around, holding it out in front of him.  

The Zabrak from last night stands in front of him, letting out a snort when he sees the vibroblade.  And most likely Ben’s stance.  

“Put that away.  You’re going to hurt yourself.”  The Zabrak drawls and Ben glares at him, taking a step back and putting himself in as much of a defensive stance as he can.  

“You got your credits worth last night.”  Ben says quietly, not wanting to draw attention to himself when he doesn’t have to.  Kau’an hates it when the dancers she employs get themselves into trouble and after Jatoba got herself in trouble with the local Weequay mob, Kau’an has a ‘you get yourself into shit you deal with it yourself’ policy.  

“I did.”  The Zabrak rolls his yellow and red eyes and then faster than Ben can keep up with, grabs the vibroblade from his hand.  “I told you to put that away.”

“Force save me.”  Ben huffs a disgusted breath.  “Please tell me you’re not here to save me from this life of sin.”  The Zabrak’s lips twitch and then he laughs, a low amused chuckle that makes every single ounce of Ben’s self preservation sit up and scream.

“Nothing like that.  I wanted to give you a tip for last night.”  He takes Ben’s hand, presses a thousand credits into his palm and closes his fingers around them.  “It should help with the down payment.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Ben spits out and the Zabrak gives him a smile that makes him feel like something small being hunted.  He leans in, draws his finger over Ben’s nose and then tips his chin up, stealing a soft kiss.

“If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.  And neither of us want that, little Jedi.”

“Don’t call me that.”  Ben wrenches himself out of the Zabrak’s grip.

“I’ll be back in two months.”  The Zabrak says and offers Ben’s vibroblade, hilt out.  “If you don’t have a place for yourself by then....”  He lets the sentence trail off and Ben understands whatever unspoken threat the Zabrak is making.

“I’ll have it.”  He promises and the Zabrak leans in again, grabbing Ben’s chin for another kiss, this one just as soft as the first.  

“Good boy.”

[emmayame]

Day 7: What Is

This prompt answer is nice, (hopefully) funny, and has two parts :) The first one I’ve previously posted on my AO3, and the second one is brand new. If you have already read the first, you can jump right to the second here. 

Though Reyes Vidal called himself a betting man, the risks he took were usually precisely calculated. He prided himself on being careful and efficient. Any goal could be achieved - it was only a matter of elegant strategy and sufficient preparation. That afternoon he was brought to Kralla’s Song by the latter. There was a new element in the equation, a new piece on the chessboard that he needed to evaluate. It could either become a complication, or a perfect means to an end. Judging by the update he had just received from the docks, he was about to find out which option was more likely.

It was still early for the bar to be crowded, though even if it were packed, locating the Pathfinder would not pose a problem. Her pristine light grey uniform surely made it obvious, but that newcomer vibe she was sending off would give her away no matter what she was wearing. His keen eyes followed her as she headed to the bar counter and leaned on it with one elbow, turning to watch yet another visitor receive a lesson in manners from the bar’s owner.

The little show made him smile wryly. He rather liked Umi and her no-nonsense approach. In addition, she had sharp hearing and even sharper memory – a valuable bonus which he knew how to put to good use.

Judging by the Pathfinder’s raised brows, the bartender’s particular brand of problem-solving made an impression on her. It was hard to tell if said impression was positive or negative, though, as her features became carefully neutral quite fast. Ryder appraised the asari for a moment, and then returned to scanning the room.    

Reyes had to admit that the conclusions of his quick scrutiny were conflicting. Her cool expression, plain short haircut and colour preference that spelled demure were at odds with her nonchalant posture and something else about her that he couldn’t quite put a finger on. Intrigued, he decided it was time for a closer look.

He pushed off the wall, leaving his vantage point at the far end of the bar, and sauntered toward her. The greeting rolled off his lips with practiced ease.  

“You look like you’re waiting for someone,” he said, gesturing Umi for drinks.

The Pathfinder turned and gave him a quick once-over, pausing to accept the proffered beverage before her eyes settled on his yet again.

“And you look distinctly non-angaran, Shena,” she pointed out matter-of-factly, clinking her tumbler against Reyes’.

Well, that saved him half the introduction.

He grinned. “You don’t say.”

They downed the whiskey and she took a step forward, extending a hand. “I don’t know about you, but I hate code names. I’m Amelia Ryder.”

Huh.

Reyes had always been good at taking the lead in a conversation. It was comfortable, familiar. He knew exactly what to say and how to steer the talk just where he needed it to go. That was how he preferred it. The Pathfinder’s self-confidence was adorable, really, but this exchange would not be different.

“You can call me Reyes,” he answered, taking her hand in his and making a step forward of his own, stopping just shy of too close. “And I despise code names just as much,” he added smoothly, lowering his voice to a purr.

She fell silent, her cheeks turning faintly pink.

That’s better.

Pleased with the result, Reyes was about to slip into his monologue, but, apparently, Ryder had other ideas.   

“I must confess, I am envious,” she admitted, looking up at him, a mischievous grin blooming on her face. “You’ve managed to charm Evfra into working with you. All I have achieved so far is a slightly less murderous look. And I thought I was impossible not to like!”

If Reyes weren’t used to keeping his expressions in check at all times, one of his eyebrows would probably arch at the change of demeanor. The Pathfinder that entered the bar seemed a composed, all-business kind of person. The smirking girl standing in front of him was too glib for her own good. The two personalities were so different that one of them had to be a carefully fabricated facade. The question was, which one?         

While he was trying to decide whether he was amused or annoyed, Ryder let go of his hand and spoke up again.

“So, Vehn Terev. Do you know where I can find him?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Reyes nodded, pausing to make sure she wasn’t about to interrupt him again, but Ryder actually kept silent. Satisfied, he stepped away from the counter and guided her to the balustrade.

The view that opened from there was gorgeous. In this respect Kralla’s beat Tartarus fair and square. The murky seclusion of the slums’ establishment was excellently suited for his line of work, but he needed to come up for air sometimes, both literally and figuratively. That’s why he often chose Kralla’s as a meeting place – when the content of the conversation to be had wasn’t overly sensitive, of course.

Ryder seemed to share his opinion – she looked rather enthralled by Kadara’s harsh beauty. Her eyes were slowly wandering from one mountain to another, stopping at a distant glimmer of a pond or an occasional burst of scarlet in places where the local coral-like plants prevailed. If Reyes didn’t know any better, he would suspect she was only half listening to his rundown on the situation. That could not be the case, but he still felt vaguely irritated at the thought.

“Actually, that Sloane Kelly character doesn’t sound so bad,” she commented, turning to face him.  “I’m sure if I ask nicely she won’t mind releasing Vehn into my custody.”

He quirked up a corner of his mouth. “Your positive thinking is commendable, but I doubt it will be that easy.”

Judging by her carefree shrug, Ryder didn’t share his skepticism. That kind of attitude would get her into a lot of trouble. Especially on a planet like Kadara.   

Luckily for the Pathfinder, Reyes was willing to help. It was part of his plan, after all.    

“But,” he continued, leaning closer to her, “there might be another way to get to Vehn. You work Sloane…”

“And while I’m at it, you can arrange for plan B. Perfect!” she nodded approvingly. And then she stepped away from him and headed for the exit.

His eyebrow did shoot up at that turn of events. That was…

Halfway to the stairs, the Pathfinder spun around.

“Meet me at the market in twenty minutes?” she offered, and then added, the same smug grin from before playing at her lips, “and thanks for the drink!”

And then she was gone.

That was going to be problematic, he realized. But not for the reasons he had anticipated.

***

Forty-three minutes later he finally spotted Ryder exiting Outcast HQ. He exhaled through his nose and called out her name, arranging his face into its customary amiable expression. The marketplace was quite busy, so it took some time for her to locate him and pick her way through the crowd.  

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, stopping in front of him, not a hint of remorse in her voice.

“Have a nice chat?” he asked levelly, crossing his arms.

What could have taken her so long? He seriously doubted Sloane’s ability to tolerate a person like Ryder for an extended period of time. Which in Ryder’s case meant anything longer than ten seconds.

“Actually, yes,” she nodded, mirroring his stance. “Her Majesty was quite civil and even let me speak with Vehn.”

For a split moment, Reyes’ smile became slightly strained, but he quickly composed himself. The girl was really getting on his nerves now, but she would never know about that. “So… no need for plan B?”

Ryder’s eyes crinkled with mischief. “I was so nice and convincing but she still didn’t let me take him. So, now I just have to do it!”

She motioned for him to follow her down the narrow alley and behind the corner of the armour shop. After a quick check of their surroundings, she turned back to him.

“While I was enjoying my little tour of the royal palace, I managed to do some discreet scanning. Turns out there are very conveniently placed maintenance shafts around here. I’m fairly certain that one,” she pointed a thumb behind her shoulder, “leads to the cells.”

Well, now he was surprised. Of course, the method she used to get the intel wasn't exactly ideal - she could have been caught in the act quite easily. Someone might say Ryder was lucky, but Reyes didn’t believe in luck. He believed in facts, and the facts said the cause of her success was, most likely, the Outcasts’ guards’ less than impressive IQ. Still, getting the intel was only half of the job. What counted was what you did with it.

“So what’s your plan?” he inquired conversationally.

“Well, basically I am going to hack my way through,” she shrugged, “and then test out some of the exciting omnitool mods I’ve recently installed on the cell door.”

Nice idea. A pity it won’t work.

For quite some time trying to override the port’s locks had been one of the popular hobbies in Kadara - apart from stabbing each other in dark corners and looting the resulting corpses. That was the reason the security protocols were changed. Now at a hint of interference the system went into lockdown and could only be unblocked by the correct code. Which she could have had by now if it weren’t for her being so sassy.

Oh, this is going to be good.

“So, is there any way I can be of assistance?” he asked pleasantly, his previous frustration with her all but forgotten.

“If you could keep a lookout while I’m dealing with the console, that would be really nice!”

She exuded such confidence and enthusiasm that he almost felt bad for what was about to happen. Almost.

“Why, of course!” he purred. Sauntering to the railing, Reyes turned around and gave her an encouraging smile. The Pathfinder flashed him another sly grin, and strode to the shaft’s entrance, preparing her omnitool on the way. Several moments passed in silence.

Three...two….one…

“Umm, Reyes?” Ryder’s voice was deliciously uncertain.

He made his reply sound casual, a bit concerned, because he wasn’t enjoying this, not in the slightest!

“Yes, Pathfinder. Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure, but it seems like the system went into lockdown.”

He walked up to her and dutifully examined the console from over her shoulder. “Hmm, looks like you are right. You won't be able to open it now unless you have a code.”

Ryder cast a glance at him, her brows drawn together in a frown.

“I don’t. Obviously,” she waved at the red lock symbol helplessly.  “So… What about that plan B of yours?”

It took a considerable amount of his self-control not to let his amusement show.

“Well, it's funny that you ask…” he answered, leaning in from behind her to input the required combination. The lock chimed softly and switched to cheerful green. Ryder stilled momentarily, then slowly turned around. When she lifted her eyes to peer at him, they were dangerously narrowed. Some people would definitely find the glare she was giving him frightening. Reyes, however, found it deeply satisfying.

“You knew the code,” she spoke very slowly, as if she had to carefully choose every word before spelling it out, “and didn’t tell me?”

He shrugged innocently. “I would if you asked.”

Ryder’s lips parted, but not a sound was able to escape. For a moment the girl just stared at him incredulously. Then, visibly making an effort to calm herself, she crossed her arms and frowned up at him.

“All right, I’m asking now. What did you have in mind?”

He answered her with one of those playful grins she seemed so fond of using, and then explained the few remaining details of his much finer plan. This time she listened very attentively, her eyes never leaving his. When he finished speaking, she looked him over once again, shaking her head thoughtfully.

“We ain’t gonna be friends, you and I,” she huffed, turning to descend into the shaft.

Reyes snorted at her proclamation.    

Just about an hour ago, he would have agreed. Now, however, having to deal with the cocky Pathfinder didn’t seem like such a nuisance. The girl was insufferable, that part was still true and very obvious, but apart from that, she remained a puzzle to him. And Reyes liked solving puzzles.  

There was another thing he knew for sure, he thought, as he headed back to Tartarus, a slow, devious smile spreading across his face.

Teasing her would definitely be fun.

[weirdlandtv]

How to get more YouTube views

That’s the perennial question for every YouTuber, isn’t it. How do you find your audience--who is out there, and how do you get their attention? It always strikes me that YouTubers who frequent internet forums with these questions seem totally unaware that they themselves are somebody’s audience, too. They’ve come to think of themselves as “creators”, as separate entities floating in space, woefully out of touch with the people on Earth. What does your audience want to watch? That isn’t the right question to ask. What do you want to watch?

If you’re desperate for viewers, try this: use thumbnails with half-naked girls. Use suggestive, sensationalist clickbait titles: “The day I almost DIED”, “The REAL REASON nobody buys APPLE anymore”, “Russia HACKED me!”, and so forth. Leave your links everywhere, spam people. Clutter your thumbnails with red circles and exclamation points. Congratulations, you’ve attracted 2,000 viewers now and lost all your dignity.

Walt Disney used to say, “Quality always wins���. It’s not entirely true, but as a strategic philosophy, I like it better than the one described above.

I’ve recently set up a second channel, a separate channel, called Humanivideo.

Every day I upload a few classic copyright-free cartoons, usually Popeye or Betty Boop, cartoons that I loved as a kid and that I still rate highly. I could have named the channel Retro Classics Spectacular or Vintage Cartoons Galore Paradiso, but me being me I had to give it a weird, unappealing name of course. The channel art is supposed to be ugly, but, again me being me, I took great care into making it look ugly. Originally Humanivideo was intended to be just a budget channel, a promo tool, a “gateway” of sorts to my real channel, Tales from Weirdland, but again, me being me, I’ve taken on the role of amateur curator and try to present these cartoons well, with nice thumbnails, the best video quality, some handy information in the description box, and more.

And another thing is, by uploading old cartoons to that side channel I can keep up a regular uploading schedule, and thus please YouTube’s algorithms, which are inherently animator-unfriendly as they reward creators who upload often and publish longer videos. (Animation is months of work for minutes of screen time.) In a way, it’s like I’m sending out Popeye and Betty Boop as vedettes every day, as travelling salespersons. “Go and tell people about Tales from Weirdland!” You just have to be a little creative in the marketing department.

The 1939 Popeye cartoon Aladdin and His Wonderful Lamp (1939) is one I remember very well. Of the three Popeye Color Specials by the Fleischer Studios, that is the one that made the biggest impression on me as a kid. It was actually one of the first things I looked for when I discovered YouTube. There's a wonderful balance between the funny and the creepy, and the music is great and suggestive throughout. I love the vibrant colors, even though they faded somewhat. The backdrops are all little pieces of art, and atmospheric, the sight gags are nifty. “The laaaamp....” “I’m a feesh!” I’m positive that the cartoon helped to shape my artistic character.

Another animated short that I have really fond memories of, is Betty Boop’s Birthday Party (1933). It’s just a wonderful piece of work, with all these rubber hose characters bouncing and swinging, and singing. My grandfather was one of the first people to own a VCR, and this was one of the first cartoons he taped--for me. I watched it endlessly, and even now, many years later, the birthday song occasionally gets stuck in my head. "This is Betty's birthday party daaaaash...." 1933--Marilyn Monroe was 5 years old. The Golden Gate Bridge was being built. And Hitler, well... Look at the birthday cake though: Betty Boop is 14 years old.

I’m always fascinated by the voices in these cartoons. They’re the voices of ghosts. They’re coming to us through old wires, resonate through hollow tubes, their tinkling merriment long gone. You’re listening to the dead, but they themselves don’t know that they are dead.

Betty Boop cartoons were pretty raunchy actually, for their time. Before the Hays Code in 1934 (officially the “Motion Picture Production Code”), which imposed moral restrictions upon motion pictures, it was basically: be as suggestive as you want; you can tease, be naughty, show glimpses of underwear, wink, nudge. This Code lasted until 1968, after which Hollywood degenerated into the Gomorrah that it is now. The Betty Boop cartoons never recovered from the restrictions: in the later cartoons, she’s demure and boring, and most of the stories center around her dog and his wacky shenanigans.

The reason the Code affected Betty Boop cartoons, by the way, is because they were theatrical cartoons: they weren’t shown on television--there was no television--they were shown in theatres, before a main feature or as part of a Saturday matinee. “Many people don’t realize that”, as my brother used to say whenever he had finished some trivia-filled monologue to an uninterested audience.

Above: obvious sexual harassment in the 1932 Betty Boop cartoon, Boop-Oop-a-Doop. “Do you like your job? Hehehe...” In another cartoon, Koko the Clown and Bimbo also join in on the leg rubbing, shamelessly.

So anyway, that’s my Humanivideo channel. It’s my own little Library of Congress. Like Tales from Weirdland, Humanivideo features videos that I’d want to watch myself. That has always been my main interest in doing all this, this YouTube stuff. Perhaps you’ve noticed, non-existing reader, but I never ask viewers to like, subscribe, share, and so forth, i.e. encourage viewers to “take action”, as it’s called in YouTube guides. Broadly speaking, my philosophy is that if I have to remind people to do all those things, something’s not working right.

The only thing I take into account when uploading new videos is: what are the best times to upload? The answer, apparently, is Thursday/Friday in the afternoon, as this gives Google/YouTube the opportunity to process your stuff in time for its busiest hours in the evening. So upload between 12-3 PM when you’re in LA, and between 9-11 PM when you’re in Europe. Saturday is OK too, or Sunday if Saturday isn’t possible. But I’d avoid Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday, unless you’re a big YouTube star, in which case it doesn’t matter obviously.

Right.

Currently I’m working on a pretty elaborate, ambitious Star Wars-themed video. Should be good. Anyway, until next time.

[hollywoodx4]

Sticking With the Schuylers (17)

So I wrote ahead the other day and couldn’t let it just linger in my word doc anymore...so another update this week!

Alex has some childhood flashbacks...Alex is continually worried....

1  2  3  4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11   12   I   13  14   15   16

               His feet tread rapidly over dirt-covered ground, kicking up dust as he flies, chest heaving, over the familiar path. Rough sand spills into his well-worn sneakers, chafing against the bare and blistered feet inside. Alex barely notices. He continues to run.

               His arms pump wildly as his ‘chicken legs’ carry him, his mind hyper-focused on the task at hand. He can hear voices behind him, hooting and hollering and getting closer by the second. He blinks, gathering his courage in a deep and hearty breath from his stomach, before hopping over rusted railroad tracks, ducking into a rickety doorway.

               He knows this path by heart; lifted floorboard in what used to be the foyer, a doorjamb that’s just about to fall between the old kitchen and living room. Alex skillfully hops over a worn-out ottoman, blocking yet another doorway. And then there’s the stray dog that sits in the kitchen, nestled between a cabinet and a stack of decomposing cardboard. He looks feral; blonde fur matted against a bone-thin chest, teeth scraggly as he opens his mouth in a wide yawn. But Alex simply throws him a scrap of meat from the bag that bumps against his leg as he runs, and the animal is satisfied.

               Not once does he stop in his running.

               And the voices vary, coming closer until they meet the obstacles of the run-down shack, then fading into the distance. It’s the usual pace of the game, this cat-and-mouse that he plays. And there are two paths that weigh heavy on his mind; the probabilities that jump back and forth as the chasing intensifies. The way that he figures it, there is a certain calculated risk to what he is doing.

               One day, he could wake up slow; knees injured from the day before, legs unable to carry him…then, it would be all over. He could trip over an unforeseen obstacle; a new hurdle in the familiarity. At eleven years old, he was acutely aware of just how much was riding on him. He was fortunate…lucky that the people at the market weren’t cruel to him, lucky that they knew his mother. His slender frame let him run and duck and hide; his quick wit and ease of conversation had gotten him out of many a situation before; squabbles with merchants, arguments with the older village kids…

               All in all, Alexander Hamilton considers himself to be very, very lucky.

               Once he exits the abandoned house he climbs half-way up the sturdy palm (the third long branch is just about to break), shimmying along its rough and narrow surface before clinging to it with blistered, work-worn hands. With one long leg out, he can just barely reach the unhinged shingles of another rooftop. His toes curl in his shoes, his thighs burning from the extent of the stretch. He jumps, just in time to hear the clattering of metal on hard ground. The thugs are shouting now, watching as he clambers from rooftop to rooftop, ducking low and keeping himself covered as best he can. But although his heart is racing, this is the checkpoint where he can finally begin to let up on his pace a bit. He knows the complexity of the village below; the ins and outs it would take to even begin trying to keep up with him on foot below the rooftops. It’s this route, with its high climbs and dangerous stakes, that has sent him home free time and time again. So he sighs, successful once more, as his precious canvas bag bumps along his leg; a reminder of his victory.

               When he returns home he pushes back the cloth separating their doorway from the world, grinning wildly as he brushes the dirt from his torn clothing. He can hear his mother’s voice, sweet and demure, ringing out from their kitchen. He tips the canvas bag over onto the table, smiling with pride as his possessions spill out onto the wooden surface. His mother turns, crossing her arms over her chest.

               “Just look at you, you’re a mess.” Her warm eyes linger over his dirt-coated appearance. He kicks his shoes, split and worn, in embarrassment as his mother wets a finger, tracing it along his sand-caked cheek. “Mijo, my sweet brave boy, you need to stop putting yourself in danger like this.”

               “I’m not.” His mother does not scold, but her face has been traced with worry lines and sorrow from the year’s events; nobody had expected his father to leave them, and now that it’s just the two of them she worries often about her young son. Alexander watches as his mother thumbs through the contents of his rucksack; a small, ripe mango, a torn blanket of soft cloth, a loaf of hard bread…she smiles through warm eyes and cradles his face in her hands.

               “You know we can make do with what we have; we always find a way.”

               “You need your medicine.” There’s a small bottle hanging from a ragged piece of twine, kept safe underneath his shirt. A clear, chunky liquid sloshes around inside of it and eleven year old Alexander guides his mother to one of their low pillows, sitting her down before removing the necklace and handing her the vile. She sighs, looking him over; her scrawny, rooftop climbing boy. Her protector. He smiles back at her-tentative. His nerves are clear in his face, gaunt and determined through the near constant frown plastered on it. And his hands-his now blistered, bleeding hands-twitch with anxiety. He’s worked so hard.

               His mother chokes back the lump in her throat before sucking down the liquid, grimacing at the taste. But she smiles at Alexander, handing him the bottle before standing up again, moving to the basin of water in their kitchen.

               “How are you?”

               “-I’m feeling great, mijo. You’re doing a wonderful job going into town like that. I’m sure that we’ll be alright.” Her eyes are warm. She scrubs the dirt from his cheeks as she smiles at him, projects every ounce of herself onto him. And she radiates so much positivity, his mother, that he can’t help but believe her. He beams with pride, with warmth, and with love. “Now, we really should talk about cutting this hair of yours.”

…

               He wakes with the juxtaposition of serenity and sorrow; the dream-like feeling of damp cloth on sand-caked skin weighs heavy on him, as does the feeling of her love. Alexander wonders immediately what the purpose of a reminiscent dream like that might have been; lately, he’d been nothing but blissful. Is that what had brought on such a powerful memory? But then, why had he woken with such a knot of anxiety?

               He knew what happened in the story of his dream, how things had progressed. Surely, his mind wasn’t pretending to forget the moment his mother had died in his arms, how haunting it had been to sit in the scent of their sick. If he let himself trace the memory far enough Alexander could even feel her skin against his, the way it had gone cold so swiftly against his feverish body. But the moment of his dream had felt so real that none of it seemed to matter. It was almost as if his mother had been alive again, as if he had been back in the Caribbean. Before he had been ‘just call me Alex.’ Before the sound of his full name had become soothing again. Before he’d let Eliza, and only Eliza, say it. He liked the way it came from her lips, the way his ears translated it to a dream-like sigh; how she inflected the middle syllable, and always took great care in it.

               But maybe that was it; maybe there was some sort of connection from his dream to his reality. He sits up in bed, pulling a journal from his bedside table as he recounts every detail into it, pouring over it page after page. He wants to remember these feelings. And in some respect, on this morning, he wishes he could go back.

               The memory of his mother’s warm eyes and prideful smile brings him back to his youth; to feeling responsible, accepting the fate that had been bestowed upon him with his father’s absence. And as he breathes through the retelling of this dream, of the memory he’d been able to relive, his mother’s eyes warp between her own and Eliza’s. When he finally closes the journal he sits back in bed, allowing the plethora of emotions to swirl around him once more, a confusing cocktail that is nearly sickening. It’s too much at once, he decides, to linger on the past. It’s too hard.

               As he rises from bed and readies himself for the day, memories of his dream are replaced with thoughts about the night before, about Eliza. He recounts the night, guiding her through the downtown streets as she leaned up against him. He can nearly feel the urgency of her hands on his jacket as she had tried to come on to him…the shut-down when he’d told her no.

               He’d hated to tell her no; to make her upset. But her eyes had been clouded with mischief and incomplete judgment, her hands too quick and too weak to be interpreted as anything she’d been aware of doing on that night. So he’d taken care of her, instead. And she was quiet on their walk to the fry truck, shoulder laid heavy on his shoulder. She’d picked at the fries, too. Eliza hadn’t even picked her way through to all of the larger graham cracker pieces. Eliza always hogged the graham cracker pieces. And then he dropped her off at her dorm room, guiding her shoes from her feet before tucking her into bed. Eliza had looked up at him with eyes that were larger and darker and pooling with a sadness that was then easily readable. She hadn’t even tried to disguise whatever pain she was going through at that point, and it broke his heart. But then she’d fallen quickly asleep, so Alexander left some aspirin and some water on her bedside table, pressing his lips to her forehead and letting them linger there. She hummed happily in her sleep, as if she could feel his presence once more, before rolling back over.

               The moment plays on in his mind the entire morning.

               “Something’s upsetting Eliza.” He begins over the counter of the campus Starbucks, waiting on John to mix his cocktail of dark brew and espresso. His best friend nods, understanding, but does not look up from his work. Alexander knows that he’s listening by the slight hum of his voice, so he continues.

               “When we left last night, she was drunk…I’ve never seen her like that before. And when I think back on it she’d been drinking to get drunk all night-she never has as much as she did in such a short time.”

               “Maybe she’s stressed about student teaching.”

               “No, that’s not it. She likes the teacher now, understands her more. Last time we talked about that she seemed to be at peace with it. This is something bigger.”

               “Bigger how?” John spins around to hand Alex his coffee and stops upon seeing the look on his best friend’s face. His eyes are tired, dark circles engulfing his entire appearance. And he’s shrunken, leaning on the counter with worry-filled eyes. He hesitates, looking down at his cup as his hands play with the cardboard heat protector. He’s not sure how to proceed lightly, so he just continues.

               “Last night, when we first got outside…she was grabbing me, kissing me. She was all over me, but nothing about it felt right. She was so drunk, John. And I had to say no. There’s no way I would have forgiven myself if I’d let myself give in to her, if that had been our first time. I know that I love her, but,”

               “You were being respectful.”

               “I was. Because something was wrong, that’s not Eliza. And so I said no. And then something just clicks, and she’s sobbing. Hysterically. And she couldn’t compose herself, not for a long time. But when I asked she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. She wanted to, but I think she was so drunk and so upset that she couldn’t find the words. Or the composure. But this is something big, John. This is something that’s really bothering her. So what do I do?”

               “What do you mean?”

               “If she remembers last night-or if she doesn’t…how do I bring this up? This conversation…I know she wants it to happen, but I also know that it’s not something simple. I need to help her. I can’t let her hurt as much as she was last night. Seeing her like that…it killed me. I haven’t felt like that since…it’s been a while.”

               “You need to talk to her. If she’s not ready, it’s her decision. The possibility of an awkward conversation is nothing compared to how she must be feeling.”

               “You’re right. I’ll call her. Today, before she feels like that again. I don’t think I can stand to see her hurt again.”

[theyourclasses]

30 Important Vocab Words Compilation For SSC Exam 2020-21(Hin/Eng)

New Post has been published on https://yourclasses.in/important-vocab-words-2

30 Important Vocab Words Compilation For SSC Exam 2020-21(Hin/Eng)

    (VOCABULARY)

  Prodding (Verb) – उकसावा देना

Meaning: stimulate or persuade (someone who is reluctant or slow) to do something.

Synonyms: spur, stimulate, stir

Antonyms: counterintuitive, disincentive, compliment

Usage: “they attempted to prod the central bank into cutting interest rates”

  Forbearance (Noun) –सहनशीलता

Meaning: patient self-control; restraint and tolerance.

Synonyms: tolerance, toleration, patience

Antonyms: impatience, anger, impetuosity

Usage: “his unfailing courtesy and forbearance under great provocation”

  Thrive (Verb) –फूलना फलना

Meaning: prosper; flourish.

Synonyms: flourish, prosper, grow vigorously

Antonyms: decline, wither, fail

Usage: “education groups thrive on the organization”

  Codify (Verb) –संहिताबद्ध करना

Meaning: arrange (laws or rules) into a systematic code.

Synonyms: systematize, systemize, organize

Antonyms: derange, disarrange, disarray

Usage: “the statutes have codified certain branches of common law”

  Proviso (Noun) –परंतुक

Meaning: a condition or qualification attached to an agreement or statement.

Synonyms: condition, stipulation, provision

Antonyms: disqualification, inability, inaptitude

Usage: “he let his house with the proviso that his own staff should remain to run it”

  Pertaining (Verb) –से संबंधित

Meaning: be appropriate, related, or applicable to.

Synonyms: concern, relate to, be related to

Antonyms: disconnected, unrelated, irrelevant

Usage: “matters pertaining to the organization of government”

  Malevolent (Adjective) –द्रोही

Meaning: having or showing a wish to do evil to others.

Synonyms: malicious, spiteful, hostile

Antonyms: benevolent, magnanimous, undemanding

Usage: “the glint of dark, malevolent eyes”

  Deployed (Verb) –तैनात करना

Meaning: move (troops or equipment) into position for military action.

Synonyms: position, station, post

Antonyms: concentrate, regard, hearken

Usage: “forces were deployed at strategic locations”

  Endeavour (Verb) – प्रयास करना

Meaning: try hard to do or achieve something.

Synonyms: try, attempt, venture

Antonyms: abstention, destruction, ease

Usage: “he is endeavoring to help the Third World”

  Jest (Noun) –मज़ाक

Meaning: a thing said or done for amusement; a joke.

Synonyms: joke, witticism, funny remark

Antonyms: seriously, equably, demurely, staidly

Usage: “he laughed uproariously at his own jest”

  Exemption (Noun) –प्रतिरक्षा, अपवाद

Meaning: the action of freeing or state of being free from an obligation or liability imposed on others.

Synonyms: immunity, exception, dispensation

Antonyms: liability, care, responsibility

Usage: “vehicles that may qualify for exemption from tax”

  Disbursed (Verb) –संवितरित करना

Meaning: payout (money from a fund).

Synonyms: payout, layout, spend

Antonyms: claim, requisition, claim, market

Usage: “$67 million of the pledged aid had already been disbursed”

  Contentious (Adjective) – विवादास्पद

Meaning: causing or likely to cause an argument; controversial.

Synonyms: controversial, disputable, debatable

Antonyms: uncontroversial, undisputed, uncontentious

Usage: “a contentious issue”

  Juncture (Noun) –उचित समय

Meaning: a particular point in events or time.

Synonyms: point, point in time, time

Antonyms: advantage, blessing, calm

Usage: “it is difficult to say at this juncture whether this upturn can be sustained”

  Exemplified (Verb) –का विशिष्ट उदाहरण होना

Meaning: be a typical example of.

Synonyms: typify, epitomize, be a typical example of

Antonyms: concealed, confused, covered

Usage: “the best dry sherry is exemplified by the fino of Jerez”

  Psyche (Noun) –मानव मन या आत्मा

Meaning: the human soul, mind, or spirit.

Synonyms: soul, spirit, (inner) self

Antonyms: body, trichotomy, corpus

Usage: “their childhood made them want to understand the human psyche and to help others”

  Augment (Verb) –बढ़ाना

Meaning: make (something) greater by adding to it; increase.

Synonyms: increase, make larger, make bigger

Antonyms: decrease, reduction, diminution

Usage: “he augmented his summer income by painting houses”

  Formidable (Adjective) –दुर्जेय

Meaning: inspiring fear or respect through being impressively large, powerful, intense, or capable.

Synonyms: intimidating, forbidding, redoubtable

Antonyms: pleasant-looking, comforting, easy

Usage: “a formidable opponent”

  Dent (Noun) –राशि या आकार में कमी

Meaning: a reduction in amount or size.

Synonyms: reduction, depletion, deduction

Antonyms: increase

Usage: “he has barely made a dent in the poverty rate”

  Robust (Adjective) –मजबूत

Meaning: strong and healthy; vigorous.

Synonyms: strong, vigorous, sturdy

Antonyms: weak, frail

Usage: “the Caplan family are a robust lot”

  Persecution (Noun) – उत्पीड़न

Meaning: hostility and ill-treatment, especially because of race or political or religious beliefs; oppression.

Synonyms: oppression, victimization, maltreatment

Antonyms: happiness, help, joy

Usage: “her family fled religious persecution”

  Ripple (Noun) –तरंग, लहर

Meaning: a small wave or series of waves on the surface of the water, especially as caused by a slight breeze or an object dropping into it.

Synonyms: wavelet, wave, undulation

Antonyms: stillness, dullness, quiet

Usage: “he dived into the pool leaving barely a ripple”

  Indignation (Noun) –रोष या नाराज़गी

Meaning: anger or annoyance provoked by what is perceived as unfair treatment.

Synonyms: resentment, umbrage, affront

Antonyms: contentment, quietness, quietude, reconcilement

Usage: “the letter filled Lucy with indignation”

  Slumber (Verb) –नींद

Meaning: sleep.

Synonyms: sleep, be asleep, doze

Antonyms: wake up, rouse, awaken, ferment

Usage: “Sleeping Beauty slumbered in her forest castle”

Loath (Adjective) –अनिच्छुक

Meaning: reluctant; unwilling.

Synonyms: reluctant, unwilling, disinclined

Antonyms: willing, eager, earnest

Usage: “I was loath to leave”

  Gestation (Noun) –गर्भावधि

Meaning: the development of something over a period of time.

Synonyms: development, origination, drafting

Antonyms: decrease, shortage, deficiency, scarcity

Usage: “a thorough and painstaking work which was a long time in gestation”

  Wary (Noun) –सतर्क

Meaning: feeling or showing caution about possible dangers or problems.

Synonyms: cautious, careful, circumspect

Antonyms: unwary, inattentive, trustful

Usage: “dogs which have been mistreated often remain very wary of strangers”

  Galore (Adjective) –बहुतायत

Meaning: in abundance.

Synonyms: aplenty, in abundance, in profusion

Antonyms: in short supply, rare, scantily

Usage: “there were prizes galore for everything”

(ONE WORD SUBSTITUTION)

One who offers the services of his own freewill – Volunteer

A person who repairs broken window glasses – Glazier

A collection of slaves – Coffle

One who is always doubting – Sceptic

Not likely to be easily pleased –Fastidious

A professional soldier hired to serve in a foreign army – Mercenary

Take great pleasure – Revel

The practice of having many wives – Polygamy

An extract from a book of writing – Excerpt

A person who files a suit – Plaintiff

One who lives both on land as well as in water – Amphibian

A strong dislike – Animosity

A person who abstains completely from alcoholic drinks – Teetotaller

Long poem based on a noble theme – Epic

  (MISSPELT WORDS)

  (A) hygiene

     (B) hygene

     (C) hygiene

     (D) hiygeine

  2. (A) intelligence

     (B) intelligence

     (C) intelligence

     (D) intelligence

  (A) mischievous

     (B) mischievious

     (C) mischievous

     (D) mischevious

  (A) successful

     (B) successful

     (C) successful

     (D) sucessful

(A) Definitely

     (B) Definitly

     (C) Definitely

     (D) Defiantely

  (A) Apparent

     (B) Apparent

     (C) Aparent

     (D) Apparrent

(A) Absence

     (B) Absense

     (C) Abcense

     (D) Absance

  (A) acceptable

     (B) acceptable

     (C) acceptabal

     (D) acceptibel

(A) Recogenise

     (B) Recogenize

     (C) Recognize

     (D) Recogneise

  (A) Registance

     (B) Resistance

     (C) Resistence

     (D) Resistanse

(A) Nuisance

     (B) Nuiesance

     (C) Nuisnance

     (D) Nuistance

  (A) Promenent

     (B) Promineint

     (C) Prominient

     (D) Prominent

(A) Strength

     (B) Strenth

(C) Strenjth

(D) Strenzth

  (A) Technice

(B) Techniqe

(C) Technoque

(D) Technique

(IDIOMS AND PHRASES)

Bean counter: Meaning: – A bean counter is an accountant. Example: – No matter what the bean counter psychiatrists say, With my overpowering passion I just can’t stay away.

2. Best of a bad bunch:

Meaning: – The best that could be obtained from a list of options that were not exactly what was required.

Example: – I don’t care for Mary’s new college friends. She’s still the best of a bad bunch, but she’s become a real troublemaker since meeting them.

Back the wrong horse:

Meaning: – If you back the wrong horse, you give your support to the losing side in something.

Example: – Investing in such an unproven product was a mistake. He really backed the wrong horse on that one.

Bedroom eyes:

Meaning: – Someone with bedroom eyes has a sexy look in their eyes.

Example: – She can barely contain her desire signaled by semi-closed, almost ‘bedroom’ eyes, emphasized by her chin pushing towards him.

Writ large:

Meaning: – If something is writ large, it is emphasized or highlighted.

Example: – The party’s new philosophies are little more than their old beliefs writ large.

You can say that again:

Meaning: – If you want to agree strongly with what someone has said, you can say ‘You can say that again’ as a way of doing so.

Example: – She said, “This horrible weather has been killing me.” He said, “You can say that again!

Arrow in the quiver:

Meaning: – An arrow in the quiver is a    strategy or option that could be used to achieve your objective.

Example: – If you are having a job interview, improving your communication skills can be another arrow in your quiver.

At daggers drawn:

Meaning: – If people are at daggers drawn, they are very angry and close to violence.

Example: – She and her mother were at daggers drawn.

Awe-inspiring:

Meaning: – Something or someone that is awe-inspiring amazes people in a slightly frightening but positive way.

Example: – Her knowledge of computers is quite awe-inspiring.

  A war of nerves:

Meaning: – Psychological warfare used to wear down an adversary’s resolve through fear tactics.

Example: – The dictator’s threats against the sovereign nation he was trying to conquer became a war of nerves as the citizens worried about the future of their country.

At arm’s length: Meaning: – Keep somebody at arm’s length means not allowing somebody to be become too friendly with you or close to you. Example: – She was friendly only when he was safely at arm’s length.

Back foot:

Meaning: – (UK) If you are on your back foot, you are at a disadvantage and forced to be defensive of your position.

Example: – I thought it would knock my confidence and put me on the back foot.

Worm’s eye view:

Meaning: – A worm’s eye view of something is the view from below, either physically or socially.

Example: – Because he was stuck in the same menial position for so long, he only had a worm’s eye view of how the business operated.

  Change of heart

Meaning: – If you have a change of heart, you change your opinion or the way you feel about something.

Example: – She was going to sell her house but had a change of heart at the last minute. Changing your mind.

[mastcomm]

The Knicks Are Trying Something New: a Rebrand

“The New York Knicks are the premier global brand in basketball, period,” Steve Stoute, a music executive and the founder of the ad agency Translation, declared recently over breakfast.

That night, the Knicks were blown out at home by the Memphis Grizzlies. Fans at Madison Square Garden chanted “Sell the team!” at James L. Dolan, the Knicks owner. The New York Post reported that an irate Dolan had directed security guards toward one teenage chanter. A brawl broke out at the end of the game, and multiple Knicks players were later fined.

One of them, Marcus Morris Sr., told reporters after the game that a Grizzlies player had “a lot of female tendencies on the court.” Morris — who would be traded in eight days — apologized on Twitter amid rapid backlash. One week later, Steve Mills, the Knicks president, left the team two days ahead of the trade deadline and less than two months after Coach David Fizdale and an assistant, Keith Smart, had been fired.

That’s just this season. The Knicks will most likely miss the playoffs for the seventh straight year, creating the longest streak of postseason absences for the franchise since the 1960s. The last two decades have seen a sexual harassment lawsuit against the parent company of the Knicks, botched draft picks, whiffs on most superstar free agents and a turnstile of head coaches (13, in fact). The team has long been a punchline, both in and outside New York City.

In an effort to change the public perception of the team, the Knicks announced last month that they had contracted with Stoute’s agency “to help elevate the team’s overall brand positioning and connection to its fan base.”

“You’ve got to put a product on the court that people believe day in and day out every night has an opportunity to win and compete at a high level,” Stoute said, adding, “Then I believe there’s a lot that can be done around building buzz and excitement around the optimism.”

Hiring Translation is a rare acknowledgment by the Knicks that they may be losing clout. And it just so happens that across the Brooklyn Bridge, the Nets, a resurgent franchise with a modern arena and plausible dreams of a championship within the next three years, are primed to pick off some of the Knicks’ loyal fans. Stoute’s goal is to play prevent defense in the marketing sphere. But how can he improve a brand if its most important facet — the on-court play — is among the least competitive in the marketplace?

Stoute is a lifelong Knicks fan who said he wants every young basketball fan in the New York area rooting for his team. He founded the music distribution company UnitedMasters and has worked with several musical artists, including the rappers Jay-Z and Nas. His ad agency’s recent partners include State Farm, the N.F.L., Nike and Anheuser-Busch.

Stoute declined to comment on the financial terms of the deal with the Knicks, but the collaboration, he said, started with his connections to the team’s front office. He convinced the Knicks executives that the team could do more to connect with fans. Stoute was vague about his plans but suggested that a change in social media strategy was coming. (The Knicks declined to comment for this article.)

A core goal of the partnership, Stoute said, is to make the Knicks a desirable destination for free agents again.

“One thing I’ve learned about the organization is they’re going to be aggressive at getting great players and bringing great talent to the city,” Stoute said. “That’s the part of the commitment that fires me up.”

Last summer, after Dolan said during a radio interview that the Knicks were going to have a “very successful off-season,” the team missed out on every superstar free agent. Two of them, Kyrie Irving and Kevin Durant, went to the rival Nets, but Stoute dismissed any notion that the Knicks have a culture problem.

“You know how many teams missed on free agency? Every other team,” Stoute said. “One team got two guys. And the other team — which led to an investigation — got the other guy.” He was referring to Kawhi Leonard’s landing with the Los Angeles Clippers and allegations that people close to him had requested benefits not allowed under league rules.

But the Knicks’ inability to draw top superstars has lasted most of the 21st century, except when they traded for and re-signed a willing Carmelo Anthony in 2011 and 2014 and signed Amar’e Stoudemire in 2010. In October, Durant said in a radio interview that the “whole brand of the Knicks is not as cool as, let’s say, the Golden State Warriors,” the ultimate indictment of a team in a league that prides itself on reaching younger demographics.

“I don’t think that Durant, who moved to the market, can necessarily make that statement in a very factual way,” Stoute said. “That can’t be the case when you see all the business results.”

From that perspective, the Knicks are a resounding success. In most industries, when companies perform poorly for a long time, they go out of business. But the Knicks continue to make more money and haven’t needed to cut prices. The franchise was valued by Forbes last year at $4 billion, the highest in the N.B.A. and up from $3.6 billion the year before. The team is in the biggest media market in the country and has a dedicated, if beleaguered, fan base.

“But brands are also tenuous, and they ebb and flow based on what’s going on,” said Rick Burton, a sports management professor at Syracuse University. “In the case of the Knicks, what’s been happening on the court has not lifted the brand to the levels it’s been at before.”

There are signs that the relationship with consumers is fraying. According to ESPN, the Knicks sell an average of 95.1 percent of their home seats, good for 18th in the 30-team league. This number has declined every year since 2016, when it was 100 percent. In contrast, the Nets have risen from 83.6 percent in 2016 to 92.7 this season. The Knicks rank 11th in attendance, drawing an average of 18,836 people a game. In 2016, that number was 19,812 — fifth in the N.B.A.

Burton said there were ways to improve a team’s brand even if the on-court play remained poor. For example, the Knicks could change the experience at the arena. This could include buzzier halftime acts. Burton cited the model of a minor-league baseball team, which may draw fans more for the chance to enjoy an evening outside than for the quality of the baseball. (One key difference: Minor league baseball games are almost always much cheaper to attend than Knicks games, which can cost individuals and families hundreds of dollars.)

“Steve may come in and say: ‘We can make the game experience better. Even though we can’t control the product on the court, we can give people the perception that they’re getting their money’s worth,’” Burton said.

He continued, “But it’s really hard if the Knicks continue to lose.”

Stoute also seemed to be keenly aware of the fan antipathy toward Dolan, a reclusive owner who has banned fans and Charles Oakley, a popular former player, from Madison Square Garden. At first, Stoute demurred when asked if part of his job was to improve Dolan’s personal brand: “I work for the Knicks and Madison Square Garden. There’s a lot of companies I work for. They’re all owned by somebody. I work for the Knicks and Madison Square Garden.”

But later, in response to another question, Stoute said: “The one thing I would want if I was any sports fan: Is your owner aggressively willing to spend to put winning on the court? Forget the outcome. Is the owner’s mind-set aggressive at winning? We’ve got that.”

Ultimately, though, Burton said, “the owner doesn’t suit up.” Fans buy tickets and turn on the television to watch what the players do. For the last 20 years, that experience has not been pleasant for the loyalists. Asked if he can improve the Knicks brand if the team doesn’t play better, Stoute paused for several seconds. If all goes well, his work will entice the best players in the league to be on the court wearing a Knicks jersey.

“That’s a great marketing question,” Stoute said. “That’s my job. My job is to change public perception so that it does affect the won-loss record.”

from WordPress https://mastcomm.com/the-knicks-are-trying-something-new-a-rebrand/

[123emarket-blog]

Canadian banker snags $750-million in marijuana business as rivals say no

Canadian banker snags $750-million in marijuana business as rivals say no

In a down-and-out Canadian town, Bruce Linton dreamed of transforming an abandoned Hershey Co. chocolate plant into the Next Big Thing, a medical marijuana factory. But the pot entrepreneur faced a crisis typical of his edgy industry: Banks shut their doors in his face. It began with Royal Bank of Canada. The 148-year-old blue-chip company dropped him as a customer when it discovered he ran with the cannabis crowd. “We must regretfully inform you,” read the financial Dear John letter he was sent. Toronto-Dominion Bank, Bank of Montreal - they stiffed him, too. He queried Bank of Nova Scotia and Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce. No luck. Scouring Google, Linton lowered his sights, but the rejections kept piling up, like roaches at a Grateful Dead concert. No “respectable” bank wanted to take a chance on an untried business selling a product with the whiff of vice. Then Linton turned to an old-school credit union - that paragon of community, rectitude, and caution - and found a middle-aged banker named Rob Paterson. The chief executive officer of Alterna Savings & Credit Union Ltd. seemed an unlikely mark. He barely drank and hadn’t smoked a joint since his university days. Paterson was headed out to his car in the parking lot at Alterna’s Toronto office when one of his lieutenants caught up to him and said, “You won’t believe what’s come to us - a weed company.” Initially, Paterson dismissed the idea. But then, like any good banker, he hit the books. He and his crew spent several months studying Linton’s business plan. They scoured the regulations on medical marijuana and even interviewed doctors. Paterson was impressed. He came back to his team and declared: “Look, why would we not do this business?” The marijuana company with the funky name, Tweed Inc., had found its bank. That was three years ago. Since then, Paterson has become the go-to banker for the pot industry, and his first cannabis customer, Linton, the no-longer-desperate marijuana executive, is proud to show off his 650,000-square-foot pot facility in Smiths Falls, Ont. - a burg of 8,885 slowly rebounding from the shutdowns of the Hershey and Stanley Works tool plants a decade ago. “Chocolate Shoppe,” proclaim the golden letters on an interior wall - put there as a tribute to past glory - but Linton’s operation, now demurely christened Canopy Growth Corp., bristles with high-tech equipment; the production area requires a fingerprint scan for access. Inside, rows of lush marijuana plants will be harvested and dried and become fodder for joints and pipes as well as refined into oils for soft-gel capsules to treat chronic pain, nausea from cancer treatment, sleep disorders, and anxiety. Canopy Growth is the world’s largest publicly traded marijuana producer, with a market value of more than C$6 billion ($4.6 billion). But its ticker, WEED, is true to its roots, and, similarly, Linton hasn’t forgotten Paterson and the credit union that made it possible. “I’ve been a walking brochure for them,” he says. The times may be changing for the pot business as countries around the globe shift from locking up dealers to passing legislation for legalization. But banking remains a serious hang-up for an industry that’s set to generate $31.4 billion in annual sales by 2021, according to Brightfield Group, a Chicago-based research firm. In the U.S., marijuana dispensaries have been known to tote bags of cash around to banks to make deposits. That exposes couriers to robbery, gives the businesses a taint of the illicit, and spooks banks that remain wary of the nascent industry following U.S. Attorney General Jeff Sessions’s promise to enforce federal laws banning the plant. “If you’re a major institution, life’s too short to take a risk of being in violation of United States federal banking laws,” says Christopher Barry, a Dorsey & Whitney LLP attorney who advises cannabis companies on cross-border financing and regulatory issues. In this uncertain environment, Canada may offer the sharpest glimpse of the future - and the business opportunities - for financial-services companies willing to take the risk. In 1999, Canada began to allow legal access to medical marijuana. Even so, the industry didn’t take off until 2013, when the government changed regulations to make it simpler for companies to enter the market. At least 20 countries - Australia, Germany, and Mexico among them - and 29 U.S. states have followed suit. Now comes legalized recreational pot. Nine U.S. states and the District of Columbia have taken the step. This year, Canada will become the first country to do so since Uruguay in 2017. Already, Canada has the largest herd of “cannabis ­unicorns” - fledgling publicly traded companies worth $1 billion or more - such as Canopy, Aurora Cannabis, and Aphria. Canadian stock exchanges host at least 85 pot companies, with a combined market value of C$30 billion. As for Alterna, it now has about C$750 million in pot-related loans and deposits. Paterson estimates he banks two-thirds of the almost 100 licensed producers in the business, and Linton isn’t the only one spreading the word. “We’re getting a lot of referrals from accounting and law firms,” Paterson says. “The call to me is always, ‘Hey, hope this doesn’t sound crazy, but I’ve heard you guys are in this industry, and I have a client who’s great but they’re having trouble getting banking services.’ ” In 2016, when word of Alterna’s involvement in the pot banking business started getting out, Paterson expected a backlash, but he encountered none. Still, Kevin Sabet, a former White House drug policy adviser under Presidents George W. Bush and Barack Obama, says banks should steer clear of an industry that remains illegal in much of the world and seeks to profit from a harmful drug. “You now have a financial system with all of its backing promoting an industry that is trying to get rich off of addiction,” says Sabet, co-founder of Smart Approaches to Marijuana, a nonprofit that opposes legalization. “From a public health point of view, that’s a very bad idea.” Others wonder whether Paterson’s fortunes have peaked: The major banks are starting to circle. Bank of Montreal and Toronto-Dominion have quietly been providing some banking services. Even Royal Bank and Scotiabank, which have been steadfast in not helping the industry, now say they’re open to reviewing policies as the laws change. David Baskin, president of Toronto-based money manager Baskin Wealth Management Inc., which has long owned big-bank shares, says the established institutions have so much market power that credit unions such as Alterna can’t hope to match them. “They’ll get left in the dust,” he says. When Paterson isn’t flying across Canada to meet pot executives, he sometimes works from Toronto out of Alterna’s squat, 1970s brown-brick building in an office park near Canada’s busiest airport. (Alterna is headquartered in Ottawa.) It’s a far cry from Paris, where he was born in 1967, the youngest of three sons, to a Canadian mother and a Scottish father who was working there as an executive for International Business Machines Corp. Following a stint in Hong Kong, the family moved to Canada in the mid-1980s. At the University of Western Ontario in London, 110 miles southwest of Toronto, Paterson majored in philosophy and, like so many of his classmates, did a little weed. “It was something every one of us did, experimented in one of the residences, and passing to the left, you know,” he says. “That was it.” After university, Paterson spent 15 years at Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce before working in Asia as a McKinsey & Co. consultant and returning to Canada to join JPMorgan Chase & Co. In 2013, when he was an executive vice president at risk manager Aon Plc in Toronto, a recruiter called with a lead: Would he like to try to turn around Alterna, an underperforming credit union? He took the CEO job in April, slashing 10 percent of operating costs in his first 100 days. Paterson, who had a lifelong interest in tinkering with computers, also embraced digital banking. Alterna’s assets have almost tripled since Paterson joined, climbing to C$6.6 billion as of Dec. 31, and it’s become one of Canada’s 10 largest credit unions. In 2016, Paterson earned C$985,000 from Alterna, making him one of the better-paid heads of Canadian credit unions (though his compensation was about a 12th of that of Royal Bank’s David McKay, the highest-paid bank CEO in the country). That year, the latest period available, Alterna’s annual profit almost tripled, to C$16.3 million, compared with the year before. Paterson’s sparsely furnished ground-floor corner office in Toronto overlooks the parking lot where it all began - or where at least the weed part did. Alterna has a team of six commercial bankers who specialize in the marijuana industry, with clients in British Columbia, Alberta, New Brunswick, Quebec, and Ontario. Paterson has visited at least 20 of the country’s largest cannabis complexes. He’s got final say on the deals. “We can tell someone who’s sophisticated and has the capability to survive and go through the whole process from those that aren’t,” he says. As a credit union, Alterna can’t offer one-stop shopping. It can do chequing and savings accounts, cash management, and credit cards. As its client companies in the marijuana business grow, Paterson will make loans of C$5 million to C$25 million at interest rates 2.5 percentage points to 5.5 percentage points above five-year Canadian government benchmarks, which is about what he’d charge a customer in the real estate business. But for mergers and stock sales, marijuana concerns must look to weed-oriented investment banks such as Canaccord Genuity Group, GMP Capital, and Eight Capital. Does the gap in business offerings mean that Alterna could, in fact, get left behind? In January, Bank of Montreal became the first major bank to arrange a stock sale for a company tied to pot. Its capital markets division helped lead a C$200.7 million equity financing for none other than Canopy Growth, Paterson’s first pot customer. CIBC, Paterson’s old employer and Canada’s fifth-largest lender, was part of a C$20 million credit deal signed last year with producer MedReleaf Corp. Relatively small though it was, that deal was a milestone: It marked the first time a Big Five Canadian bank made a loan to the industry. Although they’ve shied away from pot, U.S. lenders regularly call Paterson for advice on the market he pioneered in Canada. He’s happy to help them plot their strategy south of the border. He’s also heard from some of those Canadian banks that turned down his first client when it was desperate for help for the chocolate factory overhaul. When those calls come in, he gives the titans a taste of their own medicine. With characteristic Canadian understatement, Paterson says, “We don’t tend to be so helpful.” SYMBOL NAME LAST CHANGE % CHANGE WEED-T Canopy Growth Corp 28.55 +0.91increase +3.29%increase RY-T Royal Bank of Canada 98.36 +0.77increase +0.79%increase BNS-T Bank of Nova Scotia 77.88 +0.99increase +1.29%increase BMO-T Bank of Montreal 96.88 +0.93increase +0.97%increase LEAF-T Medreleaf Corp 16.17 +0.43increase +2.73%increase ACB-T Aurora Cannabis Inc 8.18 +0.56increase +7.35%increase Read the full article

[caveartfair]

Meet the Designers behind Your Favorite Book Covers

Consider the book cover: that eye-catching portal into fantastical stories, brutally honest memoirs, and art books brimming with hyper-detailed images of masterpieces.

At their best, covers offer an enticing teaser for what’s to come on a book’s pages, or convey the essence of a story in question. It’s not an easy task, as any book designer will tell you. But it’s certainly a rewarding one.

Below, we talk with five designers whose book jackets are routinely hailed as crowd favorites. Their designs blanket young adult bestsellers like John Green’s Turtles All the Way Down (2017), literary classics like Vladimir Nabokov’s The Eye (1930), and tomes that rethink the form of a book (one comes with a remote control, and drives like a toy car).

Below, they reveal what inspires their designs, how they navigate working with authors and publishing houses, and what happens when they try to communicate everything about a book on its cover (teaser: it doesn’t work).

Rachel Willey

Designs by Rachel Willey.

Design by Rachel Willey.

Design by Rachel Willey.

Design by Rachel Willey.

Design by Rachel Willey.

Before moving to New York City for college, Willey worked in bookstores around her native Southern California for almost seven years. There, she fed her love of novels and nonfiction and developed a new interest in their covers. After an unsatisfying stint in journalism school, she had an epiphany: “That I could still be involved in the creation of a book, but in a more visual way than I had imagined before.” Not long after, Willey began to design striking book jackets—and has continued to ever since.

The Brooklyn-based designer excels at conveying the spirit of a given book through the inventive use of typography. For New People (2017), Willey rendered the novel’s title and its author’s name, Danzy Senna, in bold, off-kilter text that hints at its biracial heroine’s bold personality, as well as her personal struggles and feelings of displacement. On the cover of Priestdaddy (2017), Willey turned the memoir’s provocative title into a gold cursive nameplate necklace that rests on a backdrop of bare, freckled skin. The design alludes to themes of youth, belief, and maturation explored—with no small amount of humor—in writer Patricia Lockwood’s text.

While Willey’s love of books no doubt informs her inspired cover designs, she also admits that this passion can complicate her job. “The most challenging aspect for me is when I love a book and become too close to it,” she confessed. “It’s easy to get hung up on communicating everything you want to about a book, which is pretty much impossible.” Despite this hurdle, Willey can’t help falling for the stories she designs.

“I love books and I think it’s a pretty incredible feat in itself to write one,” she mused. “The most rewarding aspect of designing them for me is that I get to play a tiny part in a process that I find so remarkable.”

Rodrigo Corral

Designs by Rodrigo Corral.

Design by Rodrigo Corral.

Design by Rodrigo Corral.

New York-based Corral has designed a staggering number of the most iconic covers to grace bookshelves over the past 10 years: Jeffrey Eugenides’s The Marriage Plot (2011), Junot Diaz’s The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (2007), and Jay-Z’s Decoded (2010), to name just a few. Often, they fuse bold typography with an image that operates like a logo or spirit animal for the volume it emblazons.

Corral has been working in the publishing industry for two decades, and these days wears many hats: He not only runs his own studio, but also works as the creative director for mega-publisher Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Though he doesn’t only design books, they have become his speciality—and his passion. Corral noted that the most rewarding aspect of his job is “the opportunity to read stories that are about today and also not of this world, and then explore how best to translate them into an image or images.”

The Long Island-raised designer, whose studio is nestled in Manhattan’s financial district and covered with paraphernalia from another personal passion (basketball), has long been attracted to the collaborative nature of book design. A designer like Corral works with not just the author, but also art directors, agents, publishers, and marketing teams to come up with a single cover that captures the thousands of words that comprise a given publication.

Corral’s favorite projects are those in which “we each play a role, but I’m given the freedom to push past the expected,” he said. Indeed, the designer has made a point to continually evolve his aesthetic, and not become trapped in trends.

The covers that result bring together bold typefaces with unorthodox design choices that are nothing short of tantalizing—visual teasers that make readers want to dive into each book to learn more. A 2017 cover for Jeff VanderMeer’s post-apocalyptic fantasy Borne, for instance, pairs a slowly liquefying, neon-hued bird of paradise with a futuristic sans-serif font. Fellow cover designer Alison Forner called it “the most stare-worthy jacket of the year,” one that makes her want to “get lost in the ‘O’ of ‘Borne,’ and inhabit the world this alien plant sprouted from!”

Stefan Sagmeister

Design by Stefan Sagmeister.

Design by Stefan Sagmeister.

Design by Stefan Sagmeister.

Design by Stefan Sagmeister.

Sagmeister approaches book design like he does all of his projects: irreverently. He’s fashioned tomes that readers can drive like remote control cars or even eat off of (thanks to a plastic cover that doubles as a dinner plate). Others are perforated with holes, or coated in three-dimensional extrusions.

It’s safe to say that the publications coming out of Sagmeister & Walsh, Sagmeister’s New York-based creative agency, are anything but typical. But ask the boundary-pushing Austrian designer what drives these projects, and his answer is surprisingly straightforward: “It’s pretty simple: I like books,” he demurred. “It is engaging to design things one likes.”

Sagmeister’s firm prefers to design every page of the books they take on. That said, their covers have become especially iconic, harnessing the essence of each publication with both conceptual rigor and panache.

Take, for example, a 2011 monograph filled with artist Ashley Bickerton’s work. The cover features a photo of Bickerton’s head, painted green, overlaid with colorful custom type. Both elements reflect Bickerton’s paintings: trippy canvases that incorporate doctored self-portraits and allusions to island life. (A limited edition slip-cover, fashioned in teak and mother of pearl, could also be purchased with the volume; together, they went for a cool £2,500.)

Other projects include a book for BMW that came equipped with hidden wheels and a remote control, and the 2011 yearbook of Columbia’s Graduate Architecture School, which had a cover that cheekily featured an image of a potato, “perhaps a fair symbol of the cultivation of ideas and creative solutions,” the Sagmeister & Walsh website states. The entire book was punctured with three massive holes, meant to “connect these ideas with each other.”

While Sagmeister admits that working on books can be “hourly and work intensive”—often requiring the organization of dozens of texts and hundreds of images—they remain a thrilling challenge. Next up, Sagmeister & Walsh is designing a tome about beauty. “We’ll try to make it beautiful,” Sagmeister quipped of the process. Given his track record, it surely will be.

Janet Hansen

Designs by Janet Hansen.

Design by Janet Hansen.

Design by Janet Hansen.

Design by Janet Hansen.

Hansen’s jacket designs are both economical and deeply affecting—like a great poem. It’s no wonder, then, that she’s concocted some of her most spellbinding covers for books of poetry. The New Jersey-based designer, who works for Penguin Books, produced two in 2017, each crowd favorites amongst her peers. For both, she joined solitary, graphic illustrations with elegant typography.

On the cover of Russian poet Vera Pavlova’s Album for the Young (and Old) (2017), Hansen placed a drawing of a human silhouette, created by the author’s child, at its center. She encircled the little pink figure with the book’s title and Pavlova’s name, rendering the the text in a playful, handmade cursive that mirrors the spontaneous quality of the sketch.

The jacket for Anne Michaels’s All We Saw (2017) is equally thoughtful. Hansen illustrated the book of poems about existential quandaries with an image of a hand that holds a star-covered night sky. “As a result, we understand that this book of poems will tell the story of a universal human experience,” her peers at Strick&Williams have noted.

Hansen doesn’t shy away from books that deal in big, sensitive, or painful themes. “I love that my job is to create a visual for stories and ideas that are bigger than me,” she explained. In a cover for Anuk Arudpragasam’s The Story of a Brief Marriage (2016), for instance, two spindly, intersecting lines represent the fragility of the marriage explored in the book—one inspired then broken by the Sri Lankan Civil War.

These days, Hansen is in the process of designing covers for books about “complicity and rape, opioid addiction and war, love and culture shock, and violence and oppression,” she said. “All powerfully urgent stories and ideas that I am grateful to be a part of.”

John Gall

Design by John Gall.

Design by John Gall.

New Jersey-based Gall’s first paying job was as a sign painter, making placards for a grocery store. Later, he landed his first design job, working for a mass-market book publisher. Both roles required him to make work within very specific parameters: the space of a commercial sign, on one hand, and that of a book cover, on the other.

Since then, Gall has designed countless book jackets, from those blanketing classics penned by Vladimir Nabokov, to all of Haruki Murakami’s novels, to the latest best-sellers like Jennifer Egan’s Manhattan Beach (2017). For Gall, the limitations that book design presents—like crafting a compelling image within a six-by-nine-inch rectangle—are appealing. “Since the format is so structured and limited, anytime you can do something ‘new’ is a special victory,” he explained.

The designs Gall has produced over the course of his lengthy career are eclectic and routinely touted as inventive and smart. In 2012, one editor called Gall’s cover for Michel Houellebecq’s The Map and the Territory “so different from anything else that it begs to be studied closely and then taken home” and one that “strides boldly into the realm of fine art.” At its center is a captivating, if confounding, photo collage, in which a hand and half of a face meld into one. The image levitates behind the book’s title and against a snowy backdrop.  

Many of Gall’s most riveting covers layer found, vintage images inspired by his passion for collage. A redesigned cover for Nabokov’s The Eye (1930), for instance, resembles the kind of box that holds taxidermied insects: The title of the book looks as if it’s pinned atop an illustration of an eye. The concept was sparked by Gall’s knowledge that Nabokov was not only a writer, but a butterfly collector, too.

Since 2012, Gall has been the creative director for Abrams Books, where he recently shepherded his fellow cover designer Paul Sahre’s memoir, Two-Dimensional Man (2017), into being. Among many other projects, he is currently editing and designing a book about ink-making (“Yes! You can make your own ink!” he quipped), as well as piecing together a publication featuring his own collages, many of which hint at the process and motivation behind Gall’s best cover designs.

from Artsy News