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ladynestaarcheron · 5 years ago

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Like Pristine Glass - Chapter Eleven

ao3 - ff.net - masterpost (ff.net isn’t working for me rn, so i’ll update chapter eleven there probably tomorrow)

(tagging these cuties: @humanexile @skychild29 @rhysandsdarlingfeyre @candid-confetti @rhysandsrightknee @missing-merlin @azriels-forgotten-shadow @books-and-cocos @sezkins79 @city-of-fae @someonemagical @dusty-lightbulb @messyhairday-me)

hey hey hey!! i’m back with chapter eleven after only two weeks!! i was actually procrastinating writing my poetry essay and working on my novel by writing this, so that counts as productivity, right?

thanks to my fantabulous beta @thestarwhowishes and thank to you all for reading!! i am just floored by all of your support, it means so much to me!!

(and psst!! if you like my writing maybe try out my sideblog where i post original content @liorzoewrites)

anyway, chapter eleven! enjoy!

---

November 2 - 4 years after

When Hazar finally arrives at the shop, Maz, Amir, and Xeyale start to tell the whole staff what happened at Amalike Orchards’ berry fair.

“Chokecherry already had booths set up when we got there,” Maz says, grimacing. “With Morrisey’s new novel.”

“And they had agents with them,” Xeyale adds.

Adil frowns. “What do you mean, agents?”

“Publishing agents.”

“They were signing authors at the fair?” Hazar asks, disbelief all over his normally cheerful face.

“Not exactly,” Xeyale says.

“They were taking in manuscripts,” Amir says. “For short stories, we think. We think their plan is to publish a collection of them.”

“And that’s their brilliant archiving strategy?” Nesta says. “Just taking any short story from any writer who shows up at the berry fair and tying it all together into a book?” She shares a look with Adil. No one appreciates the art of literature anymore.

“It is a brilliant strategy,” Hazar says, reluctant to admit it.

“We think so, too,” Amir says, and Xeyale nods behind them. Before any of them can protest, Amir raises their hands in surrender. “Look, you’re all archivists. Readers. Some of you are writers. But from publishing and marketing standpoints...it goes faster. If one author writes a three hundred page novel, that one author has to have a good idea and a good execution. Or people won’t buy it. But if you get ten authors each writing thirty pages...even if four of them aren’t that great, people will still buy it for the sixth.”

“Or one big name author with a few other smaller ones,” Hazar says. “That’ll sell just the same.”

“But the same number of books get sold,” Adil says. “Don’t they lose money, with all the authors they have to pay per book?”

“More books get sold,” Hazar says.

“It suits a larger audience,” Nesta realizes. “So more people buy it.” Because those six authors they’ll buy the book for are different authors for everyone.

Sometimes Nesta hates individual taste. Especially if it’s poor.

Adil puts his head in his hands. “How many publishing agents do they have?”

“Not many,” Maz says. “We only saw three at the fair.”

“For all those new authors?”

“I imagine the authors aren’t treated very well,” Hazar says, frowning slightly. “But they might not care, if they get published quickly.”

“That’ll be bad for them in the long run, though,” Leyla says, speaking up.

“I agree with you, but again, they might not care.”

“Do we have to start publishing short story collections?” Zeyn asks.

Nesta thinks about what would go into that. They would need to find so many new authors. Sugar Books--and Adil--believes in the separation of genre, so they couldn’t just cram any random ten stories together. It would go against their idea of what the literary world should be. What would that take, to find a variety of authors who write on the same subject, with the enough of the same general style to create harmony, but each unique enough to justify its presence in the book?

She shivers involuntarily, very thankful for Cassian’s shared account.

"We’ll definitely have to start signing more authors,” Adil decides. “We’ll...send out scouts.”

“To Chokecherry?” Maz says.

“No,” Adil says. “But everywhere else. Where authors frequent. We’ll have to go overtime on reading manuscripts. But we will not--” he slams his hand down on the table quite suddenly, startling them all “--compromise on the integrity and quality of literature.”

“Hear, hear!” Zeyn calls, and Nesta suppresses a smile. He catches it and winks at her.

“We’ll split up. Xeyale, Amir, and Nesta, you’ll stay and run the shop. Hazar, you stay here, too, and wait for our new clients. Miri and I will go to Berries’ Rivers, Maz, you go to Privet Falls, Leyla, Wintergreen Glen, and Zeyn, Juniper Hills. We’re talent scouting. Find places authors frequent, approach them, if they’re any good, send them here.” He looks at them all intently.

Zeyn and Nesta exchange a glance.

“Ah, Adil,” Zeyn says, rather timid. “You do know that that’s insane, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he says, already making to leave the room and go back to his office.

“All the gods,” Hazar says, standing up. “I’ve got to go get a cup of coffee.” And he leaves too.

“I mean, that’s insane, right?” Zeyn says.

“I think we’re all in agreement of that, yes,” Leyla says, nodding.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Miri says.

They all look at her.

"Maybe it’s time for a change,” she defends. “Maybe this is the way to do it. This is what they do in the acting industry, right?”

“But this isn’t the acting industry.”

“He’s really stressed about this,” Miri says. “He doesn’t want this place to lose anymore than Chokecherry has already taken from it.” He doesn’t want any of you to lose anymore than Chokecherry has taken, she doesn’t say, but they all see it in her eyes. “I think it will work.” She stands. “And at any rate...it’s what we’re doing.” She leaves.

“I hate what this is doing to everyone,” Maz complains, and Nesta hates to agree with him, but she does too.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be the only archivist while you’re all off turning into the acting industry,” she says, shaking her head.

Zeyn and Leyla laugh.

"Don’t worry,” Xeyale says, grinning at her. “We’ll be here to keep you company.”

“A real comfort,” she says dryly. She stands too. “Well, I suppose we’ve got work to do. We need to find all the places...authors frequent.” She rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, in a fifty mile radius,” Maz grumbles. “This is never going to work.”

“Don’t say that,” Zeyn says lightly. “It might. And wouldn’t it be great? To discover new talent like that?”

Nesta knows the question isn’t directed at her, but she wonders anyway--what would it be like? In publishing? She didn’t think she’d like archiving before she started; she thought reading was the only thing she enjoyed.

That’s not something she can explore now, though, and that’s why Adil is having her stay here. So she shakes herself and goes to find maps of the surrounding towns.

---

November 20 - Year of

She avoided him for days after she snapped. He caught her in the living room when she came back from work one day.

“Wait, Nesta,” he said, jumping to his feet as soon as she walked in.

Nesta stifled a groan. She didn’t want to have this conversation.

She didn’t like that tentative, detached politeness. She was angry.

(And Cassian was anything but tentative and detached. It felt abnormal sharing that with him.)

“Please,” he said. “I just wanted to apologize.”

Nesta said stiffly, “Don’t worry about it,” and tried to push past him.

“No, Nesta,” he said, raising his hands and blocking her path to the hallway. “Not for breakfast. I mean, yes for breakfast, but also...for everything. For bringing you here. For...leaving you here.”

She froze. He did too.

She moved her eyes from his face. She couldn’t look at him.

Why was everything so hot all of a sudden?

“I...should have known this wasn’t the right thing to do,” he said, slowly, carefully. Nesta could tell he was thinking hard about each word before he said it. “To bring you here and leave you alone. Here, of all places. We thought...I thought it would be good for you. I thought...you would have space and maybe you would want to train and that would be a good outlet for you the same way it is for me and you’d get....”

Better, he didn’t say.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was hoarse and Nesta was scared to look at him so she didn’t.

He sat back down. “That’s...all I wanted to say,” he said lamely.

Nesta kept her eyes averted as she nodded slightly and ducked into the hall, into her room, shutting the door behind her.

He apologized.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

And he certainly seemed sorry--just by his voice, of course, because she hadn’t seen his face.

He’d thought she might want to train...he didn’t know her at all, clearly. And he hadn’t mentioned all of it; not all that happened in Velaris and the fact that she was this thing now, but she was glad of it, because all he did say was nearly too much to bear.

And she couldn’t spend the rest of her night going over everything, playing it all back in her head until she knew the words by heart, so she tried to best to put it all out of her mind.

Because...was she supposed to forgive him now?

---

November 2 - 4 years after

The staff is gone later that day, as Adil is determined to discover five brilliant new authors before the month is over. Nesta is glad Miri is going with him; she might talk some sense into him.

“Does he actually think Gilameyva’s just bleeding ingenious writers?” Leyla had muttered to her before they all left.

Nesta laughed a little. “He’s just anxious,” she said, echoing Miri.

"I can’t believe I have to go to Wintergreen Glen. It’s so boring.”

"Well, maybe you’ll find a whole new world to fall into.”

"Right. I’m sure we’ll find the next Morrissey in Wintergreen Glen.”

"Why not?” Zeyn had said, appearing next to them. “Morrisey’s from Privet Falls.”

And Morrissey, Nesta thinks to herself as she walks back home, isn’t even that great of a writer.

She doesn’t have to pick up the children from nursery because Cassian’s already got them. It’s quite nice, actually, to be able to spend a little while longer at work locking up and stop for a coffee from Jamal’s without worrying too much.

Aysel is there, too, and she walks back with her. “So,” she says to her, eager to get to the point after what was surely a painful exchange of pleasantries for the town’s resident busybody, “I hear that Cassian of yours has been staying for quite some time.”

"He comes and goes.”

"He’s been here a week.”

“That’s true,” she says.

“I saw him today. He picked the children up. Oh, they’re so cute, you know. Just the sweetest little things.”

“I agree with you.”

“You do such a good job with them!”

“Thank you, Aysel.”

“I remember when they were born. Ooh, Ollie was so tiny, do you remember?”

“Their birth?” Nesta laughs. “Vividly.”

Aysel laughs too, in that hurried way she always does. “Of course, of course. He’s so big now.”

“He is,” she agrees. She can’t believe it, sometimes, how much they have grown in three years. Especially Ollie; he had been so small.

“And his father,” Aysel says, in a tone she thinks is supposed to be sly. “Well, he’s not small, is he?”

“He’s tall,” Nesta says neutrally.

“ Very tall. Probably the tallest person in Sugar Valley, ever.”

“We had some tall people in for the last Berry Fair.”

“Tallest one now.”

“Probably.”

“How tall do you think your boys are going to be?”

“I don’t know.”

“And Ava?”

“Taller than I am, I hope.”

“Oh, don’t say that, dearie. You’re such a darling height.”

They reach their street then, and Nesta might’ve invited her for strawberry tea and jam, but she’s not going to. Confirming personally that Cassian is her children’s father to Aysel is one thing, inviting her inside to meet him is quite another.

“Well, have a good evening, Aysel,” she says.

“You too, dearie. Kisses to the babies!”

She waves at her over her shoulder and strides up to her porch.

She might’ve guessed something is wrong by the fact that she can’t hear any noise from the inside, but she knows for sure because Cassian rips the door open as soon as she reaches it. His face is pale.

Nesta’s heart drops. “What is it?” A million different scenarios run through her mind, each one worse than the last.

“Come inside,” is all he says.

They rush up the stairs, Nesta’s pulse going faster than it ever has before when he leads her up the stairs and to her children’s bedroom. She braces herself as best she can for when she goes inside, but she knows there isn’t a good way to prepare.

But they’re all there...whole. In three perfect pieces. Nicky and Ollie laying in the beds, Avery standing in between them, her hand on Nicky’s form.

She looks at Cassian, his face still ashen. “What?” she asks.

His eyes widen. “They’re sick!”

Nesta throws a hand to her forehead. For mercy’s sake. “Don’t,” she says, rubbing her temples, “ever deliver news to me that way.”

Her heartbeat back to normal, she joins Avery in the middle of her sons’ beds. She settles herself on her knees and pulls her close. She doesn’t feel hot.

"How are you feeling, ladybug?”

"Good,” she says, slightly muffled against Nesta’s body. She looks up at her. “Nicky and Ollie are sick.”

"Yes,” she says, nodding. Then she looks at Cassian. “It’s flu season.”

"Emilia’s sick, too.”

"Yes,” she says, still looking pointedly at Cassian. “Probably the flu, poor thing.”

He glares at her, but she can see his coloring darkens slightly, which probably would have delighted her once.

She doesn’t hate it, now.

She puts her hand on Nicky’s forehead and then Ollie’s. A fever, each of them. Ollie is sleeping soundly, and Nicky seems like he’ll fall asleep soon.

"Mummy will bring you something to drink,” she whispers to him, dropping a kiss on his forehead.

She leads Avery and Cassian out of the room.

“I don’t want to be sick.”

“You won’t,” she assures her. “You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want my brothers to be sick.”

Nesta feels the same rush of overwhelming emotion she always does when her children express how much they love each other. “Don’t worry,” she says to her, smiling. “They’ll be better soon. Why don’t you go play outside for a bit?”

“Are you out of your mind?” she says to Cassian when she’s gone. “Do you know what went through my head?”

"They’re sick!”

“Children get sick! People get sick! They’ll get better!”

“Well, I’ve never had children get sick before!”

Nesta softens at the fear in his voice, shining through his eyes as well. “They’ll be fine,” she says in a more gentle tone. “It’ll be a few days...it’s properly miserable to see them, but they’ll be fine. I only don’t want to keep Avery here...I don’t want her to get sick, too. Normally I’d ask Miri and Adil,” she says, talking more to herself. “But they’re gone, and I can’t ask Amorette. I guess I’ll keep her in my room. Oh, and I’ll have to stay here. Oh, but I’m alone at the store....”

"You’re alone at the store?”

"Yes, Adil’s got everyone traipsing around the country, looking for authors,” she says, waving a hand. “Unless...when are you going back?”

“Not before they’re better.”

Nesta straightens. That was the right answer. “Well, could you watch them during the day?”He nods, his expression casual, but Nesta can tell he’s terrified.

"It’s really not that big of a deal,” she says. “I’ll show you which medication to give them, how often. I’ll make soup. They’ll need fluids. Oh, and Nicky can’t have plain water when he’s sick, he’ll need tea...I’ll write this down for you...but it’s not like I’m going to be leaving you alone,” she adds at the sight of him. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere. Just work.”

“I know,” he says. Hesitates. “I just...”

“What?”

“I’m...worried.”

Nesta puts down the pen she’s picked up and crosses the room to his side. She moves her hand to take his, but thinks better of it. “You don’t need to. They’ll be fine. So will you. You’ve been...” her eyes dart around the room, but she meets his gaze when she says, “very helpful. This week.”

His head lifts slightly, and that all-too-familiar cocky grin appears. “Yeah?”

“Yes. In fact...” Now Nesta hesitates. “Maybe...if you would feel comfortable...you could spend the night with Avery at Miri’s house?”

His grin slides off his face.

“If it’s too soon,” she says quickly, “then--you know what? Forget--”

“No!” he says. “No, I can! I can--sure. At Miri’s...yes. I can. I know what she needs. I can...yes.”

“All right,” she says, relieved somewhat. “I’ll...make you a list.”

“Okay.”

“And...she’ll have flying lessons tomorrow. Maybe you’d like to go with her? And I’ll stay home with the boys?”

Nesta’s never seen his eyes light up the way they do now.

---

November 12 - 1 year after

She didn’t feel exactly ill, but she felt off. Like the world had been tilted a few degrees. She had been hungrier than normal for her the past week or so, but it’s not till that day she wondered if something was wrong with her.

Only briefly. Then she pushed the thought aside. Things were going well, and she didn’t need to look for something to be upset about.

"Good morning, Nesta,” Zeyn greeted her cheerfully. How was he always so happy all the time? It was jarring.

"Hello, Zeyn,” she said, rubbing her temples.

“Headache?”

“No...” she said, because her head didn’t hurt, it just felt...weird. “Just tired.” Perhaps that was it.

“I’ve got a lot of new books today. Maybe you’d like to read one. Do you like mystery?”

“It’s all right,” she said. Most mystery novels were predictable to her. “I’ve got to finish mine, though.”

“How have you been with all those?” he asked, following her to the back room.

All that is Holy, she thought. “It’s going well, thanks.” It was reading. And fixing up books. And setting a price. As long as you could read, it wasn’t hard.

“I just get so overwhelmed sometimes,” he said. “You know, all those books. In such a short amount of time. And how do you set a price!”

“Length and demand,” she said, frowning slightly. How else would you set a price?

“Yes, but it’s hard to foresee demand at a store that sells used books,” he said. “I imagine it’s even more so for you, because human-authored books are so unpopular. Not that they aren’t good! Just so, I guess, uncommon. Yes, that’s the word. It’s rare to come across one. But now that the Wall is down, we might trade more. It’d be really fascinating, don’t you think, to see what books are popular with humans. Don’t you think? Nesta?”

“Just...” Nesta said, “I. Oh. Oh, I have to...” she trailed off, not being able to hear herself suddenly.

“Here, lie down.” She could feel a pair of warm, strong hands lower her gently to the ground. Oh, it felt so-- wrong , to be touched like that. By another male’s hands. Oh, she didn’t like it...

The room was spinning. She could hear more voices. Emerie was yelling. No, not Emerie. Not Emerie, right? Who was that? Who was speaking?

Someone was saying her name. Someone...but she couldn’t hear.

And then she couldn’t see.

---

November 2 - 4 years after

Cassian’s still has yet to regain his power of speech, but it doesn’t matter, because Ava keeps the conversation going on her own.

“And I will put my horse here, and I will put my dog here, and I will put my owl here...” she sing-songs, placing her stuffed animals in various spots on the bed he has set up for her in Miri’s house.

She’s ready to go to sleep, after being fed and bathed at Nesta’s house. But she wants to set up the room the way she likes it first.

"And I want...my giraffe.”

“Your giraffe?” Cassian repeats, looking around. “I don’t see...”

“Nicky has it.”

“Nicky has it?”

“Yes.”

“But Nicky’s at home.”

“Let’s go get it.”

“Well,” he says, wishing Nesta were here, “we’ll go home tomorrow morning, and we’ll bring your giraffe then.”

Ava looks outraged. “I want it now!”

She hadn’t mentioned this. Nesta didn’t say anything about a giraffe. And he’s never been out with Ava before; how was he supposed to know? “But...we’ll let Nicky have it. Because he’s sick. Just for tonight.” Maybe that tactic will work?

Ava considers it. “Tomorrow I will get my giraffe?”

He’s nothing if not strategic. “Yes. Tomorrow.”

“Not tonight?”

“No, not tonight.”

Ava thinks some more. “All right, tomorrow.”

Cassian breathes a sigh of relief. Ava’s been throwing crisis after crisis at him. He feels like a novice, back when he did simulations. When his commanders had given them every possible thing that could go wrong, all at the same time. There was an Illyrian expression that loosely translated into “difficult training makes for an easy battle”--but there is no training for parenting and it is by no definition an easy battle.

“Tell me a story,” she orders him when he finally convinces her to get into bed.

Cassian nods. Nesta had told him one as they packed, reciting the important lines a few times over for him to memorize. “I’ll tell you the one about Jack,” he says.

“No, I don’t want Jack.”

Fantastic.

"Well,” he says, trying to keep a level head. “What...story do you want?”

“Not a Mummy story.”

“What’s a Mummy story? Oh, not one of Mummy’s stories.” She wants one of his? Nesta wouldn’t like him telling any Illyrian tales...and he doesn’t think it’s a particularly good idea either. “Maybe...” Cassian rack his brain. He has stories, doesn’t he? One of them must be child-friendly. Or he can edit it to make it so.

Had he ever gone on some sort of quest that didn’t end in bloodshed?

“Not too long ago,” he says, in the way Illyrian tales always start, realizing as he begins that it’s quite eerie, but no matter, “there was a male who loved a female very much. And the female loved...very much...more than anything in the world...chocolate.”

Ava laughs. “I love chocolate!”

“You do? Well, the female loved chocolate so much, but there was one type of chocolate she loved more than all the others. But she hadn’t had it since she was a little girl, and she now lived very far away from the place where they made it. One day, she was very sad...and he knew only that chocolate would make her happy again. So he decided he would travel to find it.

“He had to cross an ocean and many lands, for only one tiny little town across the world made this exact kind of chocolate. When he got to the tiny town, he searched and searched for the chocolate shop. And then...he found it. And he bought some chocolate...and he brought it home...and then the female was happy again,” he finishes lamely.

Ava looks at him, unimpressed. He doesn’t blame her. Although in his defense, it had been more exciting when it had actually happened.

“Tell it again!” she says.

He does, trying to make it sound better this time around, but he isn’t very good at it. He might’ve laced the story with bits and pieces of other (real) quests he had been on, but he isn’t sure what he’s allowed to say.

After the second time, Ava looks at him thoughtfully. “That was not a good story,” she tells him.

He laughs a little. “I’m sorry. Should I tell you the story about Jack?”

“Yes!”

He recites the story Nesta had told him, exactly the way she had instructed, and Ava is thrilled. She laughs and claps along.

"Again!” she says when he finishes. And again and again.

Until he says, “It’s time for you to go to sleep, now, Ava.”

"So let’s go home.”

“We’re sleeping here tonight, Ava, remember?”

To his horror, her eyes well up with tears. “I want to go home with Mummy and Nicky and Ollie.”

“Don’t cry,” he says, fretting. “Don’t--it’s okay, don’t--oh....”

“I don’t--want--to stay here,” she sobs. “I want to go home!”

“I’m sorry...we’ll go home tomorrow, Ava.”

“I want my giraffe!”

“But we said we’d let Nicky have the giraffe tonight, don’t you remember?” he says desperately. But Ava doesn’t care. He can’t quite make out exactly what she’s saying and he doesn’t know what to do.

So he picks her up out of bed and lays her against his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says, trying to bounce her. That’s how to calm children down, right?

“I don’t want to stay here all by myself!” Her cries are muffled against him.

“Well, you’re not all by yourself,” he says. “I’m here. I’m staying with you.” Would that be enough? Please let that be enough. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if that’s not good enough for her. Just for one night.

She sniffles a little and lifts her head, looking up at him with his own eyes. Except so innocent, so pure. “Can I sleep in your bed?” she asks, voice still wavering.

Relief crashes over him. “Sure,” he says. “Of course.”

The smile she gives him is vibrant, and he marvels at how little he loved her at the beginning of the week compared to now.

---

November 30 - Year of

She’d told her sister, once, that the last thing she would want would be to be remembered as a coward. She felt like one now.

Like a coward and angry and hurt, perhaps, more than anything. Which made her feel stupid.

Sometimes Nesta thought she felt too much.

After Cassian had apologized, she’d fled to her room and avoided him successfully for over a week. It was made easier by the fact that he did have to leave a few times during the week, to one of those neighboring camps he always went off to.

She didn’t want to think about it. Especially the pain. Because if he had hurt her...she didn’t let herself finish the thought.

But one afternoon, at work, while counting out jackets in the back, she heard Emerie say, “What are you doing here?”

And then she heard him reply, “I came to see Nesta.”

She nearly dropped the jacket she was holding. She normally felt him before she heard him. Where had that gone? It was of no use to her when they were both in the house, and now it was too late to sneak out the back, because he was coming.

"Nesta,” he said, pushing open the door.

“The sign says ‘employees only’,” she blurted out, which she knew was the stupidest thing she could have said, but it was too late.

“Emerie said I could go in.”

Traitor.

“I needed to talk to you.”

“It couldn’t wait? I’m working.” Perhaps he’d make some snide comment about working in a clothier as opposed to being the Night Court’s Emissary and then she could pick a fight over that and kick him out of the shop and they’d go back to the way things were when she got here. Except she’d have Emerie and her drinking habit more under control, so it’d be better.

But he just said, “I know. I’m sorry, it couldn’t wait. I’ll be leaving again soon. For about five days, I think. Maybe longer. And I couldn’t go without...” he trailed off. Ran a hand through his hair and let out a frustrated sound. “I keep doing things wrong with you, Nesta.

She averted her gaze. She couldn’t do this. This was too much. And if he mentioned...that day...the battlefield...she didn’t know what she would do.

But he did.

“I promised you time, once,” he said softly.

No. No, she could not do this.

“I have to go,” she managed. She pushed past him, quickly, careful not to touch him.

“Wait, Nesta, please--”

“Nesta,” Emerie said, turning as she entered the room. “Where are you--?”

But Nesta didn’t stay to hear her finish. Instead, she ran.

---

November 3 - 4 years after

This time it is Nesta who rips open the door as soon as she hears Cassian approaching.

“Mummy!” Avery calls, reaching her arms out for her.

“Hi, ladybug,” Nesta croons. She holds her tightly against herself. “I missed you so much.”

She had regretted sending Cassian out with her the moment they had gone. She hadn’t spent a night away from them, ever. She had never not tucked them into bed. And now...Avery had had a night without her. It felt like she should look different. There should be some mark upon her face.

But her daughter looks just as she did last night, just as cheerful and chattery. Cassian looks relatively unscathed, too, if a bit tired.

“Did you have fun?” she asks her as she ushers them inside.

“Appa told me a boring story,” Avery says, and wiggles out of Nesta’s arm onto the ground. “I want some orange juice in my purple cup, please.”

“Boring story?” Nesta says to Cassian.

“She didn’t want yours. And I didn’t want to tell her something you wouldn’t approve of. She still asked for it again, anyway,” he says defensively.

Nesta looks at him. “And you told it to her?”

“Yes.” Now he looks unsure. “And then she wanted yours...so I told that one, like, three times.”

Nesta shakes her head. She looks at Avery. Her daughter knows how to get what she wants, that’s for sure. “Did she ask to sleep in your bed, too?”

“...is that bad?”

Nesta rolls her eyes. Avery wraps everyone she meets around her little finger. Why should her father be any different?

“How are Nicky and Ollie?” he asks.

"Still ill,” she says. “The main thing is just to keep them on a constant stream of fluids so they don't dehydrate. Soup, if they feel up for it. Talk to them if you can, but they might be too tired.”

“Shouldn’t we take them to a healer?”

She hadn’t realized how much she’d appreciate hearing him say we . “We don’t need to,” she says. “It’s the common flu. They’ll be fine.”

“So...you never take them to the healer? If they have the flu?”

“It’s not necessary if it lasts only a couple of days,” she reminds him, “for adults and children both.”

“Infants--”

“Not the same,” she explains patiently. “They can digest medication. Infants can’t.”

She finishes putting Avery’s breakfast in front of her. “When you’re done, Mummy will take you to nursery.”

“I want to say hello to Nicky and Ollie.”

“Finish your breakfast and then go,” she says to her. Then she says to Cassian, “Well, other than that...how was it?”

“She cried,” he admits. Then he grins. “But I calmed her down.”

“By letting her sleep in your bed.”

“Why is that not allowed?”

Nesta shakes her head again. “You were only with her. What if they all wanted to sleep in your bed?”

“What then?”

“They would kick you out and you would end up on the floor.” Nesta had thought moving them into their own beds would be a hard step, and it was, but as soon as she woke up from her first night alone in over two years, she didn’t miss it anymore.

Cassian laughs. “I can take them.”

Nesta hides a smile. “Finish up, Avery,” she says. “It’s almost time to go.”

She busies herself around the kitchen with nothing in particular, just feeling his eyes on her.

---

November 12 - 1 year after

She could hear everyone around her before she could see them. Low, hushed voices. Some whirring sound, too. She shivered from the cold and from something else.

“Oh, she’s waking up,” she heard someone whisper.

“Nesta?” another voice said. Miri, from Sugar Books. What was she doing here?

Nesta opened her eyes. Where was here, exactly?

Here was a small room Nesta didn’t recognize. Pale blue walls decorated with tiny sugar berries; the sheets on the bed she was lying on the same design. The curtains on the window were a cheerful yellow and the expressions on Zeyn and Miri’s faces were anything but.

“Can you hear us, Nesta?”

Nesta struggled to sit upright. “Of course I can hear you,” she said, grumbling slightly. “What are these?” She shook her arm as she spoke, at the needles prodded inside her. She was in an infirmary of some kind. She vaguely remembered blacking out at the store, but since she could feel no pain, she assumed she was fine. Probably just dehydrated. After all, she had been Made. The epitome of perfection, was she not? She didn’t get sick anymore.

“Fluids,” Zeyn said unhelpfully.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course they were fluids. But Zeyn was harmless, if annoying, and she didn’t want to start an antagonistic relationship with the coworker who clearly liked her best.

“You blacked out,” Miri said, her wide dark eyes searching Nesta’s face. “We brought you to the clinic. A healer is seeing to you. Her name’s Amorette. She’s fairly new here, but I’ve been told she’s very good.”

Nesta nodded. “Thank you for bringing me here,” she said, hoping they’ll hear the dismissal.

They do. “Feel better, Nesta,” Zeyn said, reaching her hand to squeeze it. She tried not to flinch.

“We’ll be by to check in on you,” Miri said.

Oh, for the love of all things Holy. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She smiled as she spoke, hoping she did so normally.

Cassian used to make fun of her forced smiles. You look like you’re in pain.

Why was she thinking of him all of a sudden?

They left as the healer stood in the room. She looked to be about Nesta’s age--although with Fae, you couldn’t really tell, could you? But at any rate, a pretty, High Fae female, with light blue eyes and blond hair that kept tied at the nape of her neck.

“Good afternoon, Miss Archeron,” the healer said. “I’m Amorette Dadashov. I’ll be your healer today. May I come in?”

Nesta raised an eyebrow. “Sure,” she said, pleasantly surprised at the healer asking permission.

Healer Dadashov closed the door behind her. She was holding a notebook in her hand. “I can see all your vitals have returned to normal,” she said, without checking them like a mortal nurse would have to. “All things considered.”

"All things considered?”

“Yes,” she said, flipping through the pages of her book. “I understand you’re new in town?”

What on Earth did that have to do with anything? “Yes.”

“And, forgive me, you’re here alone?”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“And you’ve not been to our clinic yet, correct?”

“Correct.” Shouldn’t that all be in her book? Why is she asking all this?

“So your options have not yet been explained to you?” Dadashov looked Nesta in the eye as she spoke.

Nesta’s patience was wearing thin. “Look,” she snapped, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’d very much like if you could just tell me what happened and what I have to do so it doesn’t happen again and let me go. Please,” she added as an afterthought. It didn’t sound very gracious.

Dadashov’s eyes widened. “Miss Archeron,” she said, not quite stuttering but certainly with none of the confidence she’d had before. “You do...I mean...you know that you’re pregnant?”

Nesta’s favorite book as a child was about magic. It wasn’t called magic, of course, for in the tiny human section of their island, magic was shunned. But that power to manipulate nature; that was what it was. The heroine was a girl named Avery, and Avery’s villain was a woman who could make things vanish. The most terrifying part of the story, in eight-year-old Nesta’s opinion, was the part where the villain made the floor vanish right from underneath Avery, and she fell and fell for miles until she could get her magic working to pull herself back up.

Nesta felt that. But there was no one to pull her back up. Because she was alone. There was only falling.

“I...can see you did not know,” Dadashov said softly. “All right, well...” She pulled a chair towards the bed and sat down. She gripped Nesta’s hands, hers a warm peach next to Nesta’s stark white. “It’s going to be all right,” she said soothingly. “The clinic is very well prepared for any option you choose. We have three healer’s for female reproduction, myself included. We’re all more than capable of treating you in whatever...oh, dear. Here,” she said, passing her a wad of tissue paper.

“Oh,” Nesta said, taking some and wiping her eyes. “Oh, er, tha--”

But she choked on her words.

What was she supposed to do?

“I can’t be pregnant,” she whispered aloud. Because she couldn’t. Then she realized--she truly couldn’t. “This...can't be possible. I haven’t...been with anyone in months.” Even with the gravity of the situation, Nesta still felt a slight blush creep up on her cheeks. Perhaps she had not entirely thrown out the excessive modesty of her upbringing with her few months of numerous partners in Velaris, and the few months living with Cassian.

Oh, Mother. Cassian.

“It’s...possible for a female to get pregnant months after intercourse,” the healer said slowly, carefully, like Nesta was an idiot.

“It is?” she replied, feeling like one.

“Yes.”

Of course, Nesta thought, thinking it through. Because her cycle was so slow...and that meant her whole system was so slow...and if pregnancy once would have occurred a few days after sex, now it happened months.

And she had stopped taking the potion. Because she had stopped sleeping with people. But that didn’t matter, because it had only been...Nesta counted backwards in her head...a month since she had last slept with Cassian.

(A month? Had it really only been a month?)

Nesta put her head in her hands. “All right,” she said, summoning her nerve. “Tell me about the other two healers.”

“Well,” Dadashov said, slightly taken aback, “there’s Huseyn Por--”

“Male.”

“Er, yes.”

“No. The other one.”

"Marya Kamal. She’s brilliant, one of the best in the field. We’re lucky to have her. Her studies--”

“How old is she?”

“Er,” Dadashov said, eyes darting around. “I believe...twelve-hundred, or so?”

“No. You, then. All right.” Nesta paused to take a deep breath. “I don’t know anything about faerie reproduction. I wasn’t born faerie. And I...can’t have this baby.”

Eugh, why did she say baby?

Dadashov’s eyes go even wider.

She’s a patient from Hell, she imagined. But Healers liked a challenge, didn’t they?

---

November 3 - 4 years after

The day spent with his sons is miserable. He sits with them all day, talking to them while they’re awake and running his hands down their backs while they sleep. Nicky seems to be doing a little better towards the late afternoon, and sits up to have soup, but Ollie barely takes the water Cassian makes him drink.

He’s beyond relieved when Nesta and Ava come home.

Ava rushes up the stairs ahead of Nesta. “We’re going to flying lessons now, Appa,” she sing-songs. “We’re going now, we’re going now, we’re going now.”

"Hi, angels,” Nesta says, coming into the room and sitting by Nicky. “How are you feeling?” she asks him, putting a hand on his forehead.

“Better,” he says, but his voice is still so weak.

Nesta kisses the top of his head and hugs him. “What about a bath? Would that make you feel better.”

He shrugs into her.

“I think it would,” she says, standing up. “How’s Ollie?”

“Sleeping, mostly.”

“Poor angel,” she sighs. “All right, you go on to flying lessons. Have fun, Avery. Say hello to Madam Sabina for me.”

“Bye-bye, Nicky! Bye-bye, Mummy! Let’s go now, Appa!”

Ava takes his hand and starts dragging him towards the door. “Bye,” he says over his shoulder. “We’ll come back soon.”

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go now!”

Ava keeps up variations of her chant until they arrive at one of the parks where flying lessons commence. The children all look to be around her age, accompanied by a parent or two. They’re all various types of lesser fae, none of the likes of which he’s seen in the Night Court.

Madam Sabina is a round, pink female with large, feathery wings.

“Hello,” he says, introducing himself. “I’m here with Ava.”

“You’re her father?”

“Yes. Nesta’s at home. With the boys. They’re sick.”

“Ah, flu’s going around. All right, then. Normally I fly with the triplets, but good. You’ll do it. Wonderful. Are you excited to fly with your Daddy, Ava?”

“He’s my Appa,” she says. And then she starts singing again, “We’re at flying lessons now, we’re at flying lessons now.”

Madam Sabina shrugs. “Excited enough, I guess. All right, students!” she cries, clapping her hands. Let’s all gather around in a circle--mummies, daddies, uncles, let’s get behind them. Let’s start our stretching exercises.”

"Hi,” says the female next to him in the parents’ circle. “I’m Nuray, Zehra’s mother. I’m a friend of Nesta’s. You’re the triplets’ father, right?”

He nods. “Cassian,” he says.

“Nicky looks so much like you,” she says. “Where are the boys?”

“They’re sick,” he says, wondering how many friends Nesta has here, or if everyone who has a child in the same age group counts as a friend. “The flu.”

“Oh,” she says, clucking. “Poor dears. Well, it’s going around. Nice that Nesta’s got you here now, to help out. Especially with Zeyn gone.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, struggling to maintain a casual tone. “Good stretching, Ava,” he says to her.

“All right, now, let’s just flap our wings. Just like that. No, Fidan, not too fast! We’re just flapping, we’re not flying! All right, good!”

Ava grins up at him. “I already know how to fly,” she tells him.

“Oh, do you?”

“I’m so good at it.”

“I bet you are.”

“We’re not allowed to fly until Madam Sabina says it’s okay.”

“That’s right.”

“Because we have to stretch first because it’s very important.”

“It is very important, you’re right.”

“And, now we’re going to run all the way over there and then back again, all right? Go!”

Ava shoots off as fast as she can, making him laugh in delight. He feels a rush of gratitude towards Nesta for giving them such a beautiful, quiet place to learn to fly.

"I think it’s great that you’ve moved back in,” Nuray says. “In a town like this, people talk, but they’re good. People talked when my wife and I separated, but now we’re back, and people stop talking, you know?”

"Er,” Cassian says. “We’re not--I mean, I’m not--I don’t...live...here.”

“Oh!” Nuray brings a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry! I just...assumed. I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s all right,” he says, eyes darting around. This is so--weird. Sugar Valley is so weird. People he doesn’t even know congratulating him on moving back in with Nesta. No one here knows who he is. No one here has served in any military. He’s not even sure Gilameyva has a military. It’s so detached from Prythian, so different.

“Well, at any rate...I think it’s great that you’re stepping up.”

“Thanks.” Is this a normal conversation?

Thankfully, Ava comes back then.

“All right, everyone,” Madam Sabina announces. “Pair up, pair up. We’re going to go up! Stand by your partner!”

Ava stands in front of Cassian, beaming up at him.

“Okay, just high enough to their heads. Now...up!”

Ava kicks herself off the ground--it isn’t graceful in the least, but he’s so proud, prouder than he’s ever been in his life.

“And now we’re all going to do a lap around the park together. No higher than six feet, parents! And uncle!”

Ava takes his hand as they fly together. He’s going abnormally slow, but he doesn’t care at all.

---

Chapter Twelve

#acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #nessian fanfiction #nessian #nesta archeron #like pristine glass #lizo writes #wow tumblr was super annoying putting this up #like more annoying than usual #anyway my frustration with the publishing world sort of bled into this chapter!!#really hope if you have any thoughts on this one you let me know #because i sort of bled into it!!#like this one was a lot #and i've been waiting to write and share it for a long time

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matrixaffiliate · 5 years ago

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Endeavor

Chapter Update! FFN and AO3

These are the last two chapters, my friends. I hope you've loved this journey as much as I have.

Chapter 19

Vic couldn't help the giddy feeling she had as she shut down her work computer. It had been a whirlwind of six months but she and Ted had taken his comment about being done waiting to heart. He probably would have eloped with her if she'd been serious when she'd made the comment after his proposing. But Vic admitted that she did want a wedding, and Ted had been fully supportive, he simply asked for a short engagement. She didn't miss the irony. She'd gone from an engagement with a man who wanted to wait years for a wedding to a man who wanted to elope with her the same hour he proposed.

But Vic worried that everything was moving in fast forward as they closed in on their wedding date. She was glad they took pictures at her dress fitting because just five months later she was already straining to remember how it had gone, the flutter in her chest when she'd found the dress, the way her mum's eyes had filled with tears, and Dominique's commentary on every dress and whether or not Ted would faint dead away when he saw her. Vic couldn't remember the other flavors of cake they had tried. She couldn't remember the other venues they had looked at. There were dozens of little things that Vic couldn't remember, and she couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't because they were doing everything so quickly.

"What am I going to do without you for two weeks?" Emmeline stepped up to Vic's cubicle.

Vic laughed and grabbed her bag. "I'm sure you'll be fine. The real question is how I'll ever catch up when I get back."

Emmeline smirked, "I'm sure you'll be fine." She echoed.

Vic laughed, "We'll both be fine, but I've got a lot to get done for Saturday so I'll be off."

"Have fun!" Emmeline gave her arm a squeeze as she stepped towards the exit.

"Thanks! I'll see you in two weeks!"

Vic left and while a part of her was still fretting about how fast everything was going, she had to admit that she was excited to finally be at this point. She was getting married! She gave in to the giddiness that was bubbling inside of her as she drove home, turning her car radio up horrendously loud and laughing and dancing as she drove home to Teddy.

That had happened quickly after his proposal too. Ted had almost pleaded with her to come home to his flat that Monday and she honestly hadn't resisted all that much. She had insisted that they tell her family that evening, if for no other reason than to get her a change of work clothes for the next day. Ted had taken that thought and ran with it, trying to pack up her entire wardrobe when he'd followed her up to her bedroom. It had taken some quick talking but Vic had managed to convince Ted to wait to move her in till that weekend. He'd still woke her up at five in the morning to get started that Saturday. While she hadn't loved the early morning wake up call, it was nice to have him so excited to have her with him. She rather enjoyed the feeling of being wanted.

The juxtaposition was almost laughable. The wedding planning she had done with Sean had seemed to move like molasses, but with Ted it was lightspeed. Vic was grateful that she'd finished the rewrite of her novel and her first round of query letters before Ted had proposed. She didn't feel like she was slacking off on her book knowing that she was waiting for responses, and it gave her all the time she needed to plan her wedding in a hurry. After their honeymoon, Vic planned on sending out the next round of queries. She felt hopeful that it would go somewhere. She had two different agents ask for the full manuscript, one turned her down, the other had gone radio silent. But Vic was trying to look at it as a good thing. At least she knew her book wasn't awful.

She turned her key in the door and as she walked into their flat Ted caught her round the middle and kissed her, pressing her into the door as it closed behind her.

"I can't believe you worked a full day today." Ted murmured against her lips. "I've been going insane waiting for you."

Vic laughed and dropped her bag to the floor to link her arms behind his neck. "You do realize that I don't work for my uncle anymore, right?"

"Of course, I do," Ted chuckled and kissed her, "but Emmeline told you that she'd give you today as well, and you told her no."

"Yeah, because I'm a good employee." She grinned against him.

"You're far more than good, love."

"And we have a lot to get done tonight, so we should maybe start thinking of getting on with it."

"Can't resist me, eh?"

Vic laughed and gave the hair at the nape of his neck a gentle tug.

"You're ridiculous!"

"And you're going to marry me tomorrow." Ted nuzzled her face with his.

"Only if we get these last things done."

"So torturous."

Vic eased out of his embrace, "We'll have two weeks of this, love, don't worry."

Ted took her hand and brought her knuckles to his lips, "Alright, to work with us."

It didn't take that long to get the last few things on her list done, the most important of which being packing for their honeymoon. One of the benefits of doing a fast wedding was that Vic was able to convince her mum to keep things small as well. She'd introduced her parents to Le Chocolat Expatrié and the Rousseau's had been more than willing to cater a small reception. Madame Rousseau had even decided to create a chocolate, special for the occasion. Their wedding wouldn't be as grand or as big as Kalil and Maira's had been, but it would have their family and their friends and that was all Vic really wanted.

They were finishing up the last of her list when her phone started ringing and distracted by what Ted was saying, she answered without bothering to see who was calling.

"Hello, this is Victoire."

"Hi Victoire, this is Jessie Campoli, I requested your full manuscript a month or so ago."

Vic felt the air rush out of her and she shot her hand out to grip the kitchen table in front of her.

"Er, yes, hello."

Ted's whole demeanor changed and he put a concerned hand on her arm as she gripped the table. Vic bit her lip and tried to smile through her nerves.

"I was calling to offer to be your agent, and that I have a publisher interested in having the full manuscript as soon as possible. They would love to have it ready for summer if we can manage it."

"Oh my gosh! Yes! I mean, thank you!"

Jessie laughed. "Could you meet with me on Monday and we can get everything signed and sorted?"

Vic felt her smile falter. "I, er, I'm actually getting married tomorrow and leaving for my honeymoon on Sunday morning."

"Oh, well congratulations! I, hmm, I do have time this evening. Would you have time to get it sorted tonight and then I could send your manuscript to the publisher first thing Monday morning?"

Vic looked up at Ted, who was looking at her with confusion written all over his face.

"Yes, I could meet you tonight and get signed on with you as my literary agent."

Ted's mouth dropped to the floor before jumping from the table and grabbing his car keys.

"Excellent," Jessie sounded relieved and they coordinated where to meet before disconnecting the call.

"I told you!" Ted picked her up and spun her around as she tried to retrieve her purse. "I told you that your book was going to be huge!"

Vic laughed. "It's not signed yet, I just have an agent, not a book deal."

"An agent who wants to sign you before your wedding and honeymoon." He set her down so that she could grab her purse and slip into her shoes.

"Well, yes, but it's only so that she can send my book to the publisher first thing Monday morning; I guess we'll see what comes from it all when we get home from Italy then, won't we?"

"Bellissima," Ted pulled her back into him.

"That's the only word in Italian you know isn't it?" Vic laughed as they moved to the door.

"Of course not, I know spaghetti and pizza, and tiramisu, and cannoli, and…"

Vic cut him off with a quick kiss. "It's a good thing we have translator apps on our phones so that we can get directions to all the restaurants that will feed you spaghetti and pizza and all that."

"If we ever make it out of the hotel." Ted pushed her against the door frame and leant in.

"We'll never make it there if we don't get out the door."

Ted smirked at her before leaning in the rest of the way and kissing her slowly.

"I'll restrain myself for now then."

Vic grinned at him as he pulled away, his turquoise hair freshly dyed for tomorrow.

"Just till later tonight, yeah?"

"I'm sure I could be persuaded to indulge you in some form of celebration, because of your new agent, of course."

"Sure, the fact that I'm marrying you tomorrow has nothing to do with it."

"Nothing whatsoever," Ted laughed and opened her car's passenger door.

Getting signed on with Jessie took longer than Vic expected it to, mostly because of all the questions Vic realized she had, and then Ted's questions, and Jessie's questions for her. By the time they left the little coffee shop they'd met Jessie at, Vic was exhausted, and it was much later than she'd intended them to be up, let alone out on the town.

"How important are these last things on your list?" Ted yawned and looked at the list she'd shared with him from her phone as they walked back into their flat.

Vic looked over his arm to see the list and chuckled.

"They're not important, love."

"You sure?"

Vic kicked off her shoes and pulled her top over her head before winking at him.

"Positive."

Ted smirked at her, his hand holding up his phone dropping to his side. "So torturous."

"Come on, fiancé, let's enjoy our last night as a young engaged couple before we cross the line into an old married couple."

"Who said anything about being old? I didn't sign on for old."

Vic laughed as he followed her into the bedroom. "Don't worry love, I've noticed that the Marauder men don't seem to age much in certain aspects."

Ted grabbed her around her waist, and Vic felt her breath catch.

"What exactly are you suggesting?" He brought his hands just high enough to tease her before sliding back down to the waistline of her jeans.

Vic linked her arms behind his neck and pulled herself closer, "Only that I'm prepared to be the adult when the occasion calls for it."

"Like now?" Ted brought his lips to the hollow of her neck.

"Yeah, I'll be a consenting adult right now." She tried to laugh but sighed instead as Ted bit down on her neck.

Ted did manage a deep chuckle as he hoisted her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He moved them to their bed before laying her down.

"Good, because I believe you mentioned wanting some form of celebration tonight."

Then he kissed her.

When they were finally drifting off for the night, Ted curled around her, Vic let the giddy feeling carry off to sleep, knowing that tomorrow she would come back to this bed as Mrs. Edward Lupin.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

"Ma chérie," Fleur looked like she may cry as Vic stood in front of the mirror. "You are so beautiful."

"I can't believe this is happening." Vic tried to laugh but it came out more of a watery chuckle. "I can't cry." She repeated and smiled at her photographer.

"Don't worry about crying," she patted her camera, "I can fix coloring and that sort of thing when I enhance the lighting."

Vic blinked against the unwanted moisture in her eyes.

"I repeat, I can't cry."

Fleur wrapped her in a hug. "Then we must hurry to get all of the pictures done before the ceremony. If you are busy, you will be too distracted to cry."

"Who's crying?" Dominique poked her head in. "Holy gorgeous! Vic! You're stunning!"

"Thanks, Dom," Vic took a deep breath, "Let's go see if Ted agrees with you."

"If he doesn't, I'll make Dad hold him down and I'll poke out his eyes."

"Dominique!" Fleur whirled on her.

"It's just an expression, Maman, you know how crude of a language English is," Dominique smirked and skipped out the door ahead of them.

Dominique didn't need to worry though, at least Vic didn't think so. As she walked into the hall where they would be taking pictures, Ted looked up and dropped the plastic cup of water he'd been holding. Vic laughed as Remus quickly reached out and caught the cup before it emptied all its contents on the floor, and Ted's suit.

"You're marrying her," Remus gave his son's shoulder a gentle push, "The least you can do is meet her halfway."

Ted stumbled the first few steps before getting his feet in coordination with his brain.

"Vic…" her name was all he managed to say, but his hands didn't seem to need his voice's help to pull her into him.

Vic suddenly felt momentarily shy and couldn't hold his gaze. "It's alright?"

Ted chuckled, "I would have married you in my old blue t-shirt and your lounge shorts, love."

He moved in to kiss her and Vic pulled away before he could ruin her makeup.

Ted raised an eyebrow at her. "This better not become a pattern. I'm more or less set on kissing you like my life depends on it."

"Can we wait to ruin my makeup until after we've taken the pictures though?"

"So torturous," Ted kissed her carefully this time, but slow enough that Vic was breathless when he pulled back.

"Let's get all these public memories over with," Ted smirked down at her. "I'm anxious to get on to the more private ones."

That was the last slow moment of the day. Pictures were a blur. Even walking down the aisle when she thought back on it seemed to move in fast forward. Reading her vows and listening to Ted's were moments she'd always cherish, but they seemed to be over before she could really enjoy them. Jamie and Al coordinating with Luis for a recreation of a dance from a television show wedding seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. Her father-daughter dance seemed to start and end the moment her dad took her hand. Everything was over before she was ready for it.

"Wait!" She gripped Ted's arm as he went to lead her out to the hall for their grand exit.

"What? What's wrong?" Ted looked around them.

"I just, I need, it's all going so fast, I want to remember something!" She knew she was being ridiculous, but her wedding only would happen once, and she already felt like she was forgetting everything from the day.

Ted pulled her into his arms, his right hand coming up to caress her cheek.

"I can wait a moment, I mean, I waited almost a year to be your boyfriend, didn't I?"

"I'm sorry, I know it's silly, but it's our wedding Ted! What if I forget everything before we even get home from Italy?"

"Hey," his hand slid from her cheek to her neck and her shoulder, "It's our wedding, you're not going to forget it all, but even if you did, as long as we keep choosing each other every day, that's what matters, right?"

"I know, and you're right, I just," she smiled up at him, "I'm only getting married once. I want to remember as much of it as I can."

Ted pulled her in and kissed her, his hands wrapping around her waist to press into her back, his lips caressing hers before sliding his tongue gently into her mouth, one hand sliding up her back to press against the back of her neck.

"Remember this," He murmured against her before pressing his lips back into hers.

And for the rest of her life, she did remember that one moment, that one kiss, with the man who had loved her since he first laid eyes on her.

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paradisobound · 5 years ago

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World’s Greatest First Love: Chapter 4

Summary: Dan Howell wanted a clean break from his father’s publishing company. It was why he applied for a different company in London: to stop the ridicule of his coworkers for riding on his ‘daddy’s coat tails’. But he wasn’t expecting to suddenly be going from a literature editor, to a graphic novel editor. And he certainly wasn’t expecting to come face first with his first love who broke his heart from when he was a teenager: who just happens to be his new editor-in-chief.

Based on the Anime and Manga “The World’s Greatest First Love: The Case of Ritsu Onodera” aka Sekai-Ichi Hatsukoi

Rating: Mature (For Now)

Word Count: 2.7k (this chapter)

Warnings: None for this chapter

Updates Every Tuesday at 12pm EST and Saturday at 1pm EST

Thanks to my lovely beta @phanandpenguins who has been doing a great job of editing these chapters for me!

READ ON AO3 | READ ON WATTPAD

Phil is having a heated argument with someone when Dan arrives to the office on Thursday morning. There is tension in the air and Dan feels like everyone is too hyper focused on the argument that is taking place to focus on their own work. Dan had never seen the guy before, but he stands tall and broad over Phil as he hovers above the desk. He looks mean, and definitely like someone Dan should avoid so he makes a mental note of it.

“We sold out of the Marmon book in the first day,” The man says. “What kind of a rookie mistake is that, Phil?”

“It’s not my rookie mistake!” Phil shouted back. “It was your superior who wouldn’t allow for us to print more than 5,000 copies when I requested 7,500.”

“Don’t start blaming it on…”

Dan stopped listening because the arguing did nothing but make the anxiety in his chest weigh heavier and heavier. He opened his laptop and loaded up the manuscript that he had been working on for his author and pulled up some of the edits he had made. He was beginning to scroll to where he had bookmarked to look at next but the arguing grew louder and he got more and more distracted.

He turned his head and saw Mitch was working unphased next to him, scribbling some red marks onto a printed storyboard, “Hey, Mitch?” Dan asks and Mitch turns his head, “So I can’t help but listen to that fight and I guess I’m confused why it’s a bad thing that Phil’s author’s book sold out so fast? Isn’t it a good thing that you’re making sales? ”

Mitch furrowed his brows and then perked up and opened his mouth, “Yes and no, really. It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“How so?” Dan asks, genuinely curious.

“Well, if a book sells out the same day that it comes out, then that’s not good for the author’s sales because it’ll take another week or two for us to do another printing by the time the printer gets around to it. By that point the book will have sadly been forgotten by most people. So it’s better to have just enough copies and do a second printing than to sell out and have to wait with nothing out there to be sold.”

Dan nods his head because that does make a lot of sense, “So is the man Phil is arguing with in charge of that process then?”

“Yes!” Mitch answers with a smile.

“So...who is he?”

“Oh! That’s…”

“Me.”

Dan stiffens and turns his head to come face to face with the man he had just sworn he would avoid. His dark hair is sticking straight up in places and his eyes are so dark they’re like black holes. Dan instantly feels more intimidated than before.

“Damien” He says, adding on before Dan can catch his bearings. “I’m the head of the sales department here at Onyx. I take care of how many copies your book gets.”

Dan just stiffens further and forces out a smile before Damien turns on his heels and walks away, leaving a trail of overconfidence in his way that left Dan feeling more uneasy. Dan turns to Mitch, his mouth agape, “Is...is he always like that?”

Mitch shrugs, “Actually no. He can be tough when he wants to be but honestly, he’s also nice. Just probably have to get to know him. I’m sure he was on edge from his conversation with Phil.”

Dan nods and agrees because sure, that’s honestly probably it . So Dan turns back in his seat and goes back to working on his manuscript again.

He gets through quite a bit of it before his hands start to cramp and his stomach starts to rumble. When he stands up from his desk, he takes a second to look over towards Phil’s desk but he notices Phil isn’t there, which being honest is a bit unusual , Dan thinks. He makes his way into the breakroom and stuffs some money into a vending machine to get a lousy cup of noodles for his lunch.

Dan takes the container of noodles and opens the top and pours some of the hot water from the coffee maker into it. He lays the lid back closed and sits and waits for his noodles to start working their magic to give him a hint of satisfaction for his hunger. He knows he hasn’t been eating properly but he genuinely doesn’t have the time to make himself something else besides quick food.

People from the floor come and go as they please which leaves Dan sitting all alone at the table with no one to talk to but he’s not entirely upset about that either. He’s been so busy lately that having this short break was actually a bit of a reprieve.

His noodles become finished far too quick and he pushes a couple pound coins in the vending machine for a candy bar and begins to nibble on that just as he leaves the break room. He goes to his desk and takes a seat, looking to Phil’s desk on instinct and for some reason, Dan feels a little bit calmer seeing Phil now sat behind his mounds of papers, running his hands through his hair.

***

Dan decides to leave the office as soon as he sends the manuscript with corrections back to his author. He emails her the corrections and then prints out a copy for himself to take home and look over one more time. His deadline is rapidly approaching and he wants his first time being an editor for this author to go as smoothly as possible.

Dan’s exhausted, and as he walks off from the elevator, he feels like the weight of the world is on his body, holding him down and barely keeping him upright. He needs some proper food and maybe a few drinks. Probably also some water. Has he even drank water in the last week? He doesn’t remember which probably says a lot more than it should.

He shuffles his feet as he walks and he rounds the corner to the exit when he sees Phil and Damien talking next to the doorway. Damien is enjoying a cigarette and Phil is stood with his arms crossed. Dan steps back and hides behind the corner because he doesn’t want to intrude.

Are they arguing? Is something else happening between them? Dan feels uneasy all over again and his stomach starts to hurt at the thought. But he wants to get home, and in order to leave, he has to pass them which means he’s going to have to walk by them and deal with whatever they are saying.

He turns the corner and begins to walk past them when he sees Phil start to laugh, throwing his head back and Damien laughing along with him, cigarette smoke funneling from his lips. He puts out his cigarette and looks at Phil and just as Dan is trying to walk by, he hears, “ Are you up for that drink?”

Dan is suddenly confused. So Phil and Damien were friends? But why were they screaming at each other earlier. It had to be just work things, right?

“Oh Dan!”

Dan stops in his tracks at Phil’s voice calling after him.

Dan turns around and faces Phil who is zipping his jacket up a bit further on his neck, “Damien and I are on our way to the bar for a few drinks if you want to join?”

Dan shakes his head and declines, “No, I just want to get home and get some rest.”

Before Phil can say anything, Dan just nods goodbye and hikes the hood up on his jacket and leaves the building into the bitter cold of December evenings. He puts his hands into his pockets and walks half of his commute, only taking the tube when he physically couldn’t stand the cold on his cheeks anymore.

His apartment is chillier than he would care to admit so he turns the heat on a bit higher when he passes through the front door. His stomach is rumbling so he goes to his refrigerator and opens it up to see nothing but wilted greens and spoiled food. He shuts the door and lets out a sigh.

He could order out, but that would require spending more money and he doesn’t have a lot of that at the moment. He ends up not finding any food suitable for eating and he flops himself down on his couch, hoping to get a few hours of sleep before he has to go to his miserable bed.

Dan’s eyes are just starting to close when his phone begins to buzz in his pocket and he pulls it out to see an email from his author.

Re: Finished Manuscript Edits

Hi Dan,

Just finished looking over your edits and I’ve made some adjustments accordingly. Please let me know what you think. I would love more feedback.

Best,

Veronica “Roni” Tully

Dan sits up straighter on the couch and immediately lunges for his bag at the end of the cushion. He opens it up and grabs his laptop and boots up his email. He loads her edits and her storyboard and sees that she has made a lot more corrections and so he hits print on the document and hears the printer in the corner whirl to life.

He throws his laptop to the side and sets down on the floor with the manuscript sprawled in front of him on his coffee table. He grabs his red pen out of his bag that he’s learnt he needs to carry with him at all times and uncaps it and begins to get to work.

He tries to work diligently, taking into consideration everything he’s learnt from his few short weeks of being a graphic novel editor. But he soon can feel like he’s not doing something right and it takes away any of his ability to finish the rest of the manuscript.

As much as he doesn’t want to, he knows he needs to get ahold of Phil somehow. He has Phil’s number from their brief exchanges at work but he doesn’t want to text him, especially when Phil just said he and Damien were going out for drinks.

Dan will need to email him the manuscript. He quickly grabs for his laptop again and loads his email and attaches the file and sends it to Phil with the note reading that he would like Phil to look over the manuscript and help him a bit in making corrections. He no longer hits send when his phone vibrates and he looks down to see a message on his screen.

Phil: I’m right next door. Bring me your corrections

Dan feels mortified. He can’t just go next door and bring Phil the corrections because now he feels like a moron for emailing him them to begin with! He sits chewing at his nails until a knock appears on his door and it startles him. He gets up and rushes over to it, opening it.

“I’m right next door,” Phil repeats as soon as the door opens. “You literally just have to walk two steps.”

“I...I…”

“Where are your corrections?” Phil asks, extending his hand. “I’ll look over your corrections but I’m not going to do them for you.”

Dan’s cheeks heat up and he blushed as he turned on his heels and rushed back to grabs his corrections from the coffee table and hands them to Phil. Phil shuffles through them and then stills, “Come over to my apartment.”

Dan furrows his brows, “Why?”

“Just...come with me and we’ll look over the corrections together,” Phil says, stepping backwards and not allowing Dan to say otherwise.

Dan swallows and follows him out of the door to his apartment. Phil pushes the door open and they step inside. Dan looks at the surroundings around him and is actually impressed by how nice everything looks. Everything looks so precise to him…. so not Phil.

“So first off,” Phil says as he sits down at his kitchen table, “tell me why you made the corrections that you did.” Phil flips through the pages a bit more and then stops and shoves a page at him. “Especially the ones on this page.”

Dan looks down and sees that this is the page where he made the most corrections, but that’s basically because he found this part a bit boring compared to the rest of the story. He stutters for a moment and then finally says exactly that, “I thought this part was boring.”

“Why?” Phil quizzed.

“Because it didn’t go with the rest of her story. The pictures don’t do anything for the rest of the novel.”

“So why did you suggest these specific corrections?” Phil pressed.

Dan stuttered a bit but he failed to answer right away and Phil noticed. He picked up a red marker and uncapped it with his teeth, blowing the cover onto the floor as he marked for two different panels to be switched around, “This is all you needed to do,” Phil says. “The rest of the corrections don’t actually enhance the storyboard like you just explained to me.”

“But I thought…”

“Dan, you can’t do these corrections half-assed.”

“I’m not doing them half-assed!” Dan countered. “I did exactly what I remember you teaching me to do!”

Phil shook his head, “You’re doing too much.”

Dan feels like his head is spinning. So is he half-assing his work or doing too much ?

“I…”

“Here,” Phil says, shuffling through the pages again, “Let’s go through each page together.”

Dan nods his head, feeling even more mortified than before and let Phil flip through each page correcting and fixing more.

By the time they were done, the storyboard had much more red on it than before and many corrections crossed out and redone. He looks down at it and feels like his heart is sinking out of his chest because he feels like he’s just completely shit on his authors work.

But the truth is that his author’s work is fantastic and that’s why they need these corrections to push them past fantastic to amazing. Every author wants to be a best seller but this is the only way to do so.

Dan gathers the papers and puts them into a pile and stands up from Phil’s kitchen chair, “Thank you.”

Phil looks up at him and nods, “You’re welcome.”

He starts to walk to the door but is stopped when Phil’s voice cuts through his head, “We still haven’t talked about us, ya know.”

Dan feels the color drain from his face and he swallows down the knot in his throat, “There isn’t anything to discuss.”

“So you’re not even gonna talk about how we used to love each other?” Phil asks, standing up from his chair. “You’re going to just ignore that…”

“You broke up with me,” Dan says, turning around to face Phil, “You’re the one who broke my heart.”

“Oh is that how you remember it?” Phil asks, his voice rising in volume. “You’re remembering that I broke up with you .”

“Because that’s what happened!”

“Dan,” Phil shook his head, “You’re the one who literally slapped me across the face and then ran out of my house. I never heard from you after that.”

“I…”

“I know you don’t remember it,” Phil says, his voice going tense, “But maybe it would be nice if you tried.”

Phil all but pushes him out before Dan can get an answer and he stands on the other side of Phil’s door with the storyboard hugged to his chest and tears coming up to his eyes.

Dan had spent years trying to repress the memories of Phil and what had happened, and there was no way in hell he was going to let himself remember them all over again.

Even if it cuts deep inside his core.

Just as he turns to go to his apartment, he hears footsteps coming down the hallway and he turns his head just in time to see Damien walking towards them, and Dan momentarily forgets how to breathe. He grabs the door handle for his apartment and jumps inside, shutting the door just in time to hear the knocking of Damien’s hand on Phil’s door.

#phan #phanfic #phanfiction #first love fic #second chances #angst #fluff #princesslexi763fics

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tsukikokiyomizu · 5 years ago

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🎯🎯🎯🎯🎯🎯🎯🎯🎯🎯🎯🎯🎯

Send a 🎯 to learn a random headcanon I have for my muse

//you have awakened the beast my friend. By the way, since the tags got too long... AAAA THANK YOU FOR THIS WJFMWNNFN

Hound, aka Tsukiko in the Metaverse as a Phantom Thief, absolutely adores to show off as much as possible. I mean, she has the flashy aesthetic that a heroine of Justice like herself should have, an amazing Persona that allows her to find the truth and see through the illusions created by the heart and she has people who trust and respect her by her side. So why not put that to the utmost limit? Flashy moves! Stupid one-liners! Be the Shounen Protagonist you always wanted to be!

Shadow!Tsukiko’s emotional outbursts are the things Tsukiko fears the most. Since when she was just a little kid, her father would beat her up and scream at her if she did as much as shed a tear or posed any protest to what he said, so she usually bottles up her emotions until she can’t hold it anymore and explodes by herself. So, Shadow!Tsukiko openly and loudly changes emotions with ease, showing everyone how she truly feels, which leads to lots of crying, shouting, and shouting crying. It’s what Tsukiko could never do, so at least in the dressing room inside her heart’s Opera House, she can have that peace.

While Merry shows little to no emotion near others, she’s just as sensitive—if not more—as the other Tsukikos. She has a hard time trusting anyone who isn’t Sachie with as much as a cup of water, but there is one thing she will trust to others, something that doesn’t seem that personal at first: the right to read what she has written. Normally, she keeps whatever she writes to herself until she feels confident on publishing, so for her to do something like showing a manuscript to a friend means the world. She’s trusting them with a riddle in progress, with something so fragile to her that it hurts just to have others see it, something she is very insecure about. If that ever happens, know that you must appreciate those little moments of trust she shows in her own quiet way.

Pierrot has been kidnapped all of her life, so all of her knowledge on the outside comes from the man who kidnapped her and from media, which is just manga, anime and books. Most of them, very old. Because she’s been fed with many absurd things as completely true, she has a hard time knowing what’s reality and what’s not, and it’s not uncommon for her to think everyone acts like in Victorian Era England or that elves and goblins are walking outside, at the same time super futuristic equipment can be found on the convenience store near her house. Whatever you tell her, she’ll dig it.

Feeling like she can’t trust anyone and that she’s bound to her father forever, Doll’s a tricky person. She most often than not engages in no conversation outside of her public persona, but oh boy, if you thought Tsukiko’s Shadow was emotional, you haven’t seen her angry. Mario has a horrible case of lack of control whenever she gets angry, and she’s broken many things even at school, though small. At home… she had to replace furniture many times because she had been so overwhelmed with anger she snapped. Don’t push your limits with her.

Tsune absolutely despises the Hashimoto family’s older relatives because of how lowly they treat the servants. Sure, she might be furniture, unworthy of anything, but… what did Shiori, Shion, Ryu and the others do? It’s unfair to treat them like they treat her. Even if her brother is furniture as well, he doesn’t deserve it like she does. She’s very wary of older people thanks to her experience with them.

As the aged Tsukiko who never met the Phantom Thieves at school and indeed had a lonely life until adulthood, Tantei has hardened a lot towards the concept of friendship itself. She doubts that there even are friends in this world, and if you let her talk enough, she will make that very clear through both actions and words: she trusts no one, except those who have proven to be trustworthy for long enough to be accepted by her. Despite her laid-back nature, she’s a very sad person.

Lou only accepts high-profile cases, because that way she can be better than her father. The fame he had? She’ll have the double. The cruelty he had, and the amount of crimes he committed just to solve a case completely? She’ll do it worse and even more heartlessly. This is her revenge against the world and him. The moment the Phantom Thieves get a famous target, they’re on her way. So, she starts to get even more ruthless by the time of Kamoshida’s defeat, and just gets worse from there. They’re on her way to get back at everyone, so they gotta go. The best part, to her? She only feels a slight frustration. That’s how numb she is.

Sometimes, Bea calls people by their names before they can introduce themselves, and remembers them perfectly. Other times…

“Ren??? Wait, what do you mean you’re not Ren? Why are you calling yourself Akira???????”

“HEY SKULL— uh? Isn’t that your nickname? Why are you so surprised?”

“MORGANA! …wait, why am I talking to a meowing cat?”

There’s not much one can do as a ghost bound to a street that only exists within the collective unconscious at the moment, but when there’s not visitors making her search for undying justice to come back, White tries her best to come up with riddles and mysteries. She tests the other ghosts with them to the point they get fed up with her bullshit, constantly. She’s very proud of her riddle skills, and often brags about them to whoever visits her street.

now that Tumblr won’t allow me any more pictures—

Tsukiko both loves and hates Akechi with all her might. First of all, she idolizes him as a detective (Amazing! Intelligent! Perfect! Solved cases? Can’t be bad!), but knows by experience that there’s no way he isn’t fucked up after being in the public eye being this young. And, at the same time, she feels horribly bitter towards him because he’s taken away the thing she had way before he even got near the role of a detective—it feels like he’s cheating, arriving late to the game and winning like that. Regardless, It’s Complicated.

Merry despises anyone who treats literature as something boring that they can’t like no matter the genre. It hurts a whole lot, and also pisses her off. Have they read every single literary genre from every single era? No? So how can they be sure they won’t like any book?

Shadow!Tsukiko attempts to trap the Phantom Thieves with chains into her auditorium. She does not want them to get close enough to hurt her, but she doesn’t want them to leave at all. So, she tries to put them alongside the cognitive thieves, or otherwise on the Opera’s underground, so they’ll be trapped forever near her, unable to leave her and always observing her spectacles.

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quillquiver · 2 years ago

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HP changed the publishing landscape entirely, so that most publishers started chasing trends instead of trying to set them. At the same time, publishing conglomerates started to become a thing - currently, Penguin Random House and Simon & Schuster control 80% of the global English publishing market. That is an absolutely unreasonable marketshare! And like, all of this has resulted in what is essentially a monoculture of authors, where folks need to essentially be experts in social and marketing AND have time to create AND be able to support themselves while doing all of this, because again, 80% of the market is chasing the same thing, so the majority of those folks published will be at the very least upper middle class. I have been in meetings where pubs have mentioned that the book is great but the author doesn’t have a great following so unfortunately “we’re going to have to work a little harder for this one” and it’s like???? This is your job??? But, I guess that makes sense because publishers really only market a handful of books they feel are at the top of their list - usually, books that have to do with that trend-chasing I mentioned earlier. So, yeah, if you’re a mid-list author, your social following not only effects if you get published, but how big your print run is, because you’re going to be doing the bulk of that marketing; even if you manage to get an editor to fight for your book and back you, the print run is an entirely different convo.

ALSO in these conglomerates, slush piles aren’t really a thing anymore - even if you manage to complete a manuscript, you can’t just send it in and have a chance at being picked up. Nope, now you have to go to an agent, (who might have their own slush piles), and hope they want to represent you, and only THEN do you have a chance at being picked up by a big pub. And like, not only do you need to know all of this, but you have to have the time to find an agent, send your manuscript out, work on that manuscript with that agent if it gets picked up, and then go through the publishing process - which, by the way, sometimes feels like highway robbery. I have friends in creative writing MFAs and they regularly complained of low advance numbers (think like $10,000 for an entire fucking book, with pitiful royalty payments only if you make more than $10K in sales).

Publishing is a rigged game and always has been. And I do truly mean that. I can only speak to western English publishing but like... the James Joyces and and John Miltons, those guys were educated and very well-off. And like, the Jane Austens and Emily Brontes? Those were folks that had to struggle because of their gender, but again, they were ridiculously privileged compared to the large majority of people. Same with all the men that make up the American canon. Never forget that the reason these people had the time to write is that there was someone else doing work and/or making money for them, be it a wife, a staff or slaves. Publishing has always been a classist (and prejudiced and colonial) institution, and anyone who says otherwise just hasn’t been paying attention. That’s not to say that there aren’t pubs out there doing really great work, but yeah.

TL;DR Social following effects everything from manuscript attractiveness to print run! And even if you get published, if you’re not one of those books that the publisher is gonna put their whole pussy into, you’re looking at having to get a day job unless you can somehow support yourself... because your advance will not be enough. I can only speak to the market and part of the industry I know, but western english publishing is a rigged game and always has been.

By the way isn't it funny how class is never ever mentioned with the whole "ownvoices" thing

Not that you can just neatly be like "look, a book that was written by a poor person!"

but it really feels like the people that are writing the popular/praised poems and books and stuff of our contemporary time are starting to be farther and farther away from like. average people.

There's less and less of the "spent a decade working as a pizza delivery guy, paint salesman, and window washer while writing scenes on napkins behind the pizza place" best-selling writers and more and more of the "graduated from an ivy league school, landed a $700,000 book deal at age 23 and is now a full time writer" best-selling writers

#sorry this was a huge fucking rant #long post #this entire industry just makes me #i love it and i hate it in equal measure it's exhausting #publishing #not spn

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robertjacobsugdens · 7 years ago

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*SCREAMS* 12 ROBRON.

12. author and editor agent au

All of Robert’s opinions on literature and writing are his own and I don’t condone them. Also, I know nothing about publishing, I’m so sorry.

There’s a leather-boundcollection of his father’s novels in one of the drawers of Robert’s desk atwork. Expensive, unopened, collecting dust. He’s not even quite sure in whichdrawer it is anymore.

It’s a gift from Diane, givento him years ago when he finally got promoted to agent. He had known fromseeing the finely decorated box and the unshed tears in Diane’s eyes what itwas. He’d told her he’d open it later, in private, but he’d chucked the wholebox into the first open drawer as soon as he’d gotten into work.

Jack Sugden is an icon. Hisnovels have been translated in every language Robert can think of, speaking auniversal truth many authors try to find in their work, but rarely manage. That’swhat his obituary said.

The fact that he foundcritical and commercial acclaim only a few short years before his untimelydeath, after a lifetime spent on a Yorkshire farm, only adds to the legend.

Robert is his son, andsometimes it feels like that’s all he’ll ever be. He was supposed to follow inJack’s footsteps, continue writing the great British novels of the twenty-firstcentury. He managed to get one book out, trading on his father’s name.

Robert had been young at thetime, too young probably, barely twenty, writing on the heels of his father’sdeath. He had written a pretty little thing, not a word that was true orworthwhile in it. His last name had been the biggest thing on the cover, biggerthan his name and the title. The critics had torn him to shreds, gleefully.

He hasn’t really writtenanything since.

He tells himself it’s becausehe’s too busy with work. Too busy managing people who actually have somethingto say and the talent to do it, if he’s had too much to drink.

So, work is fraught, butRobert can deal with fraught. Some would say he thrives on it.

He likes to think this is whyhe’s been assigned to work with Aaron Dingle.

Aaron Dingle has quickly risento fame on the back of a brilliant debut novel and in the process has burnedthrough four agents. Robert’s pretty sure he’s seen Graham Foster, who got intopublishing after seeing active duty in the military, shed a tear of joy whenChrissie announced she was reassigning him to another author. But then again,his new assignment is Joe Tate, so his relief is probably going to beshot-lived.

Robert likes the challenge.

He’s read Aaron’s novel andhas been blown away by it. There’s something ugly and jagged in it, reminiscentof Chuck Palahniuk and Bret Easton Ellis, but he manages to overcome theirfaults by anchoring everything in an underlying layer of tenderness. There’s ahuman core to it, a human heart, pulsating under all the blood and guts. It’snot always evident, sometimes hidden under Aaron’s utilitarian and unembellishedlanguage, but it’s what’s drawn Robert in and gripped him tight until the verylast page. It’s simply brilliant.

Robert doesn’t trust it,doesn’t trust him. It doesn’t helpthat everything about Aaron seems designed, from his lack of media presence(social or otherwise), to his secretiveness about his upcoming projects. There’s something scratching at the corner ofhis mind, something unpleasant, leaving claw marks all over his mental pictureof Aaron Dingle. He wants to know what that is.

Robert doesn’t know what hewas expecting, but this isn’t it.

Aaron’s young, younger thanthe few pictures of him on the internet led him to believe. He’s alsoattractive, with intense blue eyes, dark hair, and a broad chest his rattyblack hoodie is doing nothing to hide.

“What?” Aaron asks, his facesour.

“I’m Robert Sugden.” Robertintroduces himself. Aaron blinks at him. “Your new agent.” Robert clarifies.

“Sorry mate, I haven’t got anythingfor you.” Aaron says, not sounding particularly sorry.

Aaron has a deal with theagency where he doesn’t have to show them anything until the deadline. Adeadline that has been generously set for next spring. Maybe too generously, ifyou ask Robert. He doesn’t like going into situations blind, especially not atwork. This is why he’s here.

Robert quirks an eyebrow.“Nice try, mate.” He says,shouldering his way past Aaron into the apartment.

Robert’s been around writersfor the best part of his adult life. He’s seen eccentric and he’s seen ascetic.Aaron’s flat however, is something new. It’s… normal. Average. Messier thanmost, maybe, but fundamentally what one would expect from a man in his mid-twenties.There’s almost no art on the walls and the few books on the shelves are allcheap paperbacks of action novels, the rest of the space is occupied by dozensof indie albums. Robert knows none of the artists featured.

“You done?” Aaron asks,leaning on the now closed door, arms crossed and an annoyed look on his face.

“Do you have a ghostwriter?”Robert asks, in lieu of an answer. “Someone who actually writes the books youput your name on.” Robert continues.

“Is this a wind-up?” Aaronasks, his voice dangerously low.

“So, you’ll have no problem showingme some new material.” Robert concludes with a smirk, moving for the door.

“Sit down.” Aaron barks athim, stopping Robert in his tracks. He sits on the couch.

Aaron leaves and comes back aminute later with his laptop and a journal. The laptop is a cheap one, thejournal however, looks expensive. It’s black, leather, and it looks on theverge of exploding, pages and loose sheets of paper held together by an elasticband and a prayer.

Aaron sits next to Robert onthe couch, so close that Robert can smell his laundry detergent.

Aaron starts writing, laptopbalancing on his knees and journal opened on the other side of the couch whereRobert can’t see it. His fingers fly over the keyboard, stopping only longenough to glance at the journal and then go back.

Robert’s spent his fair shareof time waiting while authors finish writing something at the last minute,usually playing Candy Crush on his phone, but this is different. There’ssomething happening here and it’s mesmerizing. Aaron writes with an intensityhe hasn’t seen in a long time, like if Robert touches him Aaron’s skin willelectrocute him.

Eventually Aaron stops, asksfor Robert’s email address, and wordlessly sends the whole thing over.

Robert opens his email andstarts reading.

“This isn’t from the newbook.” Robert says.

“It’s a scene that didn’t makeit past outlining.” Aaron replies, laptop now on the floor, arms crossed acrosshis chest.

Robert can see why it didn’t.It’s a good scene, written in Aaron’s signature sparse style, but it would havebroken the flow, interrupted the action awkwardly.

Robert smiles.

This is going to be aproductive partnership.

“I want Graham back.” Aaronsays, the following week when he finds Robert back at his door.

“Too late for that. He almostquit the business because of you.” Robert jokes, pushing past Aaron to getinside.

“You’re my punishment, then.”Aaron replies, but he’s not throwing Robert out, so that’s a start.

“Tell me about the new book.”Robert says, falling onto the couch.

“No.” Aaron replies, crossinghis arms.

Robert shrugs. “Tell me aboutyourself, then. You’re a very difficult man to stalk on the internet.”

Aaron blinks at him, makingnot move to answer, but he looks almost pleased. Then again it’s difficult tosay what with the stubborn lack of expression or reply.

“Your first book then. I’mdying here.” Robert tries.

Aaron sighs, clearly defeated.“What do you want to know?”

“No.” Aaron says when he opensthe door and finds Robert on the other side, but this time he at least letsRobert in of his own volition. Robert takes it as a win.

It’s been a difficult day atthe office. Chrissie has been breathing on his neck about some manuscript hehasn’t read yet, despite the fact that the author is a friend of a friend of animportant person. On top of that a new author they just signed recognized hislast name and asked questions about his dad.

Normally it wouldn’t faze him,but it’s near the anniversary of Jack’s death, which means he’s been thinkingabout their relationship more than usual. They’re not happy thoughts.

He should go home, shower, goto bed early and hope he wakes up tomorrow feeling better, but he doesn’t. Hegoes to Aaron’s.

“You look terrible.” Aarongreets him.

The fact that even Aaron’ssurly company is better than nothing, says everything about Robert’s state ofmind. Not that he’s going to tell him that.

“Thank you for your kindwords.” Robert replies, sinking into Aaron’s couch. “I shouldn’t have comehere, I still have a ton of work to do.” He continues, without actually makingany move to get up.

Aaron shrugs. “Suits me. I’vegot writing to do.”

They spend most of the eveningin silence, Aaron tapping away on his laptop and Robert reading through a newnovel set during the American Civil War. He doesn’t mind the occasionalhistorical novel, and all things considered, this is a rather well-written one,but the central conflict of the book is the relationship between a father andhis son, and today it’s just cutting too close to home.

He’s just about to give up andgo home when Aaron closes his laptop shut.

“Come on, let’s go.” Aaronsays, getting up.

“Where?” Robert asks.

“Pub. I can’t see you mopingin my flat like this.” Aaron replies. Robert gets up.

“I’m touched.” Robert says,sarcasm dripping from his words. “If you’re not careful we might even becomefriends.”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

They’re talking about Aaron’sfirst book. They do that a lot. Every visit, actually, which means once a week.

Part of it is curiosity,Robert genuinely loves the book, and it’s not every day you get to pick theauthor’s brain about it, not like this. Aaron is unguarded and unpretentiouswhen he talks about his work and Robert appreciates it.

Another part however is purelyprofessional. Robert hopes Aaron will let something slip about his newendeavor. Or that he’ll get to know Aaron’s process so well he’ll be able toguess. He knows which one he’d prefer.

“Now I know why they don’t letyou do much press.” Robert replies to one of Aaron’s particularly gruffremarks.

“You cook?” Aaron asks, out ofthe blue, instead of replying to Robert’s comment.

“Why?” Robert asks, warily.This is an abrupt change of conversation, even for Aaron.

“Because I’m starving andyou’re asking too many questions tonight.” Aaron replies, getting up from thecouch.

Robert laughs but followsAaron in the kitchen.

Aaron’s fridge and pantry arevirtually empty, but there’s enough there to make some pasta and that should beenough to appease him.

“You need to do the shopping.”Robert says, putting a pot of water on the stove.

“Don’t cook much.” Aaronreplies with a shrug.

“You’re gonna get scurvy.”Robert insists, putting all his ingredients on the counter, olive oil, garlic,chili peppers, an egg, and a box of spaghetti.

“Thanks, Mum.” Aaron replies,hoisting himself up and sitting on the counter, close enough that Robertbrushes against his leg every time he goes to take something. As soon as thewater starts boiling Robert throws some salt in it and then the spaghetti.

“What are we having?” Aaronasks, looking at the assembled ingredients with skepticism.

“Pasta aglio e olio.” Robert replies, over-pronouncing the words. He putssome of the oil with the garlic and the chili peppers on a skillet on mediumheat.

“Fancy.” Aaron says. Robertcan’t quite tell if he means it or not.

“I spent some time working asa waiter in an Italian restaurant.” Robert sneaks a glance at Aaron. He looksperplexed, like he’s trying to figure the math out in his head. “It was while Iwas at uni.” Robert continues.

“Did you pay your waythrough?” Aaron asks. It seems innocent enough, but the underlying question isthere.

Robert has no illusion thatAaron doesn’t know exactly who he is, but this is the closest they’ve ever beento openly discussing Jack Sugden. There’s a queasy feeling in his stomach. Robertstrains the pasta once it’s cooked through and puts it in the pan with theseasoning.

“How old are you, anyway?”Aaron asks, completely changing course.

“I’m older than I look.”Robert says, his shoulders sagging in relief, a tension he didn’t realize hewas holding, suddenly dissipating.

“So, like, forty-five?Forty-six?” Aaron asks, laughing already at his own joke.

“Oi!” Robert protests, buthe’s laughing too. “If you’re done making fun of me, tea’s ready.”

There’s something about AaronRobert still can’t quite put his finger on. Like he’s hiding a secret thatRobert should be able to crack. A secret he’s hiding in his writing, and ifonly Robert put more effort in it, he could find that out.

Robert doesn’t really knowwhat would happen if he did find out, but he thinks he’d like to know.

Aaron’s deadline isapproaching, which means their evenings together get quieter. Aaron writing andRobert reading. It’s nice, being able to share silence with someone, neitherone of them feeling the need to fill the space up with chatter to feelcomfortable.

It’s not that Robert didn’tsee it coming, all authors get stressed as their deadline approaches, it’s thathe didn’t see it coming quite like this.

Aaron’s been stressed for awhile now, spending more time pacing the room than writing. He won’t tellRobert what’s bothering him though, which means Robert’s feeling helpless. Hedoesn’t like that.

“Aaron, come on, what’swrong?” Robert asks for what feels like the thirtieth time.

“It’s not working.” Aaronreplies, cryptically. “I need you to go.” He says eventually, turning towardsRobert.

Robert rolls his eyes. “Notlike this.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get yourbook.” Aaron replies, sharper than usual.

“You know that’s not it.”Robert says. “We’re friends.” He continues, testing out the word ‘friends’ likeit’s new in his mouth. They both know that’s not quite it, that there’ssomething more brewing between them, but they’re taking their time, waiting forsome sort of arbitrary deadline to pass. Still, Aaron doesn’t seem in the moodfor their flirting tonight and Robert won’t push it. Not yet.

Aaron scoffs.

“Let me help you.” Robertsays.

“I read your book.” Aaronsays, the conversation changing course so fast it’s making Robert’s head spin.

“What?” Robert asks, stomach sinking to his knees.

“Your book. I read it.” Aaronreplies, like it clarifies everything.

“Thanks for the sales boost.”Robert says as he gets up from the couch and goes for the door.

“Robert, wait.” Aaron says,gripping Robert’s wrist.

“When?” Robert asks.

“A month ago.” Aaron replies,letting Robert’s wrist go. Even in all of this Robert misses the contact.

“And you didn’t think to bringit up? Was it that bad?” Robert asks, voice too cutting to be a joke.

“Rob.” Aaron says, softly.Then his face sets into something unreadable as he continues. “It was fake. Allof it. There wasn’t a sentence that was yours in it.”

“Thanks for the review.”

Robert makes sure to slam thedoor shut on his way out.

Robert hadn’t realized howengrained into his routine Aaron had gotten until it’s a week later and he’s atthe office, stubbornly late, half working on a new manuscript from one of hisauthors. It’s a romance novel, not exactly his expertise, but her sales have beenreally good so he’s not going to complain.

“No Dingle house call tonight?”Leyla asks, only her eyes visible on top of the wall dividing their desks.

“Not tonight.” Robert says.Leyla shrugs and sits back down, going back to her work.

This is stupid. They’ve had afight. If Robert gave up on everyone he’s ever fought with he’d live incomplete isolation in a secluded cabin in the Icelandic woods.

Robert quickly puts his jacketon and drives to Aaron’s place. He’s halfway through mentally rehearsing hisspeech about how he can’t let Aaron’s temper tantrums ruin his career when hegets to Aaron’s door. It’s a good speech, too. Just funny and apologetic enoughthat he knows Aaron will see right through it.

They’ve been circling eachother for the better part of four months now, it was only normal that thetension would snap, one way or the other. Robert would have preferred sex, buthey, there’s always time.

Except, when he knocks on thedoor no one answers.

Robert tries Aaron’s phone,but after a couple of rings Aaron sends him to voicemail.

Robert gets to work early, thelack of sleep propelling him out of bed at an indecent hour. The night beforehe’d tried calling Aaron again a couple of times and even waiting for him infront of his building, but either Aaron was avoiding him, or he was busy.Robert isn’t sure which option he likes less.

He’s just reached his deskwhen he stops dead in his tracks. There’s package on it. It’s an envelope,something big and bulky inside.

“They left that for you lastnight.” Leyla says, already at the office, looking no worse for wear, despite clockingoff later than Robert the night before. “After you left.”

“Who left it?” Robert asks.

“Not sure, he was one of yourauthors though. Scruffy, black hoodie.” She continues, taking a sip of her tea.

Robert rips the envelope open beforeLeyla’s last word has even left her mouth. Nestled inside is Aaron’s black journal.Still held together by an elastic band and a prayer. Now that he’s looking atit up close he can see that the black leather is scratched in places, some ofit just wear and tear, other scratches look like As, probably done with a pocketknife. Robert holds is in his hands, it’s heavier than he expected.

There’s a post-it note stuckto the other side. In Aaron’s messy scrawl is written read it – Aaron.

There’s something intimateabout reading someone’s work, there’s always pieces of them stuck in it, glassfragments of their lives stuck in the pages. There’s parts of Aaron’s book Robertknows are autobiographical, without Aaron having to say it. They vibrate at adifferent frequency than the rest and Robert can tell.

But this is different. Aaron’sbooks have been edited and polished, deemed by Aaron safe enough to be read byothers. This isn’t polished, was never meant to be read by anyone else. Robertcan appreciate the effort Aaron must have gone through to part with it.

Robert hold the journal and heknows he has to make a choice. He could chuck the journal, unread, inside thesame drawer that houses his father’s novels – the bottom left one, wrap it backup and leave it in Aaron’s mailbox after work. He could get reassigned, hedoubts Chrissie would hold this particular failure against him.

Or he could read it. He couldfind out what Aaron wants him to know. He could give it back to Aaron inperson. They could talk. There’s something terrifying about it, about beinggiven such power, about being trusted so blindly. He could fuck it all up soeasily.

In the end, Robert’s self-awareenough to know his choice was made months ago when he knocked on Aaron’s door.

He starts reading the journal.

It’s messy, but by now Robert’sgotten good at deciphering Aaron’s writing and his lack of a filing system. Thereseems to be a mix of things, half written scenes, bits of dialogue, some ofAaron’s own journal entries, even a few shopping lists.

Robert devours all of it, thisinsight into Aaron’s life and Aaron’s writing. He reads the scenes that wouldgo on to become one of the best debut novels of the century and he understandswhy Aaron is so secretive about his first drafts.

There’s none of Aaron’s roughand hard-won gentleness there, none of the tenderness that devastated Robert onhis first read. It’s all ugliness and pain, wrapped around the protagonist,around the author, like it can protect him from the wounds life has inflicted.

Aaron writes like the windbecause writing comes easy to him, Robert’s learned this much. He writes and hewrites, because writing eases the pain, and there’s a lot of pain. The gentleness,that’s hard-won, that takes effort, that takes multiple drafts, multiplerewrites.

The journal is an apology forthings that aren’t Aaron’s fault and a defiant defense of things that are.

If Robert weren’t already morethan half in love with Aaron this would be it.

He stops reading right before hecan get to the entries about Aaron’s new novel. He wraps the journal back up,reverently.

Robert gets to Aaron’s flat inrecord time. He pounds on the door so loudly he’s pretty sure someone is goingto call the police on him. It doesn’t matter, it never mattered, but itespecially stops mattering the moment Aaron opens the door, bleary eyed and inhis pajamas.

“It’s 10 am.” Robert says, inlieu of a greeting, shouldering his way past Aaron and into the living room.

“Yes, I own a watch.” Aaronreplies, but it lacks the usual bite. He’s eyeing the package in Robert’s handslike it’s about to explode. In a sense, he’s right.

“I read it.” Robert says,thrusting it into Aaron’s hands. Aaron’s fingers close around it, his whiteknuckles betraying his worry.

Before Aaron can say anything,Robert grabs his hoodie and crashes his body into Aaron’s, one of Robert’shands coming up to cradle Aaron’s head, the other on Aaron’s back.

Aaron tenses, just for asecond, his hands still holding the journal in front of himself, between hisbody and Robert’s. Then he relaxes, his hands coming to rest on Robert’s back.

They stay like that for whatfeels like forever and no time at all, Robert’s eyes closed and Aaron pressedsolid and warm against him, smelling of sleep and the laundry detergent Robert smelledon his first visit.

Robert opens his eyes andtakes Aaron’s face between his hands. They’re still impossible close, Aaron’shands now on Robert’s hips. Robert takes a moment to take it in, to look intoAaron’s eyes, to feel the touch of Aaron’s skin, to taste the anticipation onhis own lips before he tastes Aaron’s.

Aaron makes a noise offrustration in the back of his throat, and deciding he’s had enough, kissesRobert like it’s the only thing he wants in the world. If he feels even afraction of what Robert’s feeling, it is.

They end up on Aaron’s couch,their couch, not even making it to the bedroom.

The dedication for Aaron’ssecond book reads:

ToRobert. He knows why.

#aaron x robert #writing*#this is so long I'm so sorry #Anonymous #ask

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blackjacketmuses · 6 years ago

Text

multiimuse said to blackjacketmuses: ✈ for poe - an eye-opening memory

“The cousin did it.”

Poe yelps, blinking a little as Ranpo slams the manuscript down triumphantly. He has to squint through his bangs a moment to see where he’s gotten to, where a finger is poked into the stack of papers as he ruffles quickly through the rest of it --- about a third of the way through, he thinks. That’s an improvement from last time, he decides. Last time Ranpo had only needed four chapters.

“...right as always,” he says softly, picking at his sleeve with a small smile. “What gave it away?”

“Well,” Ranpo says cheerily, rocking back in his seat with his package of Twizzlers, duly handed over as a victory reward. “You were pretty clever with the ex-wife, I gotta admit, she’s a good red herring! But she was investigating the victim, so of course she’d look pretty sketchy. The giveaway was the cousin’s suit, though.” He grins around the candy. “Not a bad try, Ed!”

Poe blushes quietly, retrieving the papers with a nod. “...I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, already mentally taking notes to adjust that for next time, when his phone buzzes in his pocket and he nearly falls out of his chair with a squeal. The crow’s cawing is loud, and Karl squeals as well and darts over to Ranpo, who looks mildly amused but says nothing, watching.

“H-Hello?” Poe asks nervously, and then lets out a groan so uncharacteristic that Ranpo lets his chair drop back to all four legs, eyes widening for a moment at the noise. “Lenore,” Poe moans, letting his head drop onto the table. “Please don’t yell at me,” he pleads tiredly. “I promise I’m working on something. I-- no, I’m in Japan. I---” He flushes. “Yes, it’s--- yes. But I promise I’m...I’ll send you a-a few drafts? No, I--- I don’t have a computer, you know that...I’ll get something to you, I-I swear.” He sighs and tries to smile. “Yes, I-I know. I know. Thanks. I will. Bye...”

He hangs up with a sigh, letting his head continue to rest on the table and whining wordlessly while Karl pads back over to him and lies on top of his shoulders. She was really nice, she was, and so patient with him, but she was right. He really needed to get another book out. But...he hasn’t in years now, and it was hard. He has so many drafts, but--- they never seem good enough anymore. Not...

“Was that your editor?” Ranpo asks above him, and Poe gives him a muffled noise of affirmation before stopping and lifting his head up quickly, Karl digging his claws into his coat.

“---how...?” He tries. He’d never mentioned he was published, neither now nor back then. Back then he’d been in the contest for his detective skills, not his writing credentials, and it had never been brought up. And now, it was--- well, he’d never mentioned it. And he knows Ranpo’s hearing isn’t that good. Well, alright, he’d mentioned sending her drafts, but...he’s really starting to get a skewed image of what’s obvious and what isn’t, isn’t he?

Ranpo doesn’t seem to mind, though, shrugging carelessly. “Obvious,” he notes. “How come you haven’t sent her anything you’ve shown me?”

“....if you can get it so quickly, then...” He begins, though he knows it’s really unfair to use the other detective as a litmus. It’s just that...if Ranpo doesn’t think it’s good enough to stump him, he can’t think it’s good, either. Nothing is adequate anymore. Nothing works. If Ranpo...if he can’t...

“Ed, c’mon,” Ranpo scolds. “I’m the world’s greatest detective! Just ‘cause I get it right doesn’t mean anyone else will!” He frowns, leaning over. “This one was good,” he adds, nudging the manuscript. “This one or the other one you showed me, the one on the cruise ship. Making it up to the reader whether the curse was real or not was a nice twist. I mean, obviously it was, you were using ability users, but the public doesn’t know about them either, so they’ll like that. It’s a nice call back to the one you wrote about the mansion and the theater troupe, too.”

Poe freezes, his eyes widening and heart stopping for a moment. “....you read that?” He asks faintly. “You’ve...read one of my books?”

“Uh, duh?” Ranpo says, giving him a look. “I told you, you were the only person who managed to give me a real thrill back then. I looked you up when I got home and bought all your books. They’re nothing like a real mystery, and still pretty easy to guess, but they were fun.” He shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “My favorite was the one in the island about the treasure hunt. Having the killer use that nursery rhyme as his killing pattern wasn’t that original, but it was pretty creative anyway, ‘specially since you made the rhyme up, too.”

Poe squeaks. “You liked them?”

“Yeah,” Ranpo says offhandedly through a mouthful of candy. “You’re good at writing mysteries, Ed. Isn’t that obvious? Everyone else’s are super boring. Yours are at least fun, even if I can still solve them before I’m halfway done with ‘em.” He leans his chin on a hand. “I can see why normal people like ‘em, too.” He shoves at the manuscript on the table, smiling cheerfully. “Send this one, or the cruise ship one. Or both! That’s my professional opinion.”

Poe manages a nod, and begs off to do just that, nearly falling on his face as he flees the room with the sheaf of papers in his arms.

Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no.

He can’t get that smile out of his head.

‘You’re good at writing mysteries.’

‘I looked you up when I got home and bought all your books.’

‘They were fun.’

Oh no, he thinks again, plaintively. Oh no.

#;hc: poe #;writing

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silentprincess100 · 7 years ago

Text

SEKAIICHI HATSUKOI ONODERA RITSU NO BAAI Chapter 27 Preliminary Translation (for the impatient)!!!

**MAJOR SPOILERS**

If you’re like me, you see the new foreign language raws of Sekakoi and are dying to read them right away. For those people, I’ve drafted a preliminary translation of the long-awaited twenty-seventh chapter of The Case of Onodera Ritsu, which just came out on the 29th!!! My translations are from Chinese, so I can’t vouch for how closely they follow the original Japanese text. As a die-hard fan of Sekakoi, I tried to translate Takano and Onodera as I understand (and LOVE!!) them as people. Just a note, though, my translations air on the liberal interpretation side and hope to refit the text to sound natural (or as natural as possible) in English, so if you’re looking for a word-for-word translation, you won’t find it here. Additionally, I know that there is a group who is officially scanlating SIH, and I do not mean to step on anyone’s toes or offend anyone. This is not a full scanlation in the slightest – it’s just for those who want a quick translation. I would be MORE THAN ECSTATIC AND EXTREMELY HONORED if the scanlation group covering SIH wants to work off of any of my translations, but please contact me if you do. :D

Credits for the scans that I used to translate go to Tong Meng Hui同萌繪（ cute and clever name by the way – my inner Chinese history geek heartily approves） scanlation group. The link to their scanlation is here, and I take ABSOLUTELY NO CREDIT for it: https://weibo.com/u/1582384823?is_hot=1#_rnd1514689495071.

Lastly, Shungiku Nakamura’s works belong to her, of course. Please buy the originals to support her work!! (By the way, there is a special thirteenth volume coming out in May with an extra booklet and some sort of marriage related special??!!).

So!! Enjoy, and feel free to send suggestions. Any errors are mine alone!

*Edited for a read-more function and some small errors. Sorry everyone and thank you for your patience.

Title Page:

Surely, these minute details of everyday life will one day become precious memories.

[May 1st Release – Onodera Ritsu no Baai Volume 13 (special edition and extra booklet) Now in pre-sale!!

Also on sale are the extremely popular SIH volumes 1-12 and Junjou Romantica 1-22.

Ultra-capable Editor in Chief x Newbie editor’s sightly realistic publishing company world love story!

SIH will be released as an app-game for smart-phones!!!!

Page 2:

Every time I cross over

Those pink tracks…

Page 3:

clang clang clang

Page 4:

Ritsu: Eh? You’ve moved there?

Mutou Sensei: Oh, do you know the area?

Ritsu: Yes, that was the closest station to my high school! Mutou sensei: Ahhh... I see!

Ritsu: Ah yes, but that you have moved to Tokyo is really quite the surprise.

Mutou sensei: Ahaha. Because handing in the manuscripts on-time and securing assistants was never that convenient…. (I’d about reached my limits!) Ritsu: Ah.

Page 5:

Ritsu: Also, I know you must be very busy unpacking… but regarding the manuscript… Mutou sensei: It’s no problem at all. I’ve just finished it!

Ritsu: Really? Fantastic! Thank you for your hard work!!! Ah, so could I come pick it up now?

Ok, great, thank you so much, you’ve been a great help. Ok, I will see you soon.

RItsu (thoughts): it has been so long since I’ve been to XX station….

Looking out the windows of the train on my way to school, every year there would always be cherry blossoms lining the tracks…

Page 6:

[And

Day

After day

I would be secretly watching Sempai from behind on my way to school.

GAHH~!!!!! Stop thinking about that dark history!!!!!

page 7:

Takano: What the hell are you doing?

Ritsu: !?(startle!) Why are you here?

Takano: Um maybe because I work here…?

Here are the materials for the meeting. Remember to look them over before tomorrow.

Ritsu: Huh? Ah, okay!

Oh, I am headed over to Mutou Sensei’s house to pick up the manuscript.

Takano: Mutou sensei’s?

Ritsu: Yes, it seems she just moved to Tokyo yesterday.

Takano: No way.

page 8

Takano: Where does she live?

Ritsu: Um. Well …

At XX station on YY line.

Takano: XX station?

Ah!

That's –

[Don’t say it!!!] stands up abruptly Ah, well, then I’m headed off.

Takano: Hang on. I’ll be heading out to meet with an author as well, so why don’t we go together?

Ritsu: Ah… but… um…

Takano: What?

Ritsu: It’s nothing.

Ritsu (thinking): If I seem too flustered, he’ll think that I care about it too much!!

page 9:

Takano: Achoo

Ritsu: Have you caught a cold? Takano: Well, it’s not at full cold status yet, just the first signs.

Ritsu: (Hmph!) Takano-san, it seems that someone hasn’t been taking care of themselves.

Takano: Ah… maybe.

So, why don’t you come over to my house today to take care of me. I’ll make dinner for you. (Aren’t you done for today after picking up the manuscript?)

Ritsu: Blush I’m not going!!

Takano: Oh, right. Here, take this.

page 10

Ritsu: ?

Takano: It’s the key to my apartment.

Ritsu: Huh?

Takano: You can come over whenever you want. Also, as a thank you in return, give me the key to your apartment.

Ritsu: Wha?

Takano: Or why don’t we just move in together. Otherwise, you might die alone at your house and I might never know.

If we live together, the house would be super neat and there would always be hot food to eat, now doesn’t that sound nice?

Ritsu: Huh? Wait!!!

Takano: And then I wouldn’t have to worry about your friend anymore.

page 11:

RItsu: Wha – what are you talking about?

Takano: Anyway, come over today.

Ritsu: No thank you – please allow me to decline!

Takano: Why? Ritsu: Well because judging by past experiences… (t/n this could also be “well because common sense tells me…”)

[Ah. The key to Takano-san’s apartment. I remember.]

Takano: What?

Ritsu: … it’s nothing.

Takano: If you have something to say, just say it.

Ritsu: I don’t…

Takano: Onodera.

Ritsu: …

…

Well, that is,

That key to your apartment.. wasn’t it… that was Yokozawa’s before, right?

page 12:

Ritsu: ...I just suddenly thought of it, that’s all!

An-anyway I’ve got somewhere to be, so I’m heading off. I’ll see you later.

Takano: Onodera.

I’ve already had him return that key to me.

Ritsu: Huh? It’s not as if - I’m not –

Takano: I’m sorry.

page 13:

Takano: I should have told you properly. I’m sorry.

I had already asked for the key that I gave to Yokozawa back. The key I just gave you is a new one.

Ritsu: Huh? Ah! I already said that I’m not –

[No no – it can’t seem as if I care about this too much!!]

Ritsu: A-and anyways we rent our apartments, how could you give one to someone else? What will happen when you leave that place?

Takano: I talked it over with the building management before I made this one, so it’s not a problem.

Because, I wanted you to have it no matter what.

page 14:

Takano: So take it. clink

Ritsu: Wai-

Takano: Bye-bye. I’ll leave Mutou sensei to you then.

Ritsu: Takano-san!!!

Woman: Good work.

Takano: You too.

Ritsu’s thought: ……Heyyyy…., even if you give me that thing…

page 15:

slam

Ritsu (thoughts): I’m returning it to him. This is me returning it to him!

Ugh god, what is that person thinking?!

Kisa: Ricchan, you haven’t left yet?

Ritsu: Hahaha, ah, no, I forgot something…

Ritsu (thoughts): Just because he gave me a key, he tells me to give him my key and to live with him. I totally cannot understand what he is thinking!

[but]

Ritsu’s thoughts: this way…

[He took his key back (from Yokozawa)]

page 16:

ding

Nao: oh, hey! If it isn’t Ritsu!

Ritsu: Nao! You’re working at Marukawa today?

Nao: Yep. I’ve gotten another job here besides the photo collection book. And what are you up to?

Ritsu: I’m on my way to pick up a manuscript.

Nao: (?!) Oh? So you have to go door-to-door to pick up the manuscripts yourself?

Ritsu: No, not every time. This time the author had just happened to have recently moved here, so I thought I’d pay a visit.

Nao: Oh okay, is it nearby?

Ritsu: No, maybe 30-40 minutes by train. Seems to be near my old school – which caught me by surprise!

Page 17:

Nao: Huuuuh. Did you suggest that place to sensei?

Ritsu: No, it was just a coincidence!

Nao: Uh-huh…

Ritsu: Then, I’ll see you later!

Nao: I’ll go with you.

Ritsu: What?

Nao: Well, I was just getting ready to head back anyway.

Ritsu: Huh? Um… but I’m going for work…

Nao: It’s fine, it’s fine. I won’t go with you to the author’s house.

page 18:

Ritsu: Ummmm..but.. Nao: I just want to see what your old school was like! After I take a look, I’ll head back on my own – so there’s no issue, right?

Ritsu: That is….. Errrrr…. Um…

Page 19:

Announcement: XX station. XX station. Doors will open on your left.

(sound effect: clang clang clang)

page 20:

Nao: Ritsu? The gate finally went up (Ah. Sure took its time.)

Ritsu: Oh right, sorry! Um, it’s this way! The school is about five minutes walking distance from here.

Nao: OK. Nao: Hey, is it that building right over there? Ritsu: Ah, yes.

RItsu (thoughts): The uniforms haven’t changed at all.

Nao: Wowww, pretty impressive school you have here!!

page 21:

[Ahhhh…. Right. Takano-san and I have definitely walked this path before…]

Startle

Ritsu (thoughts): It seems I’ve started thinking of a lot of different things….

(muddle muddle)

That sort of sordid history can’t be summed up with simple “nostalgia….”

Nao: Has it changed?

page 22:

RItsu: Huh?

Nao: The school.

Ritsu: Oh, I’m not sure. From the outside, it looks like it hasn’t changed…

Nao: Well I’m sure they’ve renovated it since then.

Ritsu: Ah, that’s true…

Nao: …. Uh huh…. Ten years ago, you met Saga-sempai here huh….

Ritsu: What? (*heartbeat*) Ah, um…. Yeah.

Nao: Hmm….

page 23:

Nao: I clearly don’t know anything about the Ritsu of that time, and yet that person does. It really doesn’t sit well with me.

Ritsu: Huh? What are you talking abou-

Nao: Ritsu.

I really do love you.

Page 24:

Ritsu: …..

…. What?

Nao: At first it was just because I thought you were at risk and couldn’t stop worrying about you that I became your friend.

But after that, after spending each day with you, slowly but surely, I started to really understand you. And then, I fell in love with you.

Narration: [He did recently say, “I’m serious about this.” Could it be… that it was true?]

Page 25:

Ritsu: B-but, in all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never…

Nao: Well, that’s obviously because I didn’t want to let you find out.

It was, after all, under those circumstances, and I also thought maybe I was confusing feelings of empathy with romantic interest.

But later I realized that it was, in fact, interest.

And you never mentioned anything about Saga-sempai again. I even breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that you had finally given him up.

Because I had seen how depressed you were then, I thought that any confession that I would make might cause you even more pain.

So, I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

page 26:

Nao: Rather than risk pushing you away with a confession, it would be better to continue to be friends… is what I thought. So I didn’t say anything.

… but… in the end, I couldn’t accept that.

After we parted I also had a lot of different experiences, but in the end, from then until now, it was always you that I loved

Ritsu: O-oh, is that so… I’m sorry. At the time, because I was so caught up in my own affairs, I never noticed.

Nao: Ahahaha. You really are thick-headed.

page 27:

Nao: Are you still in love with Saga-sempai?

Ritsu: Huh?

Nao: Ritsu, don’t let yourself get hurt like you did last time.

Ritsu: Hu-hurt? I was never-

Nao: So… it is just that you’ve been restrained by these feelings of “I liked him,” am I right?

page 28:

Nao: I don’t want to see you like that ever again.

Ritsu: Nao… Nao.

Nao: Even if he has changed his name, he is still that same guy that hurt you!

Since he is your boss, I can’t ask you not to see him again, but to be honest, just seeing him by your side - it pisses me off.

page 29:

Nao: I hope that you will take some time to think this over properly, so you don’t have to give me an answer right now.

But from now on I hope you can see me as a potential romantic partner.

Well, then, I’m heading off now. Bye bye!

Ritsu: Eh – Nao!

Nao: I’m satisfied by seeing the school; hurry up and pick up your manuscript!

Ah. Ritsu. I just want you to remember this.

page 30:

Nao: I definitely treasure you more. At least a lot more than any “Saga-sempai” or “Takano san” ever could.

page 31:

[… … … Nao.

He is serious about me. He truly is a good friend. When I had fallen so deeply into the pit of despair, he was always there to support me. It’s hard to even say just how much he helped me.]

Ritsu (thoughts): Because I had always seen him as a friend, I never even noticed… He said he didn’t need an answer right away, but I should have let him down right then.

Even if he says that he wants me to see him as a romantic partner, I still only see him as a friend.

[And what’s more…]

Memory: Nao: So… it is just that you’ve been restrained by these feelings of “I liked him,” am I right?

page 32:

[…. Could that be it?]

Ritsu (thoughts): No, that can’t be right. My past was always a dark patch of history devoid of any sort of happy memories.

And what’s even more, with the ten years intervening, it is hard to even glimpse a shadow of what it was like back then.

Yes, that’s it.

[Not only tyrannical, but also unyielding, his personality is the worst, and he is always doing all this inappropriate stuff to me].

……

[But.]

[He’s very capable when it comes to work, and every manga that he has a hand in creating is interesting. He does say things that are way over the line… but in the end, his advice is always on the mark.]

page 33:

[When I succeed, he praises me, and he also has always believed in me… moreover, he says that he has never stopped loving me over these past ten years.]

….

I should really clear things up with Nao.

[I’m not being restrained by old feelings. And I’m not being controlled by them either. I really need to tell him that it is not like that at all.]

page 34:

Ritsu: Huh?

Hatori: Welcome back. That took a while, huh.

Ritsu: Ah, I’m sorry about that. When I picked up the manuscript, we also chatted about content for next chapter.

Takano-san isn’t back yet?

Hatori: He said that he was headed straight home after his meeting with the author.

Ritsu: Huh?!

Hatori: Did something happen?

Ritsu: Eh? Ah, no! I see, so that’s what he said.

Oh, well, then I’ll be headed off as well.

Hatori: Okay, good work today.

page 35:

[Anyway – his key! What should I do with it?!]

Ritsu (thoughts): Since he went straight home, that means that he has to have another key, right? Then, it’s a non-issue. I’ll just leave the key here and go straight home, right?!

But what if some sort of accident happens if I leave it here – that’s scary to think about.

We-well, but, why does it have to be me who worries about this kind of stuff?

phone rings

Ritsu: Hello?!!

Takano: I don’t have a key, so I can’t get into my house.

Ritsu: What?

Why?

Takano: Didn’t I just give my key to you?

page 36:

Ritsu: Huh? But that’s a spare, right? Don’t you have another set?

Takano: I left them at home.

Ritsu: What?!

Takano: Aren’t you finished with work already anyways? Come back; I’ll make dinner for you.

Ritsu (thoughts): Okay, you DEFINITELY did that on purpose just because I didn’t agree to eat dinner with you. You KNEW your other key was at your house, and purposefully gave me your only key…

Takano: If you don’t come back, then I can’t make dinner, so get moving.

Ritsu: Please don’t be so difficult! Why couldn’t you have just not given me the key in the first place? Takano: ACHOO

page 37:

Takano: Achooo

Ritsu: Hey, wait a second, are you alright?

Takano: sniff What?

Ritsu: You have a cold, don’t you?

Takano: I don’t.

Achoo

Ritsu: Ahh, you do, though. Okay, okay, I get it, I get it.

[DAMNNIT!!] grabs

[Doing this sort of childish thing just to play around with people– it would clearly be best if I just let him deal with things by himself.]

Ritsu (thoughts): But, if his cold gets worse and he tries to pin this all on me, that’ll suck.

page 38:

[I really want to tell him that he is just getting what he deserves. Are you an idiot?! What the heck is going on in the brain of yours? This isn’t for Takano-san at all. It’s only because I have a lot that I want to say that I’m running…. And bringing Takano-san’s key…]

page 39:

Ritsu panting from running

Ah ha ah hah

Ritsu: WHAA?

Takano: I’m starving. (It’s hot out.)

Ritsu: And I just ran all the way here from the station!!

Takano: You’re kidding.

Ritsu: I’m not! Because if you died in the doorway, I’d have nightmares. (You just figured that out now, didn’t you?!)

Takano: ….

Ah….

page 40:

Takano: Thanks. pat pat Sorry, but I’m super happy right now.

Ritsu: Please! Please don’t do such childish things!

Takano: All I did was give you my key.

Ritsu: So, I’m saying, this sort of thing –

Takano: Here. Drink this.

Ritsu (thoughts): Huh…? Isn’t this already half empty? Which means…

Takano: Our relationship is past the point of being embarrassed over indirect kisses, no?

Ritsu: TAKANO-SAN!!!!! (blush blush blush!)

Takano: Alright, alright.

Were you able to collect the manuscript?

page 41:

Ritsu: Ah, yes. Sensei also sends her regards.

Takano: Where’s her house near?

RItsu: Oh, remember the bus station in front of the school? It’s that apartment that you can see right after you turn onto the side-road.

Takano: … Ah. It’s sort of coming back to me. Actually, I remember standing in front of the street-gate waiting for it to go up and getting pissed when it wouldn’t. (Ritsu – bdmp)

Is it still the same?

Ritsu: Eh, ah, yes. B-but I never thought I had to wait long there.

Takano: No way.

Ritsu: … Ah. B-but Nao also complained that it took forever.

page 42:

RItsu urk : Ah….

Takano: …

You. You went with Nao to pick up the manuscript?

Ritsu: … Um… about that… Please let me explain.

Takano: In the hallway?

Ritsu: Huh? Ah, ummm. Then I’ll just send you an email when I get home.

Takano: Didn’t I just tell you? I don’t have a key.

Page 43:

Takano: Open the door.

Ritsu: …

k-chak

Takano: Go on.

blocking the way

Ritsu: Ta-takano-san. Um. Nao was at the company for work, and I just happened to run into him in the lobby.

page 44:

Ritsu: I – after I said that Sensei’s house was close to my old school, he said he wanted to come see it. I turned him down, but in the end I wasn’t able to lose him.

Ah, but of course, I didn’t tell him Mutou Sensei’s address. We just walked together next to the school, and then split up.

Takano: What did you talk about?

Ritsu: Just some regular topics.

Takano: What do you mean by “regular?”

Ritsu: J-just. About school. About old times.

Takano: And you were confessed to as well, weren’t you?

page 45:

Ritsu: startle

Takano: …. So what did you say.

Ritsu: Please don’t use such leading questions to interrogate me!

Takano: But if I didn’t do that, you wouldn’t say anything, no?

Ritsu: O-okay yes, he confessed, but I said before that I only see Nao as a friend, so I was surprised.

Takano: And how did you respond?

Ritsu: I- I didn’t. Because he said that I didn’t need to respond right away.

Takano: …

Ritsu: And!

page 46:

Takano: And what?

Ritsu: ….

Ritsu: I’m heading back. Here is your key!!

Grab

Ritsu: Wha-

Takano: You still haven’t answered me.

Ritsu: Please let me go!

Push

Ritsu: Waa!!

Takano: So. After I find out that the person I like has been confessed to, you expect me to hold my composure?

page 47:

Takano: Even when it was just that the guy knew things about those ten years of yours that I didn’t, I was pissed. Why did it have to be at this time, another moment in which I wasn’t there, that you were confessed to?

[E-even if you say that]

Takano: …

Even though I’ve resolved myself to waiting for you, I can still get worried.

So. How many more times do I have to hold you for you to finally belong to me? (t/n also could be read as how many times do we have to sleep together for you to finally belong to me.)

page 48:

Takano: Ritsu. I love you.

So, hurry up and give your full self to me

page 49:

mouth mouth

RItsu: Haaa

Tremble

Ritsu: Ha

Ritsu: Wai-

Drop

RItsu: Ah, ha tremble

Takano: You’re so warm.

bite

page 50:

glub glub

Ritsu: hah hah

page 51:

Ritsu: Hah, hah hah

suckle suckle suckle, kiss kiss kiss

RItsu: Ta-takano san! (hahh)

Liiiick

Takano: What?

Ritsu: It’s – it’s already…

If you contin…ue…

Mouth

Jolt

page 52:

Ritsu: Ahh!!

Ritsu (thought): Ah. Because there is a layer of cloth between us, I feel like, somehow, it’s not enough.

Fondle fondle, grope, grope

Takano: Is it uncomfortable?

RItsu: (hahh) I-it…

Takano: Do you want to get off?

Ritsu: Didn’t I just tell you to stop these leading questions?

Takano: And didn’t I just tell you to give your full self to me?

Ritsu: Hah. Hah.

page 53:

RItsu: ……

…. It’s too embarrassing. Please don’t look.

page 54:

RItsu: Ah, ah. Ah ah.

Thrust thrust thrust

Takano’s thoughts: Ahhh…. Feels great.

page 55:

thrust hahh

[Right now, what I’m feeling in my heart, it isn’t just old emotions.]

Ritsu (thought): Ah, so deep.

RItsu (thought): Ah. Why does he always touch there….

What should I do… It feels so good.

[There is a sort of feeling that doesn’t solely belong to then, and yet also doesn’t solely belong to now, that is slowly blossoming within my chest.]

Lick

Memory: Are you in love with Saga-sempai?

page 56:

Takano: Ritsu.

[But to think that this feeling might be “love”?]

thrust

Ritsu: Ah!

turns over

Takano: Man, you’re a mess.

page 57:

[On the other hand, if this isn’t “love” then what else can it be called?]

Ritsu: Takano san. Hah hah.

[This feeling is slowly building up, and the more it builds up, the stronger it gets.]

[How much longer will it be until I finally escape his hold on me?]

page 58:

Takano and Onodera: ACHOOO.

Takano: Your greeting?

Ritsu: Good morning!!

Takano: Morning. What, do you have a cold?

Ritsu: NO!

page 59:

Ritsu (thoughts): It can’t be that I caught Takano-san’s cold. That would suck!!

Sniffle

Ritsu: Takano-san, you’re up early today.

Takano: I have a meeting first thing. (pain in the ass!)

But that means we can head to the office together.

clang clang

Takano: By the way, when I heard you talk about old school memories, I thought of something.

Ritsu: What?

Takano: On my way to school and on my way home from school, you were always following me, no?

page 60:

Ritsu: Wha-wha-wha- what are you saying? Hahahahahaha.

Takano: Ah, so it’s true.

Ritsu: Why would I do something like that? We went to the same school; of course we took the same route to and from school!

Takano: Well, whatever, it’s an indisputable fact that you were my stalker, though.

Ritsu: Th-that was your imagination. Takano-san, don’t you think that you’re flattering yourself?

Takano: Flattering myself shouldn’t be a problem though. Anyway, it is just around you that it happens.

page 61:

Ritsu: Huh?!!!

[We will soon be arriving at Fantian Bridge (t/n not sure what the Japanese is here) station.

[Every time I cross over those pink tracks…

Overtime, that street-gate became infamous, and everyone grew to hate it.

But, for me, that street-gate was always a place that I looked forward to.

Because it was there, day after day, that I could see the person I loved.

page 62:

RItsu: ….

Takano: I’m being watched again… (What the heck is he doing?)

[Days until Ritsu falls in love (completely): 36.]

[The end]

#sooooo worth it #omgomgomg #finally my Chinese comes in handy #sekaiichi hatsukoi spoilers

349 notes · View notes

writing-in-the-tiny-house · 4 years ago

Text

BookWise Publishing, with Karen Christoffersen

A special thanks to Karen Christoffersen!

www.bookwisepublishing.com

[email protected]

She does free 30 minute consultations!

Become a patron to Writing in the Tiny House today.

patreon.com/writinginthetinyhouse

The following is a transcript of this episode. The complete transcript can be found on the show’s website.

Devin Davis: If you are looking to do a book on your own, then you need to get to know Karen Christoffersen owner of Book-wise Publishing. She assisted me in doing my first two books and she is actually our guest today on Writing in the Tiny House. Hello. Hello. Hello, and welcome to the show. Welcome back to Writing in the Tiny House.

[00:00:49] I am your host Devin Davis, and I am the guy living in the tiny house who is here to show you ways to get that novel written. Even if you are the busiest person in the whole world. And today we have a special guest. And before I do a really big introduction, let's go ahead and meet her. This is Karen Christoffersen. She is a producer and the owner of Book-wise Publishing.

[00:01:18] Karen Christoffersen: Hi Devin. I'm so excited to be able to do this with the Writing in the Tiny House. I thought that the title of your podcast was delightful. And so the fact that you've invited me to be on it is, is an honor.

[00:01:35]Devin Davis: I have known Karen for, forever, it seems. Her son and I are very good friends. And back in my early twenties, when I wrote my first book As Magic Shifts, it was Karen who did all of the heavy lifting to get it published and to produce it and to clean it up and to move all of the moving parts to form this cohesive picture we call a book. And the first book I wrote As Magic Shifts was published under CMS publishing, which at the time was owned by Karen Christoffersen, and then later she moved to Book-wise Publishing. And my second book, The Witch's Pupil was published under Book-wise.

[00:02:25] Karen Christoffersen: Book-wise publishing was started back in 2006 when there was a company called Book-wise and Company owned by Richard Paul Evans, number one New York times bestselling author, and several partners who decided they wanted to create a publishing arm. And they called it Book-wise Publishing and came to me and asked me, because I'm a producer, if I would produce a hundred books for a hundred new authors. As a producer, all we do is start a project and finish it. I was doing television commercials, radio commercials, motion pictures. I was doing all kinds of production as a producer, but I'd done two non-fiction books for Richard. It's a piece of cake, you know, you start, you finish. And so I said, sure, I can do that. And of course, my dad taught me never to say no. He said, just go out and find out how to do it. And so I ended up surrounding myself with a lot of really talented people: editors and illustrators and designers and all kinds of people actively involved in the publishing industry locally and nationally.

[00:03:39] And they made me look very good. And I coordinated everything. And so I've been doing that since 2007, 'cause we started that the second year and after a year and a half, Richard decided that, and by the way, Richard was only doing endorsements. He wasn't doing anything. I was operating the business alone. And after a year and a half, he decided he really didn't want the liability anymore. I'm pretty sure that's why. And besides he had his irons in so many fires at the time, he was just going gangbusters, doing all kinds of things. And he sold it to me for a dollar. The branding alone for Book-wise Publishing was worth $20,000. Plus, you know, there were other parts to the company that had value. And so I said, sure, I'll do that. It did take me because there were a hundred authors and then they added another 50 when they added a program called Write-Wise. So I had 150 authors that I was responsible for producing their books.

[00:04:43]And out of the $5,000 they paid, I only got 1300 to work on their books. So it took me a couple of years to get the company in the black, but obviously not all of those hundred and 50 authors came back and finished your books. So I eventually just continued doing more and more and more until today.

[00:05:07]Devin Davis: Karen has been doing this for more than 14 years, and she has produced more than 500 books, anything from paper back ,to hard back, to board books, to tub books, to eBooks and audio books.She ha s a team of talent that can do it all and can do all of the things. And so she has become a very valuable resource for anybody who wishes to self publish.

[00:05:38] Karen Christoffersen: My goal is to make my authors as happy as I possibly can. So when I put that book in their hands, it's like putting that baby in her mother's arms. It's a moment of just pure joy, and that's what I look for.

[00:05:53]

[00:05:53] Devin Davis: So Karen estimates that the expense of producing a book is about $3,000. My personal estimation is closer to $5,000. And many authors get a book finished, they write it, they edit it and they go through the entire huge process of getting a manuscript ready. And now it's printed, or it is available to order in the ebook form or whatever, they have this finished product, but many of them just don't know what to do next.

[00:06:26]Karen Christoffersen: If we can just get authors atuned to the fact that this is a small business. The startup business is tough and you have to build and you have to stick with it. Well, a book is like that as well. You have to be on there every day. You know, write a blog, do a newsletter. You must have a website. Websites are very inexpensive to do now. The hard part is selling it.

[00:06:54] So if people start off from the beginning, I remember Richard Evans told me, he said if I had started collecting email addresses when The Christmas Box first came out, he said, I've had millions of names, but he didn't start collecting addresses for like 10 years. And so that's one thing that I can't convince enough authors to do is to go out there and start building that list.

[00:07:21] Tell your friends to share. Tell your friends to send this to their friends and ask your friends if you can have their email address.

[00:07:29]Devin Davis: So where to get started. The process of writing a book has so many steps and so many different professionals to bring in on board to the project that it is so easy to lose track of what you need to do. It is easy to lose your steam and it is easy to lose focus. So, what Karen has put together is called the Book-wise Publishing Boiler Plate and she passed this document onto me.

[00:07:59] It is updated regularly. The one that I have was current as of July 7th, 2021. And it goes through and outlines step by step, the different things that you need to do in the writing process to produce a book, to get to that finish line of having a book. And then we move on a little bit to marketing after that.

[00:08:27] So if you are interested in the Book-wise Publishing Boiler Plate document, go ahead and email me. My email is [email protected]. And I will be able to send that to you so that you can see what Book-wise Publishing has put together. As far as that is concerned.

[00:08:49] Karen Christoffersen: One thing I think is really important is that if you are a serious writer, if you're serious about completing a book, you need two books, you need your book, but you also need a journal. And write in your journal every day what you do, whether you write 10 pages, whether you call so-and-so who knows an editor or an agent or whatever is happening in your book life, keep a journal of it because you're going to want to refer back to that sometime. And you will have valuable information that you don't even know was valuable at the time you received it. So two books.

[00:09:29]Devin Davis: Sometimes as business owners and as people who are creative, we failed to see the importance of record keeping. So with different things like this with having your manuscript that you are working on and then keeping track of the things that you did to progress that manuscript that can serve you in many different ways. It can show you, first of all, exactly how you did it so that you can do it again when you move on to your second manuscript. It can also serve as kind of a force to lift you up. If you are feeling down, if you are feeling unmotivated, you can look back to the specific days where you pushed through and did a lot and accomplished a lot, and had a really successful day, as far as production goes, and you can replicate what you did to get past that and to do it again. And so record keeping is very, very important in a small business, not only just the financial side, but also what you have done for production.

[00:10:42] With me, I have my book, well, my two books. I now have two books, two manuscripts that I'm working on. I also have this podcast that I need to keep track of. With the podcast, I don't keep track of all of the notes that I have taken for each episode, but I definitely have a planner because this is a regular release schedule. And so I need to be organized and I need to think ahead.

[00:11:08] And if I ever want to have days off, it means that I need to get things done beforehand to earn those days off or to prepare for them. So with books, I have done the book writing before I know how to do that. And I know the people that I need to get ahold of for the next steps, because I've done that too. And I never did keep a second journal, but I also recommend doing that just as Karen pointed out.

[00:11:36]But also something, another thing that Karen does, and this was surprising to me, Karen has an entire career built around producing and around marketing. And so Karen has spent her entire adult life writing the short stuff, saying impactful things in a very short amount of time, because in marketing, you don't have pages and pages to build or to develop.

[00:12:06] You get to hit them hard and you get to say the important things in a good, meaningful way right away. And so Karen writes the short stuff. With my books, she wrote the blurbs on the back of the covers because she's good at that. And she knows how to do the small things well. And so when she moves on to share with me something else that you will hear here in a second, I was completely surprised and delighted by this little gift that she shares.

[00:12:44] Karen Christoffersen: I was going to read to you just a little thing. 'Cause I don't write books.

[00:12:48] I do a lot of writing, but I don't write books because I have too much work to do just editing. I decided to write as what I call a fictionalized narrative based on true events. And I bring other people in like, you know, the boy in my neighborhood who was my friend and his quote from his point of view, what he sees happening in my life.

[00:13:13] But I thought it might be fun just to read a tiny little excerpt. So I would like your response to these four short paragraphs. You're ready for this?

[00:13:25] Okay. Now I grew up in a trailer in a tiny home and and I had a sister who played Elvis Presley all the time.

[00:13:34] And my big brother, 12 years older than me. He looked like Elvis Presley. I thought Elvis was my brother. And I liked big words. This is when I was five years old. But even when I was five years old, I liked big words. So this is four paragraphs for inspiration for you guys.

[00:13:52]Butch was my friend. He was about 10 or 11, and I was five. Butch had a dog named Gunner. He was a big German shepherd, mostly black, but he had a lot of golden fur in his face and he was beautiful. He was bigger than me, probably twice my size, a happy dog, always looked like he was grinning, kind of like me. Dad called me a grinning idiot.

[00:14:15]Butch had to keep him on a long rope because we didn't have fences. So Gunner had to be leashed when we were at school. And I lived right on Route 66 in Albuquerque, New Mexico. So it was a nasty road. I remember riding the school bus home one day. And as we got to our stop right in front of our trailer park, there was a dark something in the middle of the road, a ways in front of the bus.

[00:14:37]I didn't think anything about it at the time, but when we walked to our trailers, I noticed Butch was looking around and couldn't find Gunner. He called him, and Gunner would always come when he heard Butch call but not this time. And then I knew what that black thing in the middle of the road was.

[00:14:55] And I was sick at heart, sick to my stomach, and didn't know what to do. Butch and his dad dug a hole near the back of their trailer space I remember it was in the spring because the wild flowers were in bloom and I picked a bunch to put on his grave. Butch was pretty stoic. I liked that word.

[00:15:12] It meant strong and quiet-like I loved big words, even as a child. I knew he was hurting, but he didn't have to show it. I liked that. He could hurt inside, but he didn't have to show everybody and make a fuss. At my house, someone was always making a fuss. That kind of quiet strength really impressed me. I wanted to be like that, but I was a girl and girls, well, we're usually not the epitome of quiet strength.

[00:15:40] The role model I had at the time was just the opposite. I remember standing there as Butch's dad shoveled dirt into the hole, singing quietly to myself, "You ain't nothing but a hound dog crying all the time, nothing but a hound dog." It was my requiem for Gunner. He was a good dog, a loyal and loving one. Died on Route 66, just east of Albuquerque.

[00:16:06] And that is my tiny excerpt from my narrative. And I wanted to write it in such a way that my kids would actually read it. And so I bring this up because anybody out there who is thinking about writing the book and thinks they can't write a book. Well, I thought I couldn't write a book, but I I'm starting to think I might be able to, because I read a few of these pieces to my children and they liked them and ask for more.

[00:16:38]Devin Davis: So there you have it. Anyone can write a story. And a lot of us want to write some form of memoir, either for ourselves, for our lives or for a loved one. Like Caroline Nadine Helsing did in one of those previous episodes. And you should. And it is fun to bring focus to the idea of a fictional narrative based on real events and how that can be just fine and a beautiful way to do your own narrative or your own memoir or the memoir of a loved one.

[00:17:14] It can be fun. It can be entertaining. It can be more memorable that way. If you choose to incorporate those elements as well, just as Karen is choosing to do with her own personal memoirs. I know that I will, when I do my own stuff later on in life, I'm not interested in writing a memoir today. But if you are interested in reaching out to Book-wise Publishing, do their website at www.bookwisepublishing.com. And if you want to reach out to Karen Kristofferson herself, her email is [email protected]. It has three Z's in a row. Uh, I will include that email address and a link to the website in the notes of the show.

[00:18:03] Also, again, referring back to the boiler plate document. If you want to get a hold of that, feel free to reach out to me. My email address is [email protected]. And I would be able to send that over to you.

[00:18:18]That's it for today. A big shout out to my patrons who help make this show what it is. If you wish to become a patron, you will get early access to this content, you could get an additional episode every month and you could spend quality time with me over some private chat features in Discord.

[00:18:35] Just go to patreon.com/writinginthetinyhouse to sign up to become a patron today. Also, be sure to follow me on social media. On Instagram I am @authordevindavis, on Twitter I am @authordevind. And thank you so much for listening. Be sure to be on the lookout for next week's episode, where we will be hearing from author AJ Mac, who wrote The Gem State Siege during NaNoWriMo last year. So that is coming up next week. Thank you so much, guys. Have fun writing.

Check out this episode!

#writing #writer #author #fiction #am writing #wip

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kootenaygoon · 5 years ago

Photo

So,

I was watching music videos again.

Dragon smoke unfurled before me, my living room throbbing with purple Targaryen magic, while Tove Lo sang from my glowing laptop. I gotta stay high all the time to keep you off my mind. I was shirtless in my Shambhala tights, allowing YouTube to send my mind careening through what some algorithm had decided should be my mental breakdown playlist. Repeatedly it returned to a haunting electronica track from Disclosure: You help me lose my mind, and you believe something I can't define. Help me lose my mind. Mika was at class at Selkirk College while I raved, trampling her rabbit’s shit pebbles into the carpet with my slippers.

All around me were canvases, procured with my final cheque from the Star, at various states of completion. I’d finished a couple more flamboyant self-portraits, but now I’d moved on to psychedelic dinosaurs, shape-shifting jelly-fish, and paintings of both Mika and my barber Jesse Lockhart. Right now I was working on my first nude, a beach scene set on the fictional island of Quatsino, with my UBC manuscript’s protagonist knee-deep in the surf. Paisley’s dreadlocks hung blonde around her shoulders, and on her forearm I had painstakingly recreated the rose tattoo her real-life counterpart got back when we lived together in Victoria. I could’ve easily been painting Kessa. A joint hanging from my lips, I felt tears slide down my cheeks like fat slugs, my mind flashing back and forth between fiction and non-fiction. Sometimes it seemed like there was no difference — these were all just characters in my mind, and real or not they spoke to me.

Stacked on the kitchen counter was three or four copies of my last issue of the Star, the one featuring the #MeToo story with Mharianne and Laela. I’d asked Ed about the story while collecting my things from the office, and he’d hinted that it may be on the chopping block due to my departure. I insisted it was done, everybody was interviewed and signed off, it was all ready to go — “you would literally be silencing sexual assault survivors,” I made sure to say. Then I called the president of Selkirk College, begging him to talk sense into Aaron Layton and letting him know I was planning to publish it online myself. They couldn’t kill it, not now. They could take my job away, but they couldn’t take that story. They ultimately ran it without my byline—a masterpiece without a proper signature.

Meanwhile, I had other things on my mind.

“You didn’t wear a condom?” Mika asked, when I told her about Natalya’s potential pregnancy. She was looking increasingly more concerned when she returned to the house to find me manic and monologuing.

“I hate condoms.”

“So what were you using for birth control? Wasn’t this chick married?”

I dragged my knuckles against my temple, my skin trembly and sweat-slicked. “I thought she was too old. She’s like 42 or something. And she’s already got kids, right? I thought she was on top of this shit.”

Mika rolled her eyes. “You have nobody to blame here but yourself. Seriously, you don’t get my sympathy.”

I had initially intervened in Mika’s life because she was in the midst of a break-up, and I empathized with the struggle of going through something so publicly embarrassing in such a small town. It wasn’t until we moved in together that I encountered her real personality — she was a hyper-nerd, into science and learning and the weekly Bingo night. She was one of the bud tenders at the local dispensary, which was a convenient way for me to meet the owners. Amidst my chaotic and prolific dating life, I was trying to keep her on a platonic level.

My Nelson sister, something like that.

“This is toxic masculinity, right here. I’m such a fucking asshole,” I said. “This is what Me Too is all about.”

“Not everything is about Me Too. You’re just obsessed with that lately.”

I shook my head. “Kessa’s dead, Mika. That’s a real thing. Fucking pedophile rings and rape everywhere. This is what the woman are raging about. They’re dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“Like those girls on roller skates, in the Chet Faker video. You know the one?”

By this point she knew me pretty well, and as her eyes narrowed I realized this was more than a normal high. I was operating from an extra elevated plane, like I’d lost sensory hold over my body. It was an intoxicating place to be, far from the shame and darkness of the banal. I’d tried one of the pills Natalya gave me, and it was making the room vibrate.

“You’re on something,” she said.

“Natalya gave me this shit to micro-dose. Like mushrooms and speed or something. I just had one like an hour ago.”

She sighed. “You need to be careful, Will. You’re acting strange.”

However I was acting, things finally made sense. I felt like I’d peeled back a layer of existence and discovered the writhing snake-belly of reality. Trump was grabbing everybody by the pussy, waging Twitter war with Kim Jong-Un, while here in Nelson there was some sort of conspiracy to ruin my fucking life. Was it really the Kessa situation that did it? How did they convince Ed to betray me? I thought of that cop who punched a woman, how he sat on the pay roll for years while they figured out his outcome. Was I worse than him? Did I deserve to have my life up-ended for going to a fucking funeral? What were they afraid of? I rattled through my theories on this as I drove Mika to school, and she mostly looked out the window. I wondered if she regretted moving in with me. I’d become that mentally ill freak people talk about, posting my shit all over social media. I just didn’t care anymore.

“So is she going to get an abortion?” Mika asked. “Did she say?”

I shook my head. “She hadn’t even taken a test yet. She said she was just feeling funny, and when she was leaning over she felt something weird.”

“Something weird like what?”

“She said it felt like a tear, like a muscle tear maybe? I don’t know, I was fucking panicking. I told her to call my sisters.”

“Your sisters?”

I didn’t feel like explaining this to Mika. She wasn’t tuned into the greater conversation that was going on, the one coming at me through social media. Men were failing to acknowledge their complicity in rape culture while women bled in public. Nobody was willing to admit they were wrong, because everyone was worried they lived in a glass house. Lately, though, I was wondering if I could break my own glass house. That way I could throw some stones.

“What do you mean throw stones?” she asked.

“These men need to be held accountable.”

“What men?”

“These rapists and abusers and pedophiles who took away my job.”

“I thought you got fired because of Kessa.”

I grunted in annoyance. “I wasn’t fired. I was let go without cause.”

Back in my bedroom, Lt. Aldo Raine marched before his carefully assembled killing team in Inglorious Basterds. I’d watched this clip multiple times, and had the words memorized. Brad Pitt sneered, his throat sporting a nasty scar. I sure as hell didn’t come down from the goddamn Smoky Mountains, cross five thousand miles of water, fight my way through half of Sicily and jump out of fucking aero plane to teach the Nazis lessons in humanity. Nazis ain’t got no humanity. They’re the foot soldiers of a Jew-hating, mass-murdering maniac and they need to be destroyed.

That’s what was happening here in Nelson, but with rapists instead of Germans. Andrew Stevenson was sitting on the edge of my bed, wiping down the barrel of his shotgun, as I lit up another joint. Now I was watching that scene from The Sopranos, the one where Tony wants to kill the local soccer coach for molesting one of the teenage players. This shit was real life, right here. Like my Trent situation. I thought of the local soccer team, and all the abusive shit-heads that were coaching there. I wondered if one of them had crossed the line, if I’d have to add him to my kill list.

I want my scalps.

Somewhere around that time, I realized I was expected soon at Tony’s Taphouse for my Friday night shift. That was how I was battling rape culture now, working the front lines on the bar scene. My favourite moment of each night was when frightened women approached me at the end of the shift to ask me to stand guard until some creep moved on. I took this role very seriously. This week I’d purchased a new accessory to my vested get-up: a bright red bow tie. I checked myself out in the bathroom mirror, trimmed my moustache, and thought of how Tony stumbled home drunk after choosing to spare that soccer coach of his mobster justice.

“I didn’t hurt nobody,” he said to Carmela. “I didn’t hurt nobody.”

As I grabbed my things and headed out the door, I noticed the Ziploc of pills. There were four left now. The first one had gotten me into this productive headspace, so maybe another would help me tap-dance through this rest of this night. Why the fuck not, right? I’d been receiving upsetting emails, crazy messages, death threats. I couldn’t comprehend it all. Unzipping the bag, I cradled one pill in my palm then threw it back, washing it down with tap water. I was tired of feeling morally exhausted, defeated, exiled. I deserved a little pick-me-up. The clientele at Tony’s Taphouse would have no idea their doorman was rip-roaring high. I would be like Bodie from The Wire, standing on his corner while the hitmen descended.

This is my corner! I ain’t going nowhere!

Before leaving, I decided to re-listen to Eminem’s duet with Rihanna, “Love the Way You Lie.” I watched my favourite rapper rock rhythmically back and forth amidst hip-high grass, his voice filled with regret and grief. Here was the ultimate embodiment of rape culture right here, the meta-Chris Brown taking swings at Megan Fox while Rihanna curls her lip. Thing was, Meghan Fox looked exactly like Paisley. The real one. And as Slim Shady rapped in front of a burning trailer, I couldn’t help but think of Ryan Tapp. I can’t tell you how it is really is, I can only tell you what it feels like. And right now it’s a steel knife in my wind pipe.

Andrew Stevenson was waiting at the door, in a black balaclava, with the shotgun sticking out of his backpack. He cracked his knuckles together as I reached the top of the stairs.

“I need your help. You can never ask me about it later, and we’re going to hurt some people,” he said.

I blinked in surprise. “You’re quoting from The Town. That Ben Affleck bank robbery movie. Right? That scene with Jeremy Renner?”

He opened the front door.

“We’re going to hold court in the streets.”

The Kootenay Goon

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all-that-jazz-93 · 8 years ago

Text

The Conqueror - A Short Story

Awareness comes to me slowly. The last thing I remember, I was in a situation I knew I couldn’t possibly live through. As my surroundings become clearer, I realize I didn’t live through it. I look up at the imposing gold gate in front of me and it occurs to me that I must be standing at the entrance to the afterlife.

A figure materializes to my left, approaches me slowly, and comes to a stop a few feet away, hands clasped in front of him. I figure he must be here to guide me into eternity.

“Welcome to the afterlife,” says the friendly guide; his brilliant white teeth gleam as he smiles gently and leads me through the gate.

His white robe billows behind him as he leads me up a golden staircase. When we reach the top, he opens the door in front of us and waves me inside a brightly lit room.

The walls are stark white, and everything looks a little misty. Sort of like the way all those old cartoons like Tom & Jerry used to portray Heaven. I nod to myself. All right, then. I made it into Heaven. Good for me.

We don’t so much walk across the room as glide. We come to a stop in front of a large wooden desk. Sitting on the desk is a shiny new laptop computer with Microsoft Word open on it. Beside the computer is a nice leather-bound notebook and a silver cup filled with high quality pens and pencils. A printer sits on the floor beside the desk.

“Welcome to your new home,” says the guide. “You were a writer in your mortal life, so this space has been designed especially for you.”

I grin and sit down in the comfortable office chair, giving it a gleeful spin before I grasp the edge of the desk and pull myself forward. I get to spend eternity writing! Who knew Heaven would be so perfectly tailored to my passions?

“I’ll check in on you in a little while to see how you’re doing,” the guide says as he glides out of the room. “Have fun.”

He shuts the door behind him, and I am alone with my new writing station. In an instant, I’ve got my first brilliant idea. It pops into my head, very nearly fully formed, and it’s one of the best ideas I’ve ever had. Excited, I place my hands on the keyboard in front of me.

I pause, my fingers hovering above the keys. I stare at the screen. A blank Word document stares back at me.

Shit.

What was that idea again? I literally had the whole thing not ten seconds ago, and now I’m drawing a blank. It’s not even that I forgot it. I mean, it’s all still there in my head, I just…can’t figure out where to start. I don’t have the words.

My first day in Heaven isn’t starting off so well.

I sit there for a while longer, at a loss. Finally I turn away from the computer and open the leather-bound notebook. I reach for a pen. Maybe a more tactile form of writing will help me get the words out.

I uncap the pen and look down at the notebook. My pen hovers over the blank page as I try, once again, to think of the words to express the brilliant idea I just had.

Once again, nothing happens.

Time passes. I don’t know how much time. Maybe hours. Maybe days. It’s a little hard to keep track. After a while, I hear the door open behind me. I turn around and see the guide who brought me here gliding across the room.

“How’s it going in here?” He asks cordially.

“Not great, actually,” I admit. “I keep getting these great ideas, but I can’t seem to get my thoughts onto paper. I had ADHD when I was alive, so this kind of thing used to happen to me a lot, but I wouldn’t have expected a flaw like that to still exist in Heaven.”

The guide’s smile remains in place, but his eyes narrow, making the whole of his expression seem all at once much more sinister.

“Who told you this was heaven?”

In an instant his white robes turn deep red, his nice straight teeth become pointed, horns materialize from his forehead, and a tail appears from the back of his robes. The room darkens and the white mist around us dissolves into crackling flames, revealing a hard, bare floor and rough rock walls.

Deep, malicious laughter erupts from the guide, who I now see for what he truly is—the devil. He bends down close, his mouth an inch away from my ear.

“You’re in Hell,” he whispers. “And this is your own personal torment—a perfect writing space, perfect ideas, but a total inability to get the words from your head into print. You’ll be stuck at this desk for eternity, always just a hair’s-breadth away from finding the right words, your greatest ideas always just out of your reach.”

I sit in stunned silence, and the devil cackles.

“Welcome to day one of your own personal Hell,” he says.

Then he leaves, and I am alone once again. For the next few days, I sit at my desk, trying in vain to fill the empty pages and blank Word documents in front of me. The devil visits me once a day; I learn that these visits are mandatory—he has to check on every inhabitant of Hell on a daily basis to ensure they’re all suffering in whatever personal prisons he’s created for them.

He loves to gloat. He strides in each day, eyes dancing with gleeful malice, grips the back of my chair, and leans over my shoulder.

“What are you working on today?” He taunts me, staring intently at the blank screen. “Ooh, even more nothing than yesterday! Why, I think this is your best lack of work yet!”

After a week, I’m sick of it. To Hell with the rules (pun very much intended). If I could work through writer’s block in my previous life, I can do it in this one, too.

I suddenly sit up straight, struck by this revelation that feels simultaneously revolutionary and incredibly obvious—if I could work through writer’s block in my previous life, I can do it in this one, too.

“You absolute moron,” I mutter to myself. “You have experience with this exact thing. You spent your whole life figuring out how to get around it. You’ve got a whole arsenal of ways to deal with this kind of mental blockage.”

I think hard, calling to mind the things I used to do to beat writer’s block when I was alive. My main method involved saying my ideas out loud before I ever sat down to write. I used to walk around describing the story idea out loud, as if explaining it to an imaginary audience. I used to verbalize the dialogue to figure out how the characters would talk, to make sure every line sounded true to their voices.

I leap up from my chair and begin walking around my cell, muttering names and places and bits of dialogue.

“That’s it!” I exclaim suddenly. I race back to the computer and quickly type up everything I just said—verbalizing it made it much easier to string together the right words.

Once it’s all typed up, it gets easier to revise it and make it better, and before long, I’ve got a whole short story typed up. I grin and lean back in my chair, stretching my arms behind my head and looking at the screen with a satisfied smile.

I spend the rest of the day walking around, talking to myself about all of my story ideas, just like I used to. Every so often I dash back over to the desk and write down a particularly good paragraph or bit of dialogue.

When the devil comes around for his daily visit, I grin and hand him a manuscript.

“What’s this?” he asks, leafing through the pages dubiously.

“Oh, y’know,” I say with a casual air, turning my back to him. “Just a story I wrote.”

I glance over my shoulder and see his eyebrows go up in surprise. He quickly reads through the first page, then looks up at me, eyes burning. “This is impossible.”

“Apparently not,” I shrug, feigning nonchalance. Inwardly, I’m absolutely giddy at having gotten the best of my tormentor for once.

“You’re not supposed to be able to do this,” he says, shaking the manuscript emphatically. “Your brain is supposed to be caught in an endless state of mental blocks and frustration. You’re supposed to be at a loss for words for all eternity!”

I round on him. “Listen fuckwit, I’ve got ADHD. I’ve been dealing with these exact writing conditions my whole life. You think I haven’t developed ways to manage this shit?”

The devil’s face contorts into a twisted expression of rage for a moment. Then his features soften and he becomes calm again.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says coolly, handing me back my manuscript. “You have no way of publishing any of your work. No one will ever read it.”

He laughs and turns to leave, but I grab him by his tail and jerk him back towards me.

“Have a seat, then,” I say. “You’re the only one here? Fine. Sit down and shut up—you just became my audience.”

I smooth out my manuscript and begin reading aloud. The devil sits and listens with a scowl as I read him a story about heroes prevailing and good ultimately triumphing over evil. Finally, when he can’t take it anymore, he stands up and stalks out of the room.

“See you tomorrow!” I wave to him cheerfully.

For the next week, every time the devil comes around to my cell, I read him bits and pieces of stories I’m writing. I always choose the parts I know he’ll hate the most—characters finding hope in the midst of darkness and despair, lovers finally having happy reunions after fighting against unbeatable odds, people conquering their own personal demons and coming out of it stronger on the other side.

Finally the devil cracks.

“All right!” He relents on the seventh day, snatching the manuscript from my hands just as I open my mouth to read it to him. “Give me that. I’ll send it to the mortal realm to be published. Just…stop making me listen to it.”

“And you’ll do the same with all my writing?” I ask him, clasping my hands behind my back and smiling sweetly.

“Yes,” he growls. “Anything to stop you from reading it to me.”

“We’ve got a deal,” I say, holding out my hand. With a sigh, he shakes the offered hand, and stalks out of the room to take my manuscript to the interdimensional mailroom.

“Yes!” I exclaim, pumping my fist triumphantly. “I’ve made the devil my publisher, but more importantly, I’ve made him my bitch!”

My writing really takes off back in the mortal world. The devil is pretty pissed about it. He even tries to get me transferred up to Heaven, but I tell him that if Heaven doesn’t have a writing desk for me, I’d rather just stay here.

And that’s the story of how I conquered my own personal Hell.

THE END

#short story #hell #conquering your own personal hell #i don't know what the fuck to tag this #adhd #i guess?

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paradisobound · 5 years ago

Text

World’s Greatest First Love: Chapter 8

Based on the Anime and Manga “The World’s Greatest First Love: The Case of Ritsu Onodera” aka Sekai-Ichi Hatsukoi

Rating: Mature (For Now)

Word Count: 2.3k (this chapter)

Warnings: None

Beta Read by: @phanandpenguins

Updates Every Tuesday 12pm EST and Saturday at 1pm EST

READ ON AO3

IMPORTANT A/N: These next few chapters, if you haven't seen the anime, might seen a bit like a fever dream haha I mean this as the storyline gets a bit more complex and new characters and other elements began to be thrown in. I'm trying to keep this as close to the anime as possible and follow these same plot points, while also keeping it as close to Dan and Phil as possible too. Like my outline is each chapter is an episode of the anime so keep that in mind too. That being said, these next few chapters, if you have any questions at all, please them in the comments on Ao3 or come to my inbox and ask them to me!

Dan’s next manuscript is due at five and he is currently fighting with his author to try and get it. He feels like he shouldn’t have to pry this hard to get the manuscript, but his author isn’t budging. He keeps telling Dan that it’s coming and Dan will have it soon but Dan is having a hard time believing that.

He really needs the manuscript because he needs to send it to the printer for the initial printing decision. But without it, he can’t do that and now the workers at the printer are going to be all up in arms because Dan just wasted their time.

Dan could go to Phil and ask what to do. But Dan has made it a point to avoid Phil these last two weeks since their interaction at his apartment. It wasn’t that he thought he needed to avoid Phil, but it was more or less the idea that he didn’t want to be confronted with the fact that they do need to talk about everything.

But Dan isn’t ready for any of that yet. So instead of letting himself just get the talking done and over with, he’s been walking opposite directions from Phil, taking the bus instead of the train even though he hates the bus, and just not talking to him besides exchanging pleasantries in the morning or when Phil walks by.

As Dan turns his head to take a quick look towards Phil, he notices Phil isn’t even there. His desk chair is pushed back and his laptop is still open but he’s gone. Dan feels like that’s normal, because of course Phil is busy and is being called to everywhere in the building. But it still bothers him a bit when he looks up and sees Phil isn’t there.

But he doesn’t have to wait long to know where Phil is because suddenly his tall, lanky frame is coming down the hallway and he has a book in his hand a bunch of paperwork in a manilla folder. Dan assumes that it’s for Phil’s book that he just tried to get published but instead, Phil makes a beeline right to his desk.

“Congratulations, Dan!” Phil says, placing the book and the papers on Dan’s desk. “This is the final printing edition for your book and on top of that, Onyx is asking for us to do a second printing due to the demand already. Here is the paperwork talking about how you’ll need to go about the second printing.”

Dan feels all air leave his body because his first graphic novel that he edited is getting a second printing! That’s amazing.

“We should celebrate!”

Dan looks up to see the other editors all perking up at their desks at Mitch’s exclamation.

“Yes!” Phil says back, “Let’s all go out for some drinks tonight in celebration for Dan’s first book getting a second run.”

“Oh no, I don’t think…”

“It’ll be fun,” Mitch speaks up, reaching out and putting his hand on Dan’s arm. “I promise we’re a fun crowd.”

Dan feels like he doesn’t have much of a say in the matter but he decides to give in because honestly, it’s just going out with coworkers. That’s all it’s going to be. It’s not going to be him and Phil alone and that's totally fine.

Phil leaves from behind him and walks back to his desk and sits back down into the seat. Dan looks down at the cover of the book and feels it. The hardcover feels amazing under his touch and he can’t believe that he’s just published his first book at Onyx. It feels a bit like this is all a dream.

***

Mitch had made reservations for a restaurant in central London for later that evening so since Dan had some time between when he left work and dinner, he decided to stop by W.H Smith and see if any of the copies of his book have made it to the shelves yet.

He was a bit eager to see how well it was selling so it would be really interesting for him to find a copy of it and see how many have been sold off from the shelves or the tables. He stops at the first one he sees between Onyx and the tube station and he walks inside the doors to see his book sitting in the front on a ‘New Releases’ table and he walks over to it.

Dan lifted the book up and flipped it over, looking at the back and seeing that the store was charging £15 for it and he knows that that’s mostly what the sales department decided but he feels like that’s a bit steep. But then again, he sees the contrasting colors and how high quality the book looks and he actually feels like the price is justifiable.

He fingers through the pages of the book and is looking through the published pages. He doesn't even remember what the books from his father’s company looked like while published but a thought in his head made him smile when he thought about how he these had to be a higher quality. He is still thumbing through the pages when he hears someone clear their throat behind him. He turns his head and sees Damien standing there.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, folding his arms over his chest, his blazer pulling tight across his shoulders. He looks so much more professional than Dan who is in just a sweater and a pair of black jeans.

“I was checking out my book.”

Damien shook his head and furrowed his brows, “Don’t do that.”

Dan furrowed his brows, “Why can’t I? It edited this.” He held the book up in his hand as if trying to make a point.

“Because that’s not your department. You’re editing, not sales. It’s not your job to see the book in stores. That’s mine. I’m the one who goes to the stores and gathers sales reports every month,” Damien says, snapping back.

“Why are you acting like this is such a big deal?” Dan asks, his voice getting huffy as he sets the book back down on the table. “I was just checking out the book.”

Damien lets his arms back down to his side and Dan watches as his chest puffs out and then retracts back, “Just...don’t do this again. It’s not your place.”

Dan softens his demeanor back, not wanting to continue the argument if Damien was backing down as well. It was clear that they were both coming to a compromise and that was good enough for Dan.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dan says finally, not quite accepting Damien’s response but wanting to keep everything at a stasis.

Damien nods back and that’s when Dan sees he’s holding a bag in his hands that he hadn’t honestly noticed before in the momentary confrontation. It’s for a pet store and his stomach sinks a bit more as he remembers the animal it must be for.

“Is that for your cat?” Dan asks, not even realizing he’s talking until Damien’s eyes widen and he stiffens again.

“How do you know I have a cat?” He asks.

“I...I saw you chase after the cat one day when I was going to my apartment. You were coming out of Phil’s.”

“You live near Phil?” Damien asks, his voice changing a bit.

Dan nods and then quickly backtracks, “Well, yes, I do but I didn’t know he lived there before I moved in. I promise.”

Damien hikes his shoulders up for a second and crosses his arms again as he says, “It was Phil’s cat...but I’ve taken it over. It’s none of your business.”

Damien then turns on his heels and leaves Dan behind. Dan watches him leave out of the doors and he feels a bit like he has whiplash. He has many more questions roaming around in his head but he’s not sure if he wants any of them ever to be answered.

He leaves the store not long after.

***

Phil: Mitch and the others can’t come anymore so it’ll just be you and I

Dan stares at the text for a solid five minutes before he even begins to think of a reply. This is the worst possible scenario to have happened and he cannot believe that his luck is doing this to him. He genuinely wants to scream but he can’t.

He’s still contemplating a reply when Phil texts him back another message.

Phil: I’ll pick up some drinks and we can just celebrate at my apartment. I’ll be home in 20

Oh, that’s even worse, Dan thinks.

This entire night is just getting worse and worse and Dan falls back on his couch and groans out loud, rubbing his eyes with his hands. How on Earth could such a great thing of getting a second printing of your book suddenly turn into drinking with your boss because the others couldn’t attend.

Dan still hasn’t answered the message when his doorbell rings and jolts him from his thoughts. He stands up and walks over to the door, opening it up to see Phil standing there with a bottle of wine and a few other bottles in bags in his hands.

“Didn’t know what you drank so I picked up some different things,” He says. “Let’s go to my apartment and celebrate.”

“I’m not sure if I…”

“Come on, Dan,” Phil pushed. “It’s just celebrating for an actually super rare occasion. Hardly anyone gets a second printing on their first book. I definitely didn't so we need to celebrate!”

Dan doesn’t know what told him to agree inside of him, but suddenly he was walking to Phil’s apartment and sittin in Phil’s living room as they opened up a bottle of wine and Phil poured them both a glass.

Dan drank his down in no time, mostly because he didn’t really want to be sober right now. But Phil took slow sips of his and took a while longer to finish. They don’t speak much, which Dan doesn’t actually hate.

But the silence begins to eat at him more and more, and he finishes half of the bottle by himself. His world begins to get a bit cloudier, and his vision a bit softer as he sits back on his palms and tries to remain grounded.

“You’re a lightweight,” Phil says with a chuckle.

“Am not.”

Phil laughs. “You were already pissed after the first glass.”

Dan shakes his head and looks down at the floor in front of them. He’s not sure of what else to say.

“Damien told me he saw you at W.H Smith this afternoon,” Phil says and Dan looks up suddenly.

Of course Damien told Phil.

“I don’t mind if you go there every once and a while to check out your books,” Phil says. “But that is the sales department and if Damien sees you there often, he’s gonna start getting upset.”

Dan rolls his eyes, not even meaning to fully do that but it happens as a natural reaction.

“I know you don’t like Damien but he is your superior.”

“Can you stop mentioning him so damn much?” Dan snaps out. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Is this because of what happened the other day with him?” Phil asks, setting his glass down.

“I don’t like Damien,” Dan admits. “He’s mean.”

Phil shakes his head, “He’s really not when you get to know him.”

“Well if that’s the case, can you tell him to get off my fucking back?” Dan exclaims.

“What is Damien doing?” Phil asks, his tone serious.

Dan bites back his tongue from yelling out that he wishes Phil would stop playing with his emotions and just go to Damien but the small rational side of his brain is telling him that’s not fair for either of them.

“Damien told me that he is taking care of your cat.”

Phil looks at him and his mouth opens and shuts for a moment before he speaks up, “Oh? My cat? It’s not really my cat. I got it a few months ago but my demanding work schedule didn’t allow me to take care of the cat properly so Damien took it over since he works a set schedule.”

“Why was he coming out of your apartment with it a few weeks ago then?”

Phil shakes his head, almost as if he doesn’t know how to answer the question but then he says whatever he was thinking of, “Damien goes out of town for work on occasion and probably needed me to watch her. So he was probably bringing her over that day.”

Dan sat in silence because of course that’s the solid answer but Dan wishes for whatever reason that it was different. He sits back, trying to not stew on anything that was just said.

“Is this all why you don’t like Damien?” Phil asks, his voice questioning but sincere.

“Why don’t you just date Damien?” Dan asks, turning his head away. “Why are you still chasing after me when you’ve had him by your side all this time?”

Phil suddenly moves next to him and Dan does all that he can to remain fixed in his spot and not flinch and scutter away like a startled animal.

“We tried, back when we were in uni,” Phil says, “But it didn’t work because I’ve told you a million times. I never stopped thinking about you.”

Dan feels his eyes well up a bit with tears that he can’t control as feelings bubble in his chest. Because as much as Dan hates admitting it, he knows he never stopped thinking about Phil too.

Every night he dreamt about Phil until he suddenly stopped one day. Every day he thought about Phil, some days he even cried. He never wanted to admit it because deep down, he always figured he would never see Phil again.

But with the alcohol in his veins and Phil sitting beside him, so close to him, Dan feels his inhibitions lower a bit more than they should. He’s tired of fighting off these feelings that he knows are there. He’s tired of acting like he doesn’t feel the same because…

He does. He feels the same as Phil and fuck it hurts.

“You’re crying,” Phil says gently, reaching up and running his thumb over Dan’s cheek just as Dan feels the wetness seep down his skin.

“Sorry,” Dan apologizes with a watery laugh.

“Don’t apologize,” Phil says. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“We were really young, Phil,” Dan says, laughing a bit more now, “We didn’t even know what love was.”

“No, but it felt like we did.”

Dan nods because it did feel like that. Dan had felt genuine love in the short time he had been with Phil.

Dan doesn’t know who leaned in first, but all he knows is the feeling of Phil’s lips on his feels like a dream. Phil’s hand comes and cups his jaw and Dan allows the kiss to deepen. Dan can feel the heat coursing hotter in his veins and he can’t tell if it’s from this or from the alcohol.

All he knows is that it feels like ten years ago.

#phan #phanfic #phanfiction #fluff #first love fic #princesslexi763fics #angst

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inkstainedfanfics · 8 years ago

Text

I Still Exist

Requests: Omg your stories are awesome! I was wondering if I could suggest a newt x reader with the song "Where Do We Go" or "Shatter Me" by Lindsey Stirling? Where the reader feels kinda neglected and depressed for quite some time and newt fails to notice because he is in a lot harsher mood and snaps a lot as a result of working on his book? And one day she goes "missing" and worries newt? Lots of angst pls!(Idk it sounded a lot better in my head)You can come up with the rest. Thanks! AND hi !! i really love your stories, and i was wondering if i could request an v angsty one where newt is under a lot of stress and snaps at reader? ❤️❤️

Word Count: 2,701

Pairing: Newt x Reader

Part 2 | Part 3

Requested by Anonymous

Requests are currently open! Feel free to one in

The workshop smells about how you’d expected when you crawl into the case. A burning mixture evaporates somewhere nearby, partly covering up the odors of the various feed bags for the creatures and the plate of raw meat rotting on the table. You shake your head, disgusted, and slip past the shed. Scanning the field, hand over your eyes to block out the blinding sun, you spot Newt next to a murtlap. He’s on his knees saying something to the snarling creature. You swallow down the heart breaking in your chest. He’s exchanging more words with that beast than he has with you in the past month.

“Newt. Newt!” You shout, crossing through tall grasses and kicking stones out of your way. For God’s sake, “Newt!”

He twists enough to ensure it’s you before turning his back on you. “One minute, love.”

Hands on your hips, you wait as he chatters with the beast. It’s not that you’re against his research, it’s that he’s trying to cram chapters worth of new material into the book. You’d supported his idea when he first told you a month and a half ago. Now, though, you’re not sure you would’ve been so encouraging had you known he would spend every waking minute in the case without you.

“I don’t have all day, Newt. I have to get to the bakery with Queenie before it closes.”

He shakes his head, facing you. “I’m busy, love. Can’t it wait?”

You can feel the tension in his voice, strengthened, no doubt, by the bags under his eyes. “I just need to know if you’d prefer apple or peach pie for dessert.”

He mumbles something that sounds like ‘that’s it?’ but when you question him, he simply says, “I said it’s your choice. I’m sure you’ll make the right one.”

“All right. How about a bag of flour? I was thinking we could make some doughnuts together tomorrow morning.”

Newt sets his quill down on his paper and stands, brushing the dust from his knees. “I wish I could.”

“But you’re busy with your book?” It’s more a sentence than a question.

He reaches down to pick up the dirty journal at his feet. “I’m sorry, love. You know I want to. I just need to finish this study on the murtlap’s instinctive reactions to mishandling.”

“He bites you. There’s your answer.” You cross your arms over your chest. “Now will you please spend some time baking doughnuts with me tomorrow morning?”

Newt frowns. “You know it’s more complicated than that.”

“It’s been ages.”

“I know. It’s been ages since we’ve had time together. But my book is being published soon.” He starts forward, leaving you to follow him. “I need to be sure the information in it is as precise as possible.”

You step next to him and wrap your arms around his side. “Please, babe?”

Newt shakes his head. “I don’t have the time.”

“Newt-“

He pulls the door to the workshop open. “I told you this would take a lot of work. You were fine with it then.”

“I didn’t realize it would mean that I’d lose all of my time with you.”

He tosses his journal on the table and rushes toward the heated liquid that you’d first smelled when you’d walked into the shed. “I will try,” he murmurs, lifting the vial from the flame with a pair of tongs, “to find some time.”

“Try?”

He raises his eyes to yours as he sets the vial in a cooling rack. “That’s the best I can do.”

“I miss being with you.”

“You’re with me right now.” He quirks an eyebrow at his dry joke.

You groan. “That’s not what I meant.”

He wipes down the table with a rag. “I know what you meant. I don’t want to promise anything.”

You step forward to stand across the table from Newt but gag at the plate of rotting meat in front of you. “Why not?” You ask as you round the table and lean against it, next to Newt.

“I don’t want to disappoint you, love.”

You would consider that sweet if you didn’t see his left ring finger tap the table twice: his tell. “Don’t lie to me.”

He swallows, staring at the table. “I would never.”

His finger twitches. “Why the hell don’t you want to promise anything?”

Newt sighs and turns, rolling his eyes when he thinks you can’t see, but tries to keep his tone light. “It doesn’t matter, love. Don’t you have to get to the bakery?”

You suck in a long, slow breath. “Tell me the truth.”

He’s silent for so long, you almost ask again. When he does speak, though, you know why he was so hesitant. “I’m tired of your whining.” The words are quiet but harsh.

The long breath leaves in an instant. “My whining?”

Newt braces himself against the window’s wooden sill with two hands. “You have a tendency to complain more than is necessary.”

Your cheeks flush. “I’m so sorry I want to know if you even care anymore. I’ll try to keep my worries to myself from now on.”

He scowls, eyes flashing in anger. “You asked me to be honest.”

“I didn’t realize that my boyfriend would have an issue with me asking for him to spend a second of his time with me.”

“I am right now.” His voice hardens as he turns toward the tube. “Looks how that’s turning out.”

He stares at the vial like it holds the rest of his manuscript, completely ignoring the crack in your voice. “I’m sorry to waste your time. I’ll just see my own way out.”

“Please do.”

You want to both scream and cry and the result is your crimson face and puffy cheeks. You spin on your feet and march out, muttering curses at him beneath your breath.

You miss Newt. You miss joking with him, miss cooking burned suppers with him, miss late nights stargazing and sipping butterbeer until the sun comes up. This Newt, though, you wish would just go away.

Slipping on your jacket, you grab your purse and head into the kitchen, hoping Queenie will be ready to head to the bakery. The kitchen is empty, so you shout for Queenie twice. You’re about to head out the front door to see if she’s outside already when you notice the note stuck to it.

Something came up. I won’t be able to make it to the bakery with you. So sorry. Could we go tomorrow? Xo Q.

You step into the hallway alone. Your feet thud along the ground, one heavy bang at a time as your fury melts out, replaced by nothing more than a heavy despair. Newt doesn’t want you around. Queenie made other plans without consulting you. You’re little more than a shadow on the wall.

You continue down the staircase, growing tired and slower with every step. There’s no reason to hurry. No one’s waiting on you anyway.

The steps seem endless when you’re not pounding down them in a race against Newt or gossiping with Tina about the residents on each floor that you pass. By the time you reach the landing, the familiar feeling of hopelessness has wormed its way into your heart and made its bed.

As you trudge to the bakery, you wonder if it even matters if you return to the apartment.

Newt casts a charm on the final candle, sending it floating into the air around the blanket. He sets two plates on it, flicking a pebble off the nearby pillow he’s going to sit on later tonight. The basket of biscuits floats over, settling on the checkered setting. He looks over everything else one more time. The sun is already halfway finished with its descent when he stands. He chose this spot on the flat stone outcropping because of its view of the midnight sky. You’d loved stargazing with him on your first date, pointing out random shapes and making up stories for whatever you saw. It was all you had talked about for the next month.

Newt rubs his neck as he leaves the spot to go find you. He hadn’t meant to say what he said. Sure, maybe you could be persistent, but it isn’t your fault the two of you hadn’t had a date in so long.

He’d felt terrible the moment he’d calmed down, but when he had climbed out of the case and searched for you, you’d already left for the bakery with Queenie.

The next hour of his research had been worthless; he’d spent the entire time wondering how to properly apologize for what he’d said.

Now, though, the picnic is ready and you’ll be back from the bakery.

Crawling out of the case, he notices your jacket isn’t strewn across the bed. Odd, but he continues forward. Queenie sings in the kitchen, swaying along to the jumping record playing in the corner.

“Queenie?”

“Hey, honey, I was wondering about you. Will you join us for dinner tonight or are you gonna be too busy in that case?”

Red tinges his cheeks. So everyone feels the same. “I’m afraid I’ll be in the case again. How was the trip to the bakery?”

“Oh, apologize for that, would you? I feel horrible for having to cancel.”

Newt’s face screws up in confusion. “Wait, you two didn’t go together?”

“No. I had a work situation.”

“So you’re alone? You don’t know where she is? She’s not with you?” Newt’s innate protective side pesters him.

Queenie giggles. “Why would she be? I thought she was with her ‘handsome, clumsy boyfriend.’”

Newt ignores Queenie’s use of your thoughts and asks when she last saw you.

“This morning at breakfast. When you would barely look at the poor girl.”

Newt’s guilt digs deeper. “Do you know where she is?”

Queenie stops dancing as she sets a pot of food down. “Probably with Tina.”

“Who’s with me?” Tina calls from her room, appearing in the doorway.

Newt tries to calm his heart before it begins pounding.

Queenie steps to Newt’s side. “She’s probably just running late at the bakery.”

“Impossible. It’s getting dark out. It’ll be dangerous for her to walk alone.”

Tina interrupts. “She’s probably in the case. You just didn’t notice her.”

Newt nods. Of course. He could’ve just passed you when you were standing behind some trees or feeding a large creature. “I’ll check again.” He’s back in his room and in the case in a minute.

He walks through the fields, calling your name from habitat to habitat, but the further he gets without a response, the faster he moves, until he’s jogging, running, sprinting back toward the apartment. He smacks his head trying to hurry out.

He rolls across the bedroom floor, yanking the door open and dashing to Tina and Queenie.

They take in his red face, terrified eyes, and hands on his knees as he pants. “She wasn’t down there. Anywhere.”

Tina can’t hide her nerves when she peeks through a curtain and spies the black sky. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Newt spits out. “We need to find her.” He stands and strides toward the door.

Tina reaches a hand out and grabs his arm. “Newt, wait. We don’t even know where to start.” “We’ll figure it out.”

“If she’s really in danger, we need a plan.”

Newt is quiet. “I have one: Find her and save her.”

“One more developed than that.”

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have time to wait around thinking.”

“Stop and think!”

“She could be hurt!”

“Wow,” you interrupt meekly from the now open front door, “you were really going to give up some of your precious time to try to find me?”

Newt’s shoulders sag when he sees you. “Where were you?”

“Out.”

“Look at what time it is. You could have been hurt.”

You walk in and shrug the grocery bag off your shoulder. “Why would you care?”

“I care about you.”

“Yeah?” You walk past him, sliding your jacket off your arms. “What a great line to pull out anytime it seems like I might leave you.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Please let me explain.”

“Let you?” You hang your jacket on a hook and turn, eyebrows raised. “I should do something for you? Why, exactly, should I when you can’t even give me five minutes of your time to talk?”

Newt winces at the blow. “I know I haven’t been paying you enough attention lately. I’m sorry.”

“Lovely. It comes at the perfect time.” You run a hand through your hair. “Whatever, Newt. I don’t want to fight right now.”

He follows you into the bedroom. “Where were you?”

“I was leaving.” You pull open the case, voice flat.

Newt’s shoulders curl in. “To where?”

“Wherever the wind blows me.”

Newt climbs into the case after you. “Why did you come back?”

“I didn’t feel the wind, and I don’t know where I’d go on my own.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad the wind stayed still.” He tries to smile at you.

You don’t reply.

Eyes flickering between you and the ground, he breaks the silence. “Are you going to leave again tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, Newt. It’s not like it really matters to anyone.”

He blinks. “What?”

You can barely meet his eyes when you face him. “How long did it take for anyone to realize I was even missing? Four hours? Five? It wouldn’t matter to any of you if I just vanished one day.”

He stops you by grabbing your hand. “You matter to me. So much more than you understand.”

You swallow at the pain in his eyes, but you’re too exhausted to fight tonight. “You can’t just act like this after a month and a half of pretending I don’t exist.”

“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness, but will you give me time to make it up to you as best I can?” His sincere pleads almost convince you. Almost.

You draw your hand from his grip. “I need space for now.”

His voice shakes and grows quiet. “Please don’t leave me.”

The little flame of anger in your chest burns your next words. “I won’t make any promises.”

He flinches at the words. “I’m sorry.”

He leaves, shoulder drooping low, when you turn your back on him without so much as a nod.

You look over your shoulder to be sure he’s gone before you slouch to the ground and close your eyes, letting the grief take over. You sink into the ocean of it, letting the waves drown you until you’re not sure if you’re awake or dreaming. You lose track of time as the ocean consumes you. Hours may have passed by the time the wind tickles your face and slowly blows the ocean of grief from your chest.

You prop yourself onto your elbows, peering around. Hours have definitely passed. A pink sky has replaced the midnight black. A pack of diricrawls waddle nearby, pecking at seeds. You rub your eyes and push yourself to your feet. The air is surprisingly cool and you just want to curl up in your bed.

You reach the shed and are about to leave when a beaten journal catches your eye. Newt’s collection of notes for the book. He treats it like a child treats his favorite teddy bear. He’s never even let you flip open a page before.

You lift it and examine the outside. Streaks of dirt cover it, results of carrying it everywhere. The corners are rounded from wear, and ink splotches are dotted around it like a design.

You open the cover, expecting the table of contents, Newt’s way of knowing what page he’d need to flip to. Instead, it appears to be the dedication page.

To my love,

You freeze, reading and rereading the final sentence five, ten, twenty times before you accept it. Your name is right next to Scamander. Written in the same messy scrawl. As though he hadn’t picked up the quill, as though he had meant to put the names so close together.

As though … as though he means to marry you.

#newt scamander #newt Scamander x reader #newt Scamander imagine #newt Scamander one shot #angst #fbawtft #request #I hope y'all like this #ennnnnnjoyyyyy #some of the lines are references to the song #I hope you can pick them out!#I used where do we go #I feel like I'm forgetting something #but idt I am #lovely song btw #I saw she did a Dragon Age video #which was sick

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idombledore · 5 years ago

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The Offworld Guide to Self-Publishing - Part 2 - The Learning Curve

Welcome to Part 2 of The Offworld Author's Guide to Self Publishing.

We will be tackling all the things you'll need to take care of in your Self-Publishing journey including Ghostwriting, Editing, Proofreading, Book Funding, Book Design, Book Production, Book Rights, Book Reviews, Book Publishing, Book Publicity, Book Promotion and Social Media, Literary Agent Pitch, Promo Videos, Audiobooks, Translation, Author Websites, Search Engine Optimisation, Screenplay Adaptation, Film Makers, Film Producers and Original Music.

All of these elements are key to giving you everything you need to make your book a success.

Don't want to wait for the next thrilling installment?

You can get your FREE Author's Guide here.

Have a look at our video as well...

People write books for all sorts of reasons.

To put a flag in the sand. You can say “I did that”

Record something of yourself for posterity, so your descendants can say, "Great Grandad did that."

Maybe you need to Market a Business or get folks to come to your Seminars. Maybe you want to Educate. Or maybe you just want to be famous or make money.

Whatever your reason, you’ve written one! Front to back, inside out.

It’s taken you ages and it’s been rewritten and rewritten again and checked and read and re-read and re-written again.

It’s done. It’s the story you wanted to tell. And you really enjoyed reading it yourself. It made you laugh and made you sad.

And that ending.

They’ll never see that coming and holy smoke, you can write. You’ve read lots of other books and it turns out, you can write too.

Your mind turns to shiny hardbacks on the shelves of the big book store on the corner, next to the jewelry shop.

You need to get this published. You look at a few of the books you’ve bought from that store. What would it be like to have your book on one of those shelves? What do you need to publish a book?

Well, a publisher of course.

So you call a few, email a few more.

Ah, right so they don’t accept manuscripts from little old you. They only accept manuscripts from agents.

Right, fine, so get an agent. And there they all are. And they’ve mostly all got that SUBMIT button. That’s where you go.

And you go through a big form and then attach your manuscript, oh hang on, no, just the first chapter and a synopsis. Fine. And then the next one needs the first 3 chapters and the next one, just the first 5 chapters.

You get the picture.

So slowly and surely you develop your collateral and slowly and surely you wade through the websites and emails.

And many many hours later, it’s been a pretty full working day.

But it’s worth it, right?

Then a few weeks go by And a couple more. Then finally you get a reply. You don’t look at it right away. You’re nervous. For the first time, professionals are going to tell you what they think of your book.

Reading that email might mean you’re going to get published!

A little later, in a quiet part of the house, you take a glass of something in with you and shut the door. It’s a brief email.

“Thanks so much for sending it to me. I’m afraid it doesn’t quite suit my list…”

“What List?” you ask it.

“Please know that my assessment was entirely subjective. I’m sure it will suit another agent’s list. I wish you the very best for the future”

What a nice lady. Thanks.

OK, you’re realistic. Whatever a list is, not every story is going to suit it.

And you did contact 20 or 30 more agents It’ll be fine.

And then a few more replies come in.

And each one carries with it the same expectation. One of them will have the luscious list that suits your fabulous story.

But each one says pretty much the same as the first one

"It’s a little too genre for my list"

"... My list is full”

You begin to wonder how you find an agent with one of these cursed lists. And you also wonder if anyone’s ever going to tell you what they thought of your book.

No-one has thus far and you’re most of the way through your own list.

You’re dying to know what people think of it. And by the way, hang on a minute.

What’s going on?

In the movies, people just go out and GET an agent, don’t they? You know, the agent is always bothering them to write more pages, stop drinking, philander less.

Agents were simply engaged like plumbers, surely. What’s all this qualification nonsense? If you cant even get an agent, how in the name of all that’s holy will you ever get your book published?

You finally confide in friends and family and tell them what you’ve created. You also tell them about the agents’ replies.

Someone suggests “they don’t even read it.”

Well, at least four of the agents only asked for the synopsis so you know at least they didn’t. Did any of them? Another friend, who knows a thing or two about marketing things, tells you the industry has changed. It’s way tougher than it used to be.

These agentish folk haven’t got time for newbies like you. It’s a lot easier to get authors who are already published to publish more. I mean, people already know them. It’s a head start for them. Why bother with unknowns?

The same answer time and time again and no feedback on your story does kinda underline that.

“Not fair” you say.

“How long have you reckoned life was fair,” says your marketing buddy. “Of course it’s not fair but that doesn’t mean you can’t get your story out there.”

He then tells you something that will change your life

forever.

He tells you about Self Publishing.

Self-publishing is the act of independently publishing your book on a platform like Amazon without the need of a traditional publishing house.

You go home and look into self publishing.

Wow, there’s a fair bit about it. And yes, you can do it yourself for not that much

The same tingles that awaited agents’ replies creeps back into you. You sit up in your chair. You learn how traditional publishers follow a meticulous path to make your book creatively perfect, technically perfect and just about the best it can be.

The cover is a genre-specific design and the fonts, typesetting and all the rest create a product they know will make them money.

Make THEM money ! Note it well.

Traditional publishers certainly don’t give you big advances to head up to the mountain cabin and create anymore. And try announcing that idea to the wife anyway.

Nope, you need to keep the day job and the wife and write as well.

So how about it?

Self Publish? Why not?

You look at the numbers How much will it cost? How many of these steps?

Not that much money but quite a few steps. Gosh, it’s like learning a whole new profession.

But you know how publishers do it. And now you know how you can do it yourself

Its the same process but you have to glue the pieces together. And the numbers make sense. They make really good sense. Publishers take on all the donkey work but boy do they take their cut. It’s no surprise publishers make all the money.

If you did it yourself, you’d make a lot more from book sales than you’d spend on getting the book to publish-ready stage and advertise it a bit. You’d only need to sell a few thousand books and you’re even. Then it’s all profit. Maybe that bestseller list. Hey, another list.

With a traditional publisher, you’d need to sell tens of thousands and then they own all the rights and basically they own the book, just throw a bit of commission your way from time to time.

Sure, there’s not the risk of spending on various things in the first place. But you believe in what you’ve written Its really good. Even if the agents didn’t bother with a critique. And you know why that was now. And right there, the decision is made.

You will self publish. Speculate to accumulate, right? That’s the world today. No-one’s going to GIVE you anything Not anymore.

If a thing’s worth doing and all…

Your glass is refilled and you get stuck into the whole idea.

The idea is split into 4 basic camps:

The Story

You have to make sure your story makes sense. Not to you, that’s easy. You wrote it. To readers. People who’ve never heard of Sandra Snider, the Junior High Ninja Detective. They don’t know why she gets up in the morning and eats a mango in the garden shed. And your Manuscript has to be airtight on grammar, punctuation and spelling.

The Product

Your book. You must have a professional finished product that not only looks fantastic but appeals to the genre you’re targeting.

The Donkey Work

Registrations, typesetting, rights and so much more. Gosh, there’s an awful lot. It’s not rocket surgery but who’s got the time?

Selling

Well, there’s an area that could go on forever.

Publicity, Social Media, Price Promotions, Google Ads, Amazon Ads…

Do you really have the time to do all of this?

The tingles ebb away as you find yourself faced with learning a new industry overnight.

And then you realise you’d need to take quite a few sick days and a small holiday to do it all yourself.

Surely there’s someone to manage it all, do what publishers do.

That’s when you find people like us lot at Offworld, people who have some of the best professionals in the business, ready and waiting to pull it all together for you.

People who can coordinate the entire process from beginning to end. Hell, they can even write the thing for you in the first place!

Learning who to navigate the self-publishing world with will save you countless wasted hours.

Whether you want to do it yourself or work with one of the many self-publishing companies out there, you're doing it.

You decide to keep your job and keep your wife and keep your sanity (such as it is).

Next up, we'll cover all the nitty-gritty bits you'll need to get done during your journey. Some you've probably already done or don't need. Others are vital to every book's journey.

Next, we'll reveal key guides to Ghostwriting, Editing, Proofreading, Book Funding, Book Design, Book Production, Book Rights, Book Reviews, Book Publishing, Book Publicity, Book Promotion and Social Media, Literary Agent Pitch, Promo Videos, Audiobooks, Translation, Author Websites, Search Engine Optimisation, Screenplay Adaptation, Film Makers, Film Producers and Original Music.

And that's it for Part 2 of our series.

Get stuck into Part 3 and read about "The Nitty Gritty"

Take care, big hugs and adios.

Episode 3

The Nitty Gritty

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