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snowbellewells · 5 years ago

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“Over the Realms and Through the Woods, to Arendelle We Go”

A @cssecretsanta2k19 gift for @xhookswenchx

“Over the Realms and Through the Woods, to Arendelle We Go”

By: @snowbellewells

This is my belated @cssecretsanta2k19 gift for @xhookswenchx ~ and I truly am sorry for making you wait extra days, Lovely. It was such a busy December, then I traveled home, had family engagements, and so on. But talking with you and learning different things about the show and the holidays that you enjoyed, put this idea in my head early. I just needed the time to write it down. I have very much enjoyed being your Secret Santa. I hope that your Christmas was Merry, that you will have a Happy and Blessed New Year. Please enjoy this story gift just for you!

Summary: Emma and Killian take their crew on a holiday road trip to visit old friends and make new Christmas memories… A CS canon divergent in which the realms have been joined as they were in Season 7’s finale, but Henry has not left the Land Without Magic as he did in Season 7. I always imagined him going out into the non-magical world for college, to write books, and so on (at least once it became clear they weren’t all going to make a permanent move back to the Enchanted Forest). So for the purposes of this fic, he is home for the holidays from college, and Emma and Killian also have two little ones of their own. I used the daughter of my fictional invention, Morgan Ruth Jones, rather than Hope. She’s appeared in some of my other fics, and I’m kinda attached to her. I’ve gathered you enjoy original CS kids in your writing and reading as well, so I hope you won’t mind that liberty taken. I know that Westley Graham is not as completely original as I thought it was when I dreamed it up, but I love it too (especially since the show gave us so many Liams to keep track of already without naming a son of Emma and Killian’s Liam David as I once would have done). Westley for the character in “Princess Bride” (‘As you wish’ makes that seem appropriate) and Graham for the hero they should have been naming baby boys after in canon. You also said you really enjoyed the “Frozen” characters in 4a, so I have tried to incorporate them - and found it to be a fun new character writing stretch. I truly do hope you will find this fun to read!

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“Papa, how much longer?” a tiny voice piped up from the backseat over Killian and Emma Jones’ shoulders with the wheedling tone only a four-year-old’s impatience could muster. “Are we almost there?”

Emma glanced over at her husband with bland exasperation and humor mixed together before swiveling in her seat as much as possible to look back at their daughter Morgan where she sat in her car seat behind Killian, idly alternating between swinging her feet and singing little nonsense songs she made up for herself, staring out the window at the changing scenery as they traveled from one united realm to another, heading ever steadily north toward Arendelle to visit Elsa, Anna, Kristoff, and Morgan’s best friend Sonja, Princess Anna and her husband’s little girl.

Henry, comfortably on his long winter break from his senior year at Boudoin College, had his nose buried in a detective whodunit, and though he was usually quite patient with his much-younger sister, he seemed to be craving some reading time to himself that Emma was willing to humor. She would like to keep them both fairly quiet so that Westley Graham, their youngest at just barely five months, didn’t wake up quite yet from where he was peacefully sleeping in his own backward-facing car seat between his two siblings and where Emma could reach him if needed.

Killian, for his part, chuckled indulgently, his sparkling blue gaze sliding back over to return Emma’s look before answering his little girl, seeming infinitely patient and making Emma love him even more all over again “We are getting closer, little Love,” he assured calmly. “You’ve been very good - and we should be there within the hour now.”

For a moment, Morgan merely nodded and hummed to herself in satisfaction as she watched the scenery pass by out the window. Once they had left Storybrooke behind, the buildings had given way to the forest, thicker and more wild as they had passed through the land of Emma’s birthright rule - the Enchanted Forest. Since then, the forest had thinned out, and slowly the flatter land became foothills, which then turned into snow capped mountains - something which really did seem to almost sparkle before their eyes - not to mention the imaginative view of a toddler. But it wasn’t long before she piped up again, still obviously a bit impatient and unable to hold it in. “Papa? Can you sing a song? … Please?”

Emma snort-laughed at the way her husband’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, not expecting that particular request if his expression could be any indication. Shaking his head, he admitted defeat rather easily for a once-fearsome pirate of the Seven Seas, especially when she playfully jostled his shoulder, egging Morgan on and adding the she would like to hear him as well.

It wasn’t long before Killian’s clear, strong voice was ringing out within the walls of their newer smallish SUV, having left the Bug at home in favorite of more passenger leg room and space for the wealth of presents they were bringing along, both from their immediate family and her parents and other Storybrooke folks who had come to know the Arendellian visitors when they were in the Land Without Magic some years back. The tune her pirate had selected was a rollicking sea shanty - one of their daughter’s favorites - that he and his crew had once sung on the Jolly Roger many years ago as they circled the waters of Neverland endlessly. His song and its playful, raucous melody seemed practically bouncing around the interior of the vehicle, swaying with the rolling buoyancy of its rhythm and pulling Henry from his reading to grin at the song he had heard countless times before. Thankfully Westley didn’t seem in the least disturbed, sleeping right through the impromptu serenade, and Morgan was giggling and clapping her little hands along with her papa’s song. Emma soon found herself singing along as well, watching her family in their joyous uproar, and marveling at the reality that this was the sort of cozy Christmas journey she could have now.

Killian seemed so into his song, and his children’s entertainment, that Emma couldn’t help checking to be certain he was still paying attention to the road ahead. It hadn’t really been until the last couple of years that Killian had begun to take over some driving duties for them on longer trips; having learned to drive capably well before that, but never fully becoming comfortable with - or trusting - their “horseless death traps”, as he often called them. Modern automobiles still seemed smoky, loud, and entirely too unpredictable to a person long used to ships on the sea or riding horseback and in carriages - not to mention one whose first experience with them had been being run down on the road and seriously injured.

All the same, he shot her a look of exaggerated affront as he finished singing, waggling those wildly expressive eyebrows of his at her and pressing his hooked arm to his chest in further drama. “Honestly, Wife? Don’t you trust me more than that by now?” Taking his hook from where it covered his heart, he gestured out the window to indicate the lane beside them. “I may not be as old a hand at driving as most, but I won’t drive us under a semi trailer like that Griswold fellow on the magic box.”

It was Henry who snorted his laughter then, at the reference to National Lampoon’s which they had watched the night before, prior to setting off on their journey. Shaking his head at his stepdad’s odd way of reassuring him, and humored in spite of himself, Henry placed a marker in his book and more fully joined their antics, now that they were drawing nearer to their friend’s kingdom anyway. Danger and adventure, or just taking a family trip; be it Christmas or some random everyday in between, there was never a dull moment with their little crew.

~~~~~***~~~~~***~~~~~

When they entered the Arendelle borders and pulled up to the palace’s front gates, within 45 minutes’ time just as Killian had promised Morgan, the sense of awed anticipation settled over all of them, the air inside the car going quiet at the stunning beauty that met their eyes. Somewhere within the last half hour or so, light flurries of snow had begun to fall around them, looping and twirling through the slowly purpling sky as afternoon inched closer to evening. The ground had already been covered in a picturesque light dusting of white, but it was growing deeper as the additional fluffy flakes continued.

Thankfully, ice didn’t seem to be a part of this particular snowy scene; the roads had remained safely passable and they had made good time. Four uniformed guards two on either side of the wide, silvery sparkling arch and gates of the front entrance to the Queen’s castle and grounds, bowed respectfully as the passageway opened for them. Emma had spoken to her dear friend via magic mirror that morning before they set out, and their arrival had clearly been anticipated.

Despite having been there several times before by that point, all over them sat in openmouthed adoration that overcame them for a few breathless instants. The setting sun hit the gate and front of the castle, sending glitter and sparks of light out to dazzle their eyes. It was as if the whole structure were indeed beautifully coated in ice - and yet there was none of the frigid austerity one might once have feared. Queen Elsa of Arendelle has long since found her equilibrium, allowing her the self-acceptance and open understanding to balance the cold with genuine warmth. She learned to love every part of herself - including her powers - just as she had once helped Emma to do, and as Killian had reminded her ever since.

Their vehicle had barely parked, and they were just stepping out and stretching their tired limbs when they heard familiar voices calling their names, a childish squeal of delight yelping Morgan’s in particular, the sound of several pairs of feet hurrying over freshly fallen snow (well, feet and one set of reindeer hooves) and then they were engulfed in a flurry of hugs and handshakes by the royal family themselves. Anna was predictably firing questions at them as quickly as she could voice them, about their trips, the rest of their family, Belle and the library, without even allowing them time to answer. Kristoff was shaking Killian’s hand and accepting baggage and gift wrapped boxes to lead them inside. Sven snuffled around Henry’s pockets and Morgan’s hair seeking out carrots and other treats as well as providing his own animal greeting. But through the melee, Elsa pressed through to wrap Emma in a fiercely tight hug for several long moments. When she did pull back, it was with a watery smile and unshed tears in her eyes to match those which started in Emma’s.

“I’m so glad all of you have come,” she stated fervently, that sweet, melodious voice trembling with sincerity beyond its usual poise. “Come in, come in. We’ll get you warm and settled, then we can get caught up.”

Emma nodded, pressing the queen’s hand tightly in her own, before turning to grab more luggage and unfasten Westley from his car seat to do as Elsa suggested.

“Let me help you,” her friend offered, holding out her arms to take the still-sleepy child so Emma could reach the suitcase behind. “May I?”

Emma didn’t hesitate for even a second, easily passing her just-barely-stirring-to-wakefulness infant into her friend’s arms, moving her hand gently so Elsa could cradle Westley’s head and crooning lowly to him until he settled again, rooting deeper into the young queen’s arms as a pleased and rosy smile pinked her cheeks.

Throwing a surreptitious glance over to Killian, only to find him watching her with a comforting smile that already knew where her mind had gone and wished he could undo the old hurt, Emma shook her head to clear the memory as best she could and send her husband a small grin as reassurance that she would be fine. As much as she had tried to banish the moment from her mind, and as much as the sharpest stinging slap of betrayal had faded, Emma still saw her own mother pulling little Neal away from her, protectively fearing her magic and not letting Emma hold her younger brother. Intellectually, Emma knew her mother loved her, magic or no, realized that the knee-jerk reaction had not been aimed to hurt her… and yet… it had.

Watching Elsa as various emotions flitted across her face while cradling her friend’s youngest in her arms, gazing down at the drowsy babe adoringly, Emma knew Elsa had felt that same fear and suspicion she had, and that perhaps Elsa had almost resignedly expected her request to be denied, knew that parental protectiveness all too well, and had been thrilled when she was granted trust instead.

Little Westley Graham did nothing more than flutter his eyelids briefly without fully rousing and gave a slight coo of contentment as the Queen bowed her head to press a light kiss to the top of his downy, sandy-colored hair. “Come on then everyone,” she suggested cheerfully, looking as merry and confident as they had ever seen her and leaving Emma blessedly assured of her friend’s happiness. “There’s hot chocolate with plenty of marshmallows in the large sitting room.”

She led the way, with Killian, Henry, and Kristoff bringing up the rear to make sure no overexcited little girls, snowmen, or reindeer were left behind. It didn’t take long to find their luggage placed in their rooms, their coats and snow boots shucked off, and all of them seated comfortably scattered around the large open room full of soft chairs and sofas, a roaring fire in the hearth at one end, and plates of toast and jam, cookies, doughnuts, scones and a whole pot of rich hot chocolate with marshmallows set out for the taking.

Conversation hummed warmly throughout the room as the kids played; Henry showing Olaf, Sonja, and his little sister how to make a chain of snow angels for the tree while the four adults caught up on all that had happened since they were last together. Westley had woken up, but to everyone’s surprise, the little boy had not cried or fussed for his mother, and so Elsa still held him gladly. His guileless blue eyes, the mirrored hue of his pirate father’s, blinked up at her curiously, looked more enthralled that concerned by the less familiar person holding him. One pudgy little hand unclenched to reach up toward her almost startlingly white braid and wrapped around the end of it, tugging gently with his tiny fist, and burbling happily as he did.

Elsa practically giggled, a musical, enchanting sound that the rest of them had rarely heard, and a light carefree look graced her face beautifully. “You really are quite a sweetheart, aren’t you?” she whispered to the little one softly.

She did eventually hand Westley back to Emma when he began to wiggle and wanted to eat. Once Emma returned with him after his feeding, she found the Queen of Arendelle seated cross-legged on the floor with Morgan and her niece watching wide-eyed beside her as Elsa effortlessly shaped and reshaped whorls and twists of ice into glittering ornaments she handed them to place on a tree they had left bare for that very entertainment. The girls let out little ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of excitement and surprise with each shape that seemed to bloom from Elsa’s hands into thin air. Each new creation brough exclamations of delight, and the two children then ran to their papas at the tree to lift them up to place them high on the branches, then hurried back to see what ‘Auntie Elsa’ would create next.

As the decorating eventually wound down, the two little whirlwinds huffing and puffing from all their trips back and forth over the length of the room, and Elsa lightly chuckling at their theatrics, Killian came to sit near them as well, gathering Morgan into his lap and nodding encouraging at Sonja until she scooted up close to his side as well. Soon he was telling them a story of the first time he saw snow fall at sea as a young lad. He remembered how it looked trailing down to rest on nearly frozen arctic water, where their captain had unwisely taken them too far north for the season.

He was relating how his older brother Liam had distracted him by encouraging his wonder at the beauty of the sight. Killian himself had not realized until much later - a similar instance on his own ship facing the very real danger of ice floes in the water and the precarious travel a ship must make in the depths of winter driving the memory home - just how much danger they had been in that night as he had simply marveled at what seemed to his young mind cold falling stars of sparkling light. “He said each one was unique - no other could exactly take the place of the one before. Like people, Liam said they were…” Killian nearly whispered this last over the sudden lump in his throat, seemingly lost in another time and place. Emma reached out a hand to rest upon his knee, and he came back to them with a bit of a start, the faroff gaze clearing from his eyes. “Like us even,” he added. “We might have been expendable slaves to most - but we mattered, at least to each other, and he always made sure I knew that.”

Both of their daughters had drifted off to sleep by then; the excitement of the day overtaking them once they had settled in to listen to Killian’s quiet, lilting voice. Kristoff came to lift Sonja from Killian’s side to carry her to her room, wishing the rest of them goodnight. Anna followed with a contented wave as Sven trailed behind, headed outside to his barn to bed down for the night.

Queen Elsa’s gaze remained on Killian, though the story had finished. There was a melancholy, almost wistful, look within her light eyes as she seemed to consider the story yet. “He sounds like the best sort of big brother,” she finally said to Killian softly, and gentle and a bit sad smile curving her lips. “I wish I could have met him….” This last was said almost hesitantly, as if she herself did not quite know why it had slipped out, and yet she nodded determinedly after, as if confirming the sentiment.

“I wish you could have met him too, Milady,” Killian answered fervently, his voice a bit hoarse and husky with the regret and pain of still missing his elder sibling, even after ages had passed. “Maybe it’s just something about the way a younger sibling sees a beloved older one, but at times I can see something of Liam in you.”

Elsa smiled once more, gratefully accepting what for Killian must be the highest compliment he could give someone. The three of them settled into a sort of peaceful remembrance of those no longer with them - bittersweet but not unpleasant, as they were reminiscing of good times and not just their loss - before she rose as well to retire for the night.

Her exit left Emma and Killian seated cozily before the fire together, one last mug of hot chocolate in each of their hands and the silent beauty of the room around them, still decked out for Christmas, and snow still falling outside, weaving a lovely spell. Tilting her head up, Emma found Killian’s lips waiting to capture hers tenderly, sipping from them as if they were even more delicious than the chocolate and twice as precious. “I love you, my Darling,” he murmured against her cheek as his kisses trailed back to the spot behind her ear that made her melt on the spot.

Practically keening back that she loved him too, Emma held her husband even tighter, wanting nothing else she could possibly imagine in that moment. As she gazed into Killian’s blue, blue eyes she could see the future of them, and their family, together, and she knew the coming year would be their best one yet.

Tagging: @cssecretsanta2k19 @xhookswenchx @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @thisonesatellite @profdanglaisstuff @resident-of-storybrooke @revanmeetra87 @teamhook @hollyethecurious@winterbaby89 @darkcolinodonorgasm @hollyethecurious @gingerchangeling @spartanguard @lfh1226-linda

#cssecretsanta2k19 #cs canon divergence #cs holiday oneshot #ouat holiday au

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fromsolowithlove · 5 years ago

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Like a Sucker Punch - Chapter 1

Here it is folks, a real person fiction for Adam/Daisy. Writing it was harder than I thought? Could it be my Catholic guilt from childhood brewing? Ehh, either way, it’s still here. ;) We’ll see if the spirit moves me to continue it on AO3 and make it a real thing.

Summary: Daisy gets in her head and tries to ignore unresolved feelings for Adam during the filming of TROS.

Rating: PG? G even? This one is is all angst. Zero smut. Again, the whole Catholic guilt thing. For now at least. 😈

Disclaimer: Sigrid is a musical angel and any/all Star Wars references belong wholly to Disney/Lucasfilms. Also, Daisy Ridley, Adam Driver, and their partners are just gems of humans who would probably vomit reading this. I’m going to the fiery depths for this but I can’t help but think about how palpable their chemistry is! Let’s hope that writing this out gets it off my chest. Likely not, but pretending is what I do best anyways. :)

Let me know your thoughts. Love it, hate it, either way - I’m glad you’re reading it.

Chapter 1: Strangers

“How about a twenty, folks?” JJ calls for a break after deciding something wasn’t quite right about the scene Daisy and Adam were filming. Rey and Kylo’s kiss should carry the weight of three movies worth of waiting and all involved knew it couldn’t be half-assed.

“Let’s make it a tight twenty,” Adam clarifies.

Daisy sits up first, letting her chest fall over her legs, taking a deep breath as she feels the fatigue of the past week settle into her bones.

Adam reaches out for her hand and she accepts the help as he pulls her up to a standing position.

“I wish JJ would give us a little more in terms of what he wants,” he mutters.

Daisy pulls her mouth into a tight smile and replies, “Well you know what he said. He wants us to decide how the moment should go. Says we know best about how our characters would have felt finally getting to this point.”

“And yet he’s obviously not happy with whatever we’re giving him.” Adam’s voice raises but he relaxes his shoulders and tries to shake it off. “Sorry Dais, you know I’m not frustrated with you.” He offers her a small smile in repentance, his mouth barely angling up but his eyes filling with warmth.

Daisy playfully slaps his chest with her open hand. “Uh-huh. SURE.” She turns to walk away, smiling to herself as she hears him let out a low chuckle.

She walks off to the side, picks up her water bottle and raises it to her lips, absently letting it fill her up as she stares at Adam across the way. She can’t believe the warmth that’s developing in her stomach again. Her cheeks are following closely behind as the familiar flush returns and she wants to slap herself.

Leading up to this point, Daisy had thought herself finally over him. Had she and Adam shared close, intimate moments during their prior years filming together? Of course. Skellig Michael was an especially treasured moment. After all, there had been such a small group of cast and crew present that she was able to pretend this wasn’t some crazy heavy-budget movie that was resting on her shoulders. “Don't go through the crew like wildfire!” Carrie had warned. And she hadn’t. Adam wasn’t the crew. He was her co-star. And did she know in her logical mind about the infamous co-star syndrome? Of course, she did. She quickly reminded herself of the time she had started feeling a deep fondness and attraction to her costar back in Romeo and Juliet at Tring Park. Just as her lines and blocking points had faded from memory with time, so had her attraction.

This thing with Adam, however, had not. And it angered her. Confused her. Made her unsure of whether she could trust herself. Made her question if she had it in her to continue a career as an actress. Would she fall for every costar she ever had? Jeez, wouldn't that be embarrassing? No one would want to hire a walking lawsuit waiting to happen. A little voice deep inside always told her that she was a fraud, undeserving of being in the presence of the great actors that she called friends and coworkers.

“You know... I’ve got this friend who’s working on casting ‘Into the Woods’. I could throw your name her way. I see you as the perfect Milky White.”

Suddenly Daisy is snapped back to reality by a teasing voice to her right. She raises her eyebrows and side-eyes the man who had just been occupying her thoughts.

“What?”

“You know. Because you just finished that water bottle in one swig and cows really love water,” Adam begins to explain.

“I thought that was camels?”

“Nope. Cows.” He pauses for a brief moment before adding in, “Yeah, definitely cows.”

“You’re an odd one, bestie,” she teases.

“And yet, you’re still here.”

As if I had a choice. Trust me, I’ve been trying to put up my distance, she thinks.

Before she has a chance to respond with another snarky response, JJ calls an end to their break and Daisy takes a deep breath.

“Shall we resume the most frustrating scene ever, then?” she asks Adam.

Adam shuffles his feet, eyes gazing out to the side, refusing to meet hers. “Very true. I honestly didn’t think it would be this hard.”

“Ehhh, it’s all me. You’re perfect as always, Adam.” She blushes and runs off, chiding herself for acting like a stupid school girl.

Despite her embarrassment, the break must have helped because only a few more takes later, Daisy finds herself in the most comfortable staring contest with Adam in a moment that she wishes she could freeze forever.

Except that she shouldn’t be thinking of Adam. She should be thinking of Ben.

At the realization that she was letting her personal feelings bleed into her acting, Daisy wrinkles her nose in frustration and shouts, “DAMN IT. I’m so sorry everyone! This next one is it, I swear.”

Adam reaches over and places his hand over hers. He gives her a small smile and she quietly curses her heart whose increasing pace threatens to give her secret away. “It’s okay. I feel it too. We’re almost there.”

Both of them were right, and after JJ declares the last take as “THE ONE”, the room erupts with whooping and hollering. Everyone begins circulating with hugs, thank-yous, and high fives. Daisy second-guesses going over to Adam, but knows it would be even more telling to avoid him after such a successful shoot.

When she reaches him, she does her best to give him a small hug. Adam, however, reaches his arms around her shoulders and pulls her in tighter.

“Well, it’s been great,” she starts. “Thank you so much. It’s truly been an honor to work with you, Adam.” Her eyes start to well, knowing things between them will never be the same again. Hell, they haven’t been this whole time.

“Hey, look, I’m sorry.” Adam’s words are barely above a whisper.

“For what?”

“You know. For everything. For making things weird between us. I, I never should have -”

“Never should have what?” she challenges. Should have let me fall in love with you? Treated me like I was yours? Let me believe we could ever be more than this great act of pretend? Those last thoughts rattle at the gate of her mouth, but remain hers to keep.

He glances down, unable to handle her gaze that begs him for words he can’t say out loud.

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about Adam. It’s been nothing but the best professional experience.”

He winces, and for a moment, Daisy almost feels guilty. But the anger and pain return swiftly, and she feels all too happy to have made him feel what she imagines to be only a small fraction of her own torment.

“To our amazing leads!” someone toasts a few feet over. “I’ve worked on a lot of movies, and it’s rare we get two incredible actors who made me believe I was watching a true relationship unfold, not just two really well-acted characters. To Daisy and Adam! To making us believe in the unreal.”

Everyone cheers in agreement around them and Daisy feels her heart rise up to her throat.

Exactly Dais. The unreal.

Suddenly, it’s all too much to handle and Daisy can’t stand to be around anyone anymore. She gives them all a quick glance, mutters thanks and runs off, tears threatening to give her away. Once she returns to her dressing room, she turns her speakers back on and starts laughing through runny tears at the irony of Sigrid’s lyrics that fill the space.

When the curtain drops

Our touch is just a touch

Not like in the movies

Our story's after the end

Like strangers

Perfect pretenders

We're falling head over heels

For something that ain't real

It could never be us, eh

Just you and I

Thanks for reading! Link to listen to “Strangers” by Sigrid here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7fm7mll2qvg

#adaisy #adamsy #reylo #daisy ridley #adam driver #daiver #adam x daisy #fanfic #realpersonfic #rpf #adam driver x daisy ridley #star wars #sw

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killjoy-loveit · 5 years ago

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Stitch Me Back Together- 2

A/N: I would like to clarify that everything written in this story is complete fiction and isn’t to be taken as a true portrayal of reality. This is written in 1st POV, the character’s name is Fleur, and this is a series. I am still working on it, the end date isn’t set as of yet, however, I will try to update it when I can (though two updates are scheduled this month). Every member of Vixx will be featured in this piece, though for this second part the only one of them in it is Ken/Jaehwan. And as always the links to my masterlists will be in the notes!

Summary: Fleur is on a path of discovery, and what she finds might not be what she’s expecting. And we all know that at times, knowledge brings danger.

Word Count: 2,606

Genre: Supernatural/Fantasy/Mythical AU, Angst

****WARNING: Mentions of blood****

During the two weeks that I was off work, Lucille frequently came around. Almost as if she feared that I’d fall apart in a matter of hours if I was left alone for too long. While I wouldn’t break down in tears, I couldn’t guarantee the state of my mind for long. Something just didn’t add up, and I had two weeks to try to come to some sort of conclusion. Any free time I had without Lucille hovering over my shoulder was spent with my nose buried in medical textbooks. Or medical research papers. Or articles relating to medicine. However, the normal sources I went to had very little in the way of explaining what I’d seen. That’s when things took a turn.

I stopped limiting my search to the medical field. At this point, I wasn’t sure if I was losing my marbles or if it was actually something… Supernatural. But I’ve never been the type to give up without getting answers. So, despite being skeptical, I turned to resources I never would have considered otherwise. I frequented sites that gave supernatural explanations, involving magic and creatures that shouldn’t exist. Stores I used to avoid, even going so far as to express my confusion at their existence, became a second home. The person that probably monitors my account might’ve wondered what the hell was going on because I got a fraud alert after buying over $100 worth of books on the supernatural.

Of course, explaining that it was actually me that made those purchases over the phone was a tad interesting. And by that I mean difficult. I kept stammering, feeling like I was being interrogated when in reality all the person wanted was confirmation that I was the one who made the purchases. After that experience, I felt like maybe I was just being paranoid, or going overboard. Except that all changed when I found an explanation that fit. One that, under normal circumstances, I would have thrown directly out the window. It probably wouldn’t have even been allowed a second thought.

Based on the book I found, it said that Remi Juarez was… A shapeshifter. Further research only locked in that explanation in my mind. Some shapeshifter’s hearts beat slower, meaning the blood doesn’t circulate as fast, which could explain why he didn’t bleed out before getting to the ER. His blood had traces of an unknown element, one that made it difficult to figure out what treatments were safe. And I thought it was my imagination initially because no one else saw it, but I saw his face change for a split second- into one of the paramedics. But then it was gone. There was more in the book, but nothing that I’d be able to determine as true without the autopsy report in front of me.

At that point, I still thought I was losing my mind. It just didn’t make sense. All of the creatures and beings from mythology were just supposed to be fairytales, they weren’t meant to actually exist. Magic wasn’t meant to be real, just some fluke that could be easily debunked by science. But I was starting to realize that science couldn’t answer everything. It didn’t have the answers to the questions running through my mind and wreaking absolute havoc. I wanted it to be a dream. Wished that it was all in my head. But I started noticing things. The kind of things that wouldn’t typically hold any value.

Whenever I went out, I would notice at least one person who deviated from the norm but not to the point that just anybody would notice. People whose eyes flashed a different color; had unnaturally sharp incisors when they smiled; laughs that sounded like tinkling bells; beguiling words that could change another’s disposition in a matter of seconds; the slight brushing of one’s hands against another and causing them to go blank like they were in a trance. And I couldn’t keep denying it further, there was no point. I had to accept the fact that the supernatural existed- something I’d been denying since I was a kid. I was always that one kid to call bullshit on the sweet fairytales or scary stories adults would tell.

Fear had consumed me, becoming a permanent part of my being. Sometimes it was the overwhelming kind that could make someone want to curl into a ball in the corner of a room and never move. Other times it was just like a brief flicker of an old tv that’s connection had worsened over the years. The fear was hard to deal with, but I’d always been good at hiding my problems from Lucille. I never wanted her to worry, or be scared, or hurt, and if she saw that I was afraid, well… She’s always been a wild card when it comes to my stronger emotions. Either she’d try to solve the problem for me, or the solution would evade her and just lead her to be upset.

Though, it’s not that Lucille thought I couldn’t handle things on my own. No, she knows I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. Rather, she’s always thought of us as a duo, fighting against the world together. Except that isn’t always a plausible way of handling things. This was one of those times, is one of those times. Feeling useless and paranoid wasn’t something I wanted to share with her, it’s something I needed to carry on my own.

My first day back at the hospital after reaching such a conclusion was nothing short of a mess. Keeping my mind clear was difficult. Whenever I saw something slightly out of the ordinary, the kind of thing that could be explained in one of the supernatural books I bought, it would stay in my head, flitting about. There were only two good things that happened that day: my request for a copy of Remi Juarez’s autopsy report was approved, and I managed to, somehow, perform my job without a falter. I was surprised that, despite the upheaval of the world I’d come to know, I could still function enough to treat patients effectively.

Today seemed to be going better though. I’d had my morning coffee and got to chat with Lucille a bit before she went to sleep. The sterile smell of the hospital, one that took me a long while to get used to, brought a new sense of comfort to me now. I was back where I was meant to be.

“Fleur, hey,” Selene called out, pausing me in my tracks.

“Oh,” I respond, lips parted and eyebrows raised. I’d been too lost in my head to notice I was passing the nurse’s station. Selene has been the resident gossip since she was hired two years ago. “Hello, how are you, Selene?”

She plastered a sympathetic smile on her face, it looked forced. She then pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I feel like I should be asking you that question. Of course, I’m more than fine! How are you holding up though, dearie?”

Bile rose up in the back of my throat. I’ve always hated small talk, especially if it was the fake, prying kind. People like that never actually cared about you, they just wanted information they could spread. “I’m managing. Thank you for your concern.” My lips pressed into a thin smile before I stepped past her.

Pleasantries are something I try to avoid as much as I can, it feels contrived. No one tells the truth to such questions, just as they don’t expect the truth. Such questions have become a way of greeting, not actually being asked because the other person cares. And heaven forbid you tell the truth, that’s a good way of making someone freeze in place. I could hear the way she huffed in annoyance as I walked off. It was no surprise to me though, not at this point. Selene wasn’t a pleasant person to begin with and she only got worse with time.

Now only one thing was on my mind: the autopsy report. I knew it’d be waiting for me when I arrived for my shift today, and I was anxious to get my hands on it. After retrieving the file, I quickly made my way to the doctor’s lounge to skim it before my shift starts. Settling down in one of the rickety chairs, I tried to convince myself that nothing would be out of the ordinary. But of course, such a wish couldn’t be granted.

Multiple irregularities seemed to jump straight from the page, and I was helpless not to fixate on them. The oddities started from the rate his blood clotted, to his bone density, and even to the bullets he was shot with. One of my first conclusions was proved to be true: Remi Juarez was shot from two directions. Meaning there were two shooters. Both seemed to have used the same bullets though, a mixture of silver and steel, which made it likely they were working together.

Another thing I learned from the report was that there was truly nothing else I could have done to save him. Each step I took was correct, and despite his slow blood flow, he had just lost far too much blood at that point. With the number of bullets that riddled his body, it was surprising he hadn’t bled out faster, let alone that his heart had managed to keep beating. But I still have questions that the report hasn’t answered. Why were there two shooters in the first place? Why wasn’t he dead on arrival? How did he survive for so long? And why, exactly, was the detective relieved when I didn’t know anything?

Twelve hours later, at eight in the evening, long since the sky had darkened considerably, I finished my shift. The air was crisp and refreshing after having been cooped up inside all day. Leaves crunched under my feet as I walked down the sidewalk, my eyes taking in the beautiful scenery of the city at night. People bustled about, groceries clutched in their hands, pushing strollers, young couples holding hands, businessmen with phones glued to their ears. I hadn’t driven to work this morning, and I was quite happy with that decision. I think I needed this, to see life like this.

That feeling didn’t die down until I was closer to my apartment building, maybe five minutes away. The street lights were flickering and I couldn’t spot another person on the sidewalks. The air felt eerie and thick, making it hard to catch my breath. Then I heard a low growling, joined by something scraping against the cement, sending chills up my spine. I swallowed the growing panic, the likelihood of something or someone being behind me was low. Clearly I haven’t been getting enough sleep since I’m imagining things.

Except I wasn’t imagining things, and I knew it the second I felt hot breath on the back of my neck. I jerked forward instantly but was quickly pulled back by long, twisted claws. A scream bubbled up in my throat, begging to be released- a plea that I ignored. The low growling started again, growing louder with each passing second, and this time it was directly in my ear. I felt the creature’s saliva drip onto my shoulder, soaking into my jacket.

I felt frozen in place, be it by terror or because of some mind trick the beast played on me I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t care which it was. I just wished I was running. That my feet would start without my mind telling them to. If ever there was a time for my feet to have a mind of their own it’s now. But alas, I had no such luck. The creature’s claws dragged down my arm, ripping through the fabric of my coat and digging into my skin. At that moment it was like my body woke up, I tore out of the beast’s grasp, ignoring the searing pain in my arm as its claws left me. I ran and I didn’t stop. My feet pounded down the sidewalk until I could make out my apartment building in the distance, but even then I didn’t stop- I could still feel the creature hot on my trail.

One second I was running and the next I was lying on the concrete, a grisly claw gripping my ankle. A panicked shriek pierced the air as I looked back and saw the creature. Its eyes glowed a dark red, with tough gray skin that resembled the concrete underneath me, and vicious-looking fangs that protruded from its mouth. Terror flooded my veins, this thing looked like a monster straight from my childhood nightmares. I kicked my free foot at its face, catching it by surprise and causing its grasp on me to falter. In that instant I shot to my feet, continuing my race to my apartment building.

This time I made it safely inside, but I didn’t relax until I was in my apartment with each entryway sealed. My breathing was heavy, coming out in pants as adrenaline raced through me. My mind was spinning. What had I done to get a beast sicced on me? Did someone know that I’d figured out what Remi Juarez was? Am I a target now? Once I’d calmed down enough, I felt the blood trailing down my arm, dripping onto the hardwood floors beneath my feet. Glancing at the scratches left behind by whatever that creature was, it was easy to tell that they weren’t deep enough to need stitches. I could take care of this myself with some disinfectant and gauze.

By the time my arm was wrapped up nice and tight, it was just past ten o’clock. There was only one person I could call. One person I could question. And I wasn’t even sure if he’d give me any answers, but I could try. Grabbing my cellphone from the counter, I dialed the small numbers on the card I’d kept close to me since I got it. The line rang, once, twice, three times. I thought I was going to go through to voicemail, but then I heard his voice.

“Hello?”

“Detective Lee, this is Fleur Boudreaux.” I could feel my determination wavering.

“Oh,” he sounded surprised. “It’s quite late, what are you calling about?”

“I need to talk to you,” I whispered hoarsely. “It’s important.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

He was at my door thirty minutes later, dressed in a more casual outfit than the last time I saw him. When he came into my apartment, the door fully closed behind him, I hesitated as I felt his gaze on me.

“What happened to your arm?” Detective Lee asked, stepping forward, eyebrows bunching together in concern.

�� “It’s why I called you,” I breathed out, moving my eyes to his. “I… Was attacked.”

His eyes widened considerably. “Attacked? Why didn’t you call the police?”

“Aren’t you the police?”

“I mean, yes, but‒”

I cut him off quickly. “I couldn’t just call the police about this. It had to be you, at least I think it has to. Anyone else will just think I’m crazy.”

The look in his eyes changed, realization flashing in them. “What are you talking about?”

“What I’m talking about,” I say, stepping forward. “Is Remi Juarez. He wasn’t human, and neither was the thing that attacked me tonight. So I have some questions I need you to answer, starting with: what the hell have I been dragged into?”

#vixx #vixx fanfic #vixx scenarios #vixx series #vixx ken #vixx jaehwan #vixx leo #vixx taekwoon #vixx ravi #vixx wonshik #vixx hongbin #vixx hyuk #vixx n #vixx hakyeon #vixx supernatural au #stitch me back together

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a-room-with-a-mew · 6 years ago

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SCOOP by Evelyn Waugh

‘The funniest novel ever written about journalism’… I don’t know; is it just me or does this not really sell it? Is journalism a natural place we go to for laughs? I mean.. Yeah, there are comic-features writers, and journos who write books and scripts and maybe even do stand up. But in terms of fiction, of stories, I’d almost always think of journalism as high drama, a noble pursuit like in All the President’s Men or Superman. Waugh is interested in hackism. Okay he is indulging in a little self-parody here, as a writer himself, but for quite a time, this book feels like a long in-joke, a nudge to a colleague. While it works well as a series of jokes, sketches, and odd-ball characters in crazy situations, the fact that this is a novel means that we are invited to rest our feet upon the rocky conceit of a war in a far-off, fictional foreign land, which may or may not reflect a real war/ place. And additionally, as the place and people aren’t real, only ‘inspired by’, Waugh can say whatever he bally likes about them with impunity. A bit like The Life of Brian, only well – not as funny! Tall order though of course.

Let’s dive in. I managed to stick with and read SCOOP on my third attempt after owning the novel for years. Like a lot of books, the cover mystifies. Who are these? Mrs Stitch presumably? There’s only two watery female characters in the book so must be her. She doesn’t figure much so the cynic in me thinks the publishers are attempting to glam up the story.. With her fur and hat and the moody black and white. Reminds me of an edition of Brideshead I saw once in a shop – the cover had a cartoon slinky flapper girl – the hat, the stole, elbow-length gloves, cigarette holder, diamonds and whatnot. Missing the point a bit I think! So! Here we have two snoots getting on a plane. This doesn’t happen in the book. Natch.

Story

Likely the appeal or not of this story will depend upon whether you like action / adventure stories and seek thrills and fantastic places and daring endeavours. Of course you do! Well, I don’t. Or at least – I don’t tend to read them. Give me Indiana Jones on the big screen – but I don’t know if I’d read Alexander Fleming or the da Vinci Code (again). In the books I read, people tend to sit around thinking, or drive thinking, or potter around the kitchen, thinking, or fall in love but not realize it or declare it, or holiday and develop the self, but very subtly, or befall intensely personal disasters, make human connexions that you have to squint to see.

Suffice to say I loved, say, A Handful of Dust to distraction. Brilliant book. What actually happened? What was the plot? Ahm… Well.. Hard to describe, the slow, tragic dissolution of a marriage. That makes it sound boring. It isn’t!! SCOOP kind of is, and yet the action doesn’t let up for a paragraph.

Waugh – probably joyfully – breaks the golden rule of writing by NOT introducing his main character in the first page / chapter. Tries to fox us, he does. Very clever – in fact the whole book is, very clever: maybe that’s why it left me behind in the dust. Okay, so though some administrative cock-up, our hero, William Boot - a very sheltered country-squire sort who generally never leaves his decaying mansion full of ancient relatives – he’s never described physically, but go ahead and imagine the plus-fours, Norfolk jacket, pristine boots, hunting hat, moustache - finds himself sent, as a foreign correspondent, to a war-torn country of which he has never heard. Promising premise.

What follows is William’s whirlwind adventure of being summoned to his new post, preparing to go to Africa, complete with the bare essentials - collapsible boat and hockey-sticks and back-street passports. Everything is charged back to the paper – The Beast – and so there is a real consumer-fetish going on here too! As William is one of those old-fashioned toffs who own great estates but are somehow stony broke.

Much of the novel is taken up with travelling – to this fabled Ishmaelia, which was initially founded by an American family called the Jacksons, and various in-fighting and coups have taken place within the dynasty for generations. Now they’re out of power, and socialism is threatening to sneak in via the Russians. I do believe? And there’s much interest in this particular country from other well-to-do nations. Of course this doesn’t come about for a while, and for most of the mission, William wanders around hearing snippets and spending the paper’s money. Is Waugh indulging in a little revenge fantasy? William is incapable as a journalist, but just happens to be in the right place at the right time and know the right people, and comes through with the climactic glory of the story – not the exposure of the truth, but a good story with lots of COLOUR.

Characterization

Okay well, as I’ve mentioned somewhere, Waugh is not a writer whose strongest suit is characterization – it’s his writing, wording that shines, and we’ll get to that in a minute. And yet the characters are the reason we generally love a story, no? Or at least – if you are interested in the human psyche, the intricacies of human relations, the effect of surroundings upon the humans therein. But for Waugh, his love is words and the ways he can string them beautifully: he sees the novel "not as an investigation of character, but as an exercise in the use of language.” An exercise! Like you do at school.

William Boot, the protagonist, is so wan and inconsequential that his mistaken namesake is introduced first, and more memorably. He reminds me of Paul Pennyfeather from Decline and Fall – he is only there to go along with the plot, adding nothing to it with his own input, but only to observe the zany characters around him. And Paul annoyed me so much! The way the others were breaking curfew in college, and Paul blandly took the blame without a fight. And he floats through the rest of it. Although William differs from Paul in one way – though William is rather pushed into this job, and takes the glamour and action in his stride, he retains a strong and immovable affection for his dreary old homestead, and that is the true love of the story – his affection for the country-side and desire to walk “feather-footed through the plashy fen.” William says no – and he’s such a blah character that it truly surprises and delights when he does.

At one stage he purports to be in love with a woman – she does him out of a load of money and a boat, in which he helps her and her husband escape. It’s not as noble as it sounds! Each and every character in this story is out for themselves. If they can’t see past their nose, why ought we invest?

SCOOP has memorable caricatures – larger-than-life, humorous, and distinctive, but they are there to portray ideas, not to have their own agency and accountability and foibles. They run around building and holding in place Waugh’s ideas, they exist to show the deftness of his pen, they are satire, they are text.

Writing

Brilliant as always, and makes the reader wish that Waugh’s themes and characters were as wonderful and satisfying as his prose.

“The immense trees which encircled Boot Magna Hall, shaded its drives and rides, and stood (tastefully disposed at the whim of some forgotten, provincial predecessor at Repton), singly and in groups about the park, had suffered, some from ivy, some from lightening, some from the various malignant disorders that vegetation is heir to, but all principally from old age. Some were supported with trusses and crutches of iron, some were filled with cement; some, even now, in June, could show only a handful of green leaves at their extremities. Sap ran thin and slow; a gutsy night always brought down a litter of dead timber.”

Now who else is going to describe a group of trees so well? Not only are they so very clear to picture, he has given them history, and in doing the history of the house, the family, and possibly the decaying aristocracy itself. I bet the fields are thick with meadowsweet and all!

Waugh has lots of fun with the journalistic jargon; the idea that an article must have news, but to sell, it must have colour – love that term: it must have some literary merit, some artistic verve, really appeal to the reader. Elsewhere William keeps getting increasingly frantic and mysteriously coded cables from the newspaper offices in London, going to despair because he’s not providing any stories he promised and running up enormous bills. Finally he manages: “Please don’t worry quite safe and well in fact rather enjoying things weather improving will cable again if there’s any news Yours Boot.” And later “Nothing much has happened except the president who has been imprisoned in his own palace.” The downplaying is so dry and delightful. I wish I knew what was going on. Maybe that’s the point!

#evelyn waugh #scoop #book review #booklr #books #penguin modern classics #20th century literature

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huntertales · 7 years ago

Text

Let’s Write a Different Ending: Chapter Two.

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Prophet!Reader

Word Count: 3,492. // Episode Setting: The Monster at the End of This Book.

Summary: What if the “Supernatural” book series wasn’t written by Chuck Shurley? Instead, by a young woman named Y/N Y/L/N? She finds herself living out her most recent story—about the end of the world, an archangel whose sworn to protect her is moonlighting as a trickster and two fictional characters by the name of Sam and Dean are about to drag her straight into it. (Semi-rewrite from episode 4.18 The Monster at the End of This Book to—?)

Previous Part | Full Masterlist

When you were much younger, when your writing abilities consisted of nothing more than short stories you scribbled down in composition notebooks you abandoned for new ones and doodles of creatures your mind that you imagined, you made a wish one year on your birthday that everything you wrote would come true. You had to be no longer than seven or eight, too naive to know that it was impossible. The things you wrote down were just stories, they only were real inside your mind. It was an escape from reality. That was the reason why you wrote in the first place, to create a world that wasn’t your own.

You wrote the “Supernatural” books because it felt like a world that was exciting, with characters that you made up in your mind. You gave up a long time ago about that little dream. Only it was coming true. Maybe. In all honesty, you didn’t know what the hell was going on anymore.

You sat at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of coffee in your hands and Winchester at your feet, happily devouring a pork bone from last night’s dinner. You hadn’t said a single world since you stepped back into your house. You felt like you were on autopilot while you continued on with your usual morning routine. 11:15 was around the time you had the third cup of coffee and gave Winchester his bone as a treat after breakfast. The only thing that was different that two strangers—two people who were a figment of your imagination—were standing in your kitchen.

“I’m having a mental breakdown. It’s the only explanation for what’s going on right now.” You mumbled to yourself, shaking your head as you brought up the cup to your lips to take a drink of the coffee that was still burning hot. You didn’t even flinch when the liquid burned slightly going down your throat. You shut your eyes for a second and inhaled a deep breath, calming yourself before opening them up again. You could feel the tightness remain in your chest you saw them again. Dean leaning against the door frame and Sam resting his hands on the chair. “Oh, God. You’re still there.”

“Yup.”

“You’re not a hallucination.”

“Nope.”

You leaned back in your seat and ran your fingers through your hair. You tried to ignore them for long as you could, pretending you were alone. You tried to keep your eyes away from them, however, you slowly moved your eyes away from the fridge, watching them man from the corner of your eye. Sam Winchester, the man who you had written dozens upon dozens of books about. Standing in your kitchen, staring at you. You staring at him. Your lips stretched into a faint smile, knowing exactly what he’s capable of. Hoping he wouldn’t try and kill you like some sort of monster.

"So, let me get this straight. I write things and they come to life. I mean, if you two are here alive and in the flesh...Oh, God. The things I’ve done.” You found yourself suddenly overwhelmed at the memories of what you wrote from the very first book...up until just an hour ago from when you were disturbed. “The things I put you two through—the physical beatings alone.”

“Yeah, you don’t need to get so choked up about it.” Dean said. “We’re still in one piece.”

“I killed your father. I burned your poor mother alive. And then you had to go through the whole horrific deal with Jessica again.” You apologized for the crappy situation you put them through at the expense of your own personal emotions at the time while writing. Sam didn’t so heartbroken about it as he mumbled your name, trying to get you to focus. But you couldn’t. “All for what? All for the sake of literary symmetry. I toyed with your lives, your emotions, for...entertainment.”

“You didn’t toy with us, Y/N, okay?” Dean said, trying to get the reality of the situation through your mind so you could focus on answering their questions. “You didn’t create us.”

It sounded so easy to think that. But you were freaking out on the inside. You needed to be sure that he was right, that the two men standing in your kitchen were real. Inhaling a deep breath, you pushed yourself up to your feet and gathered all the courage you had and approached the two men. You slowly brought up your hand and...poked Sam right in the chest, feeling flesh and clothes. A human body. You fully expected this, but for some reason, you acted like a small child confronting a monster, jumping slightly in the air. You scrambled back to your seat, avoiding eye contact with the young man from what you had done.

“Okay...you’re really real. Not a figment of my imagination.” You muttered to yourself, suddenly feeling more relieved at the fact that these two men were real. The whole supernatural universe you had created was real. “Did you really have to live through the bugs?”

Sam looked over at his brother from the questions you were asking before he answered, “Yeah.”

“Ooh. That gave me nightmares for days. I don’t know why I thought that...why I even published that piece of crap.” You said, your nose scrunched up slightly from the things your mind was able to come up with all on its own. Only the expression dropped when you thought about another book that was just as terrifying. “Wait. What about the ghost ship?”

“Yes,” Dean answered with a quick response. You could tell from his body language that he was growing agitated from what was going on here, but he was trying his hardest to be calm with you from the way you were acting. But you were too nervous to realize. “That too.”

"Oh. Let me just say this, I am so, so sorry for what I've done. I mean, horror is one thing, but to be forced to live through my bad writing...Eck. Eighteen year old me wasn’t the best. But thanks to you guys, I paid my way through college." You said with a smile at your accomplishment. Neither one of them changed their serious, blank expressions. “Look, if I would have known all of this,” You gestured a hand to them, “Was real, I would have done another pass.”

“Y/N, listen to me. From what I can gather you seem like a sweet, very smart girl.” Dean said. He approached the table where you sat and stood next to his brother. “Believe me when I say you did not create us. Everything you wrote about is real. But you didn’t make it up.”

“What?” You asked, stopping dead in your movement from what you heard. You felt your voice shift into almost a whispering sound, too quiet for you to hear. Everything was happening all at once, too fast for your brain to comprehend the comfortable reality being pulled out from beneath your feet. “So you’re saying...”

“Everything is real. Monsters, angels, demons. All those things you wrote about happened. But you weren’t the one who made it up. You were just the unfortunate sucker who had to see it.” Dean said, giving you the God’s honest truth about was happening. Your eyes moved away from him and to around your kitchen. You didn’t know if you wanted to faint or throw up. “Sorry, kid. It’s a lot to take in. We know.”

You grew up believing monsters were just made up things. They were only real in the sense of your imagination and stories you wrote for entertainment. Turns out you were wrong. The supernatural creatures you thought only lived in books and lore were real. It was under nose this entire time, and you had no clue. Suddenly you felt like you were a character in one of the books you wrote about, the bystander having the talk with Sam and Dean about the supernatural. The world you thought you created.

“So…” You shifted slightly in your seat. “Why the hell have I been dreaming about this?”

“We think you’re probably just psychic.” Sam said. Your brow raised slightly from his presumption, only providing more questions than answers for either one of you. “It seems that somehow, you’re just...focused on our lives.”

“Yeah, like laser-focused.” Dean added. “Are you working on anything right now?”

You nodded your head slowly to answer the man’s question. You were editing a piece you were working on last night before you forced yourself to go to bed when dawn was just a few hours away. You only slept for a few hours, eager to wake up early to continue a routine you slipped into a few months ago after graduating. Writing a story nobody would ever read came a habit of yours because it was a fun way to pass the time, something you could do to forget about your troubles. When you realized what part of the story you were editing, panic fell into your face, making the boys suddenly appear cautious, wondering what was wrong.

“Oh, crap.” You muttered underneath your breath. You pushed yourself up to your feet and went to your office that was just in the next room to fetch the papers you were supposed to be editing. Coming back to the kitchen, you placed down the pages and slid them over to the boys. “The, uh, latest book. It’s, uh, it’s kind of weird.”

“‘Weird’ how?” Sam cautiously asked.

“It’s very...Vonnegut.” You said, giving him a feel of what you were trying to accomplish.

"'Slaughterhouse-five' Vonnegut or 'Cat's Cradle,' Vonnegut?" Dean asked.

You knew exactly what he was going to say. And you knew Sam was going to mumble “What?” in a surprised tone, not expecting such a scholarly guess to come out from his brother's mouth. He thought the man’s only source of reading material outside of lore books were

articles about what frisky woman's favorite activities were. They were good guesses, but he was off. They weren't books, per se, more of a fictional being breaking the fourth wall.

“It’s, uh, ‘Kilgore Trout,’ Vonnegut. I wrote myself into it. I wrote myself, at my house...confronted by my characters.” You said, trying to explain the situation more to yourself at the mess you made. You didn't know what was going on, you didn't know what to process first. Monsters were real. Two people you had been writing about for years were real. They weren't figments of your imagination. You rubbed your eyes in frustration, not seeing the uneasy looks the brothers shared from what was happening. "I need a drink."

+ + +

Dean sat in the almost empty laundromat, the only soul besides his and his brother was an older gentleman folding his darks after pulling them out of the dyer. The older Winchester peered over his shoulder when he read the passage from the newest part of the novel Y/N had been working on. His mind was comprehending the situation he landed himself in. About how meta his life had become. How he was sitting exactly how he was reading it. Every little action. An endless cycle.

“I’m sitting in a laundromat, reading about myself sitting in a laundromat, reading about myself—my head hurts.” Dean stopped himself from trying to comprehend what the hell he was reading anymore. He furrowed his brow slightly when he found his eyes landing onto the part where his supposed fictional self thought about how the writing had slightly improved.

“There’s got to be something this girl’s not telling us.” Sam said.

Dean glanced down back to the papers to read off the passage after his brother repeated word for word from the story. “‘Sam tossed his gigantic darks into the machine. He was starting to have doubts about Y/N, about whether she was telling the whole truth.’”

“Stop it.” Sam warned his brother.

“‘Stop it,’ Sam said.” Dean repeated what his brother said, a smirk curling at the ends of his lips at how easy he was easy to get all riled up. “Guess what you do next.” Sam didn’t say a word, he wouldn’t give his brother satisfaction of being right. Only he was. “‘Sam turned his back on Dean. His face, brooding and pensive.’ I mean, I don’t know how this chick is doing it, but she’s doing it. I can’t see your face, but those are definitely your ‘brooding and pensive’ shoulders.”

Dean looked down at the papers, wondering what was going to come next so he could read it out loud and piss off his brother even more. When he read the next line, it wasn't dialogue, but a personal thought the younger man had. He furrowed his brow when he read a line that wasn’t so nice. “You just thought I was a dick.”

Sam turned around to face his brother, impressed how quick you were. Never missing a beat, never missing an emotion or personal thought one of them had. "She's good."

+ + +

You've written all sorts of different things during the "Supernatural" series. Things from violence to heartbreaking stories that made you shed a few tears, to monsters and side characters you found yourself killing off to keep the plot going. What wasn't in every book was explicit scenes. All out in the open, nothing to leave to the imagination. You added it into a few novels because you felt it was the right mood. And your publisher urged you not to be shy about "letting it all flow to the pages." Sex was just a small part to the scene, Dean sleeping with Cassie, a woman he fell in love with for a few weeks. Sam being intimate with Madison, the first woman he truly loved after his beloved Jess passed away.

You had another dream like that last night after you went to your local liquor store and picked up a bottle of your favorite of wine. You by yourself with a clean glass and drank...and drank until you passed out on your couch, only to wake up with Winchester’s wet nose pressed against your cheek, trying to get you to break out from the deep slumber that took a physical toll on your body after a while. This time when you woke up, you didn’t feel rested, you were emotionally drained from coming to terms with everything. Part of it was the reality of the situation that you were living with the supernatural right under your nose. The other was the disturbing dream—or was it a vision?—you had. You didn’t question what it was. You went straight to your office and wrote everything you remembered down.

Winchester sat on the couch you had been sleeping on previously this morning. He stared at the two men you called over just an hour ago before you managed to get the time to take a quick shower so you didn’t smell like sweat and cheap wine. Your dog was rather friendly being that he was a larger one of the breed. He was friendly to strangers and sociable, he didn't bark at small dogs and listened to any command you gave him. While you fetched the papers from your office, Winchester sat, sat straight at Dean, with a look in his small eyes that made the older man shift uncomfortably in his seat. He was being stared down by a dog.

“Uh, thanks for coming." You emerged from the office and headed to your living room where you told the two men to sit. Dean was on the loveseat and Sam remained standing, leaning himself against the bookshelf with all sorts of novels and framed pictures of your life over the years. “I, uh…” You lifted up the papers to gesture what you were trying to say, but you couldn’t get anything to come out. Not a single word or sound. You found yourself overcome with anxiety as you stared at the two men, the reality of the situation hitting you all over again.

"So..." Sam must've sensed your nervous behavior was making you a sudden mute. He raised his brow slightly and took a guess to what you were trying to say. "You wrote another chapter."

You nodded your head, swallowing down the fear best as you could so you could tell them what you saw. "Sorry." You whispered your apology for behavior that wasn't normally like you. Your lips stretched into a small smile before looking back down at the papers, all before you let out a sigh, knowing how much of an idiot you were acting like right now. "This was all so much easier before you were real.”

“Well, we are. Whatever you got, we can take it.” Dean reassured you. “Just spit it out.”

“Yeah, uh..." You glanced down at the papers, skimming the words you hasty wrote before looking back over at the man. "You especially are not gonna like this."

“I didn’t like hell, kid.” Dean said. “Tell us.”

You let out a sigh and came right out with it, “It’s Lilith. She’s coming for Sam.”

Dean’s expression dropped into shock at the information you told him. The demon that wanted his younger brother's head on a stick, the one who toyed with a poor family's sanity and killed the very man who sat on your very piece of furniture you bought for yourself after moving out. All of it was details, but you knew that she wasn’t a force to be reckoned with. She made it quite clear she wanted the Winchesters out of her way.

“Coming to kill him?”

“When?”

“Tonight.” You answered the younger man’s question first, leaving his brother left to wonder for a moment what was going to happen.

"She's just gonna show up?” Dean asked. “Here?"

You moved your way to the couch to take a seat, Winchester scooched himself closer to you and rested his head on top of your legs, getting himself comfortable like how he would always do. You let out a sigh as you began to flip through the papers to the part that you wrote last night. Clearing your throat, you cringed slightly at what you were about to do and the lack of editing. You didn’t really want to tell them straight out, you felt it was better to read what came to you last night.

“‘Lilith padded the bed seductively. Unable to deny his desire, Sam succumbed, and they sank into the throes of fiery demonic passion.’” You bit your bottom lip from how badly it sounded. You should have just handed them to Dean and let him read it for himself. The man stared at you, a bit lost for his own words at what you read out loud. Sam, however, has no trouble showing his reaction. He let out a loud laugh, thinking all of this was some kind of joke.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Sam asked. Dean looked over at his brother, wondering if he thought this whole situation was funny. "And you don't? I mean, come on. 'Fiery demonic passion'?"

“Don’t need to be rude.” You mumbled, suddenly feeling the need to defend yourself against your wording choice. “It’s just a first draft.”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait.” Dean quickly repeated himself. He got a wrong vibe about this situation.

Last time they saw Lilith in the flesh, her meatsuit wasn’t any one a man would desire to spend a night of passion with. “Lilith is a little girl.”

“No, uh, this time she’s a,” You looked down a the paper to remember the new body she chose to try and seduce Sam. “’Comely dental hygienist from Bloomington, Indiana.’”

“Great. Perfect.” Dean spoke between clenched teeth. You swallowed slightly at his reaction. You knew he was pissed at what you told him. “So what happens after the…’fiery demonic’ whatever?”

“I don’t know.” You admitted, shrugging your shoulders. “That hasn't come to me yet.”

"Dean, look, there's nothing to worry about. Lilith and me? In bed?" Sam asked, smiling slightly as he continued to treat this situation like it was all some big joke. He wanted to kill the demon, not spend a night with her. “You seriously believe this crap?”

“She hasn’t been wrong about anything yet.” Dean pointed out.

“And it’s not the first time you slept with a demon…” You found yourself letting out a personal thought out into the open than thinking to yourself. When you heard the room suddenly go quiet, you looked up from the papers to see two sets of eyes on you. Your face dropped slightly in surprise at what you said, not meaning to say that out loud.

“How does this whole psychic thing of yours work?” Dean asked, ignoring your snarky remark that came out of nowhere and Sam’s least bit amused expression.

“It usually starts with a headache. I thought when I first started writing it was just due to stress from what was going on. When it gets too bad, I take this medication that makes me pass out." You explained to them. "The first time it happened, I thought it was just a crazy dream."

“The first time you dreamt about us?” Dean asked, you nodded your head.

"Mmhm. It just...flowed. I wrote the first chapter because the idea wouldn't leave my head. I thought that once I got it out of my system that would be the end of it. I mean, I didn't really stick to a lot of stories at the time." You admitted, shrugging your shoulders. "But it wasn't. I kept having dreams...and I don't know. It felt natural to write it. My parents were the ones who encouraged me to keep going and to publish the books. So I did. The dreams never stopped coming to me. Writing was the only thing that felt right to do with it.”

Sam, who was listening to every word that you said, found it a little funny that you had a personal meaning behind what you did. You looked over at him when he stood there with a smile stretched across his lips. You narrowed your eyes on him when he thought you were full of crap. "You can't seriously believe—"

“Humor me.” Dean cut off his little brother. He pushed himself up to his feet and decided to try and come up with a plan that everyone could agree with. “Look, why don’t we just…” You raised your arm with the papers of the newest part of the story when Dean walked your way. He stopped when he realized what you did. You gave him a smile when he grabbed them. “Take a look at these and see what’s what. You—”

“Knew you were gonna ask for that.” You finished his sentence. You saw Dean’s tongue press itself against this cheek, trying not to make a remark about how weird that was. “Yeah.”

You let out a quiet sigh as you looked down at Winchester, your hand subconsciously running your fingers through his long fur at the situation that was going on. He let out a low whine and snuggled himself closer like he was trying to comfort you, as if he could sense the anxiety rushing through your mind. Fiction was reality. Reality was fiction. You leaned back against the couch, attempting not to have an anxiety attack from what was going on...at least not in front of the boys. You’d wait until they left for you to do that.

[Next Part]

LWADE Tag List: @omgcupquak3stuff, @imboredsueme, @waif-of-the-night.

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oddsnendsfanfics · 7 years ago

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Two Strangers : Take You Home

Genre: Fan Fiction (Vikings) Pairing: Ivar/Reader Warnings: N/A Rating: G Length: Drabble Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.

A/N: More Modern!Ivar kudos to whoever made this gif, btw

Two Strangers Master List

The air was chilly, as you sat down outside the small cafe, snuggling your scarf and thick jacket tighter around you. The overcast morning gave promise to a snowy afternoon, you were sure of it, which was why you were so confused about the desire that Ivar had to be outside.

Carefully, as always, lining his knees up to the chair behind him; Ivar gently lowered his body into the seating position discarding his crutches to lean on the table beside him. The black hat he wore covered his shaggy locks and brimmed those fantastic blue eyes that you adored so much. Licking his lips in the cold, he shivered a little, and rubbed his gloved hands together.

"I'm sorry," He spoke, as if reading you mind, he continued. "I don't get the chance to be outside, much, once the snow comes. It's nice to get the fresh air, while I can."

"It's fine, Ivar." You smile sweetly, reaching for your latte, shocked that it hasn't turned cold sitting on the table. "I don't mind, really."

Arching his brow, Ivar smirked, "Really? Because you look like you're freezing? We can go in, if you want." He nodded his head toward the brick building that sat behind him. Inside was warm, inside was also crowded with bodies, and other obstacles that could be hell on Ivar.

As you had learned in Paris, people weren't always so willing to accommodate the man whose legs didn't work. Fools, you thought to yourself holding your latte to your lips.

"If I freeze now, it is an excuse to warm up later." You winked at him. A deep blush crept into Ivar's cheeks, trying to avoid the embarrassment he tucked his chin into his jacket.

Warming up at his and Ubbe's place would be a hell of a lot different than how the two of you had warmed up last night, in your hotel.

"When we get back, my brothers will likely be there." He spoke softly, his cheeks less flushed. Picking up his cup of coffee – no sugar with a small splash of milk – Ivar took a long drink.

You had yet to meet all of his brothers, so far he had only been comfortable introducing you to Ubbe. Something about the introduction had felt right to Ivar, leading to the introduction last evening before you and Ivar had gone out to dinner and drinks.

This morning, on his way to meet you, Ivar had even heard Ubbe talking about the two of you. His older brother was talking to Sigurd, saying how great of a match you seemed to be, if this was in fact a romantic relationship, and that he was happy Ivar had finally gotten out and found someone. The conversation had seized when Ivar thumped into the kitchen, acting as though he was oblivious to the moment.

"Hmm," You hummed, blowing hot air between your gloved hands, "So, I finally get to meet the rest of the infamous Lothbrok family?"

If they were as welcoming and friendly as their Uncle Rollo, how difficult could this meeting be? While hanging out in Paris, Ivar had asked you to attend an art gallery opening with him, as it was being put on by his Uncle's wife. Accepting the invite, you had spent the evening feeling severely under dressed and way too poor to be among those at the opening. Ivar had made you feel at ease, making silly comments, and little digs at various points in the night. His Uncle had welcomed you happily, explaining that this was his wife's scene and fully understood any feelings of awkwardness.

"I don't expect Bjorn to be there, but you will get you meet Sigurd and Hvitserk." Ivar informed you, his eyes clouding and his brow sharpening into a tight furrow. "Are you sure that you're okay to sit outside?"

"I'm fine, really. So," You leaned forward in the metal chair, "tell me more about your brothers. Any quirks or details that I need before hand?"

Ivar had told you a lot of things about his brothers, but nothing on a personal level of detail.

Biting his bottom lip, out of habit, Ivar wrinkled his nose a brief second before he spoke. "Hvitserk will no doubt try to hit on you, ignore him. He's perpetually horny." You laughed at the way Ivar rolled his eyes with his words. "Sigurd and I are very close in age, we sometimes get into arguments without realizing it. If that happens, don't worry because Ubbe knows when and how to break us up."

"Unlucky for Hvitserk, I have a great act for deflecting advances and flirting." You chuckle, biting your own bottom lip. Ivar had mentioned that he and Sigurd would bicker on occasion, their worst fight being Ivar's senior year in high school, when he lost his virginity to Sigurd's girlfriend – to prove a point to his brother, of course. "And Bjorn? If he is around, what is he like?"

"He comes off as being a hard ass, but he's a good guy. He's quiet and observant, my uncle says that he is a lot like my dad." Ivar shrugged at the thought. "My mom always said that I am like my dad, as well. So, I don't really know. Bjorn is nice, although I think he is 100% done with our bullshit." He laughed.

You remembered Ivar mentioning his eldest brother's constant absence, as Bjorn had a wife and two, maybe three, children.

You smiled, trying to find something to add, or a joke to make but came up short. Knowing how Ivar had also lost his mother, someone who he had been very close to, maybe a joke wasn't fit for this part of conversation.

A chill ran through you, shaking your body, as the wind picked up. The clouds were growing darker and your watch told you that morning had now turned into the afternoon. You'd been with Ivar for a good three hours and had no plans of parting ways just yet. Unless he wished to take some alone time until you were scheduled to have dinner at his and Ubbe's place.

Tipping the rest of your latte into your mouth, the sweetness came as a comfort. "Do you have plans for lunch?"

Ivar shook his head, finishing his coffee and aiming the cup at a nearby trash can. Effortlessly he tossed the cup, landing it in the bin. "And he scores!" he raised his arms in mock victory. "Ivar Lothbrok, ten points."

Clapping caused a jolt in your numb fingers, but didn't stop you from smiling and cheering wildly.

"Thank you, thank you." Ivar placed his hand on his chest bending at the waist, taking a bow. Shifting to get comfortable, he replaced his focus on your previous question. "I do not have plans for lunch, however, if you would like to make some I am more than happy to agree."

Adjusting your scarf, you sighed gently. Not wanting to be too forward in your next decision. "Would there be a place around, where we could grab a quick bite? Or did you want to head home?"

In the time that you had known Ivar, you'd learned that there were days when pain would rack his body, draining everything from him if he didn't take the proper rest breaks. On a good day, he could go forever it seemed. On others, he had admitted to you that getting out of bed was a struggle. This morning had been busy, Ivar showed you around his home city, on top of the two nights you'd gone out previously.

If he wanted to go home, you wouldn't mind heading for your hotel, or navigating your way around until you had to meet for dinner.

Reaching for his crutches, Ivar carefully placed his arms into the cradles, gripping the hand helds readying himself to stand. "I know of a great place for lunch, if you want to go? If you had other plans..."

"My only plans today were to hang out with you, then have dinner," You paused and smiled, "Also with you."

"Well," Ivar grunted hauling himself up to stand. You followed suit, standing as well. "Then let's make it a full day." He took a step away from the table and paused, holding out an arm to you. "Coming?"

"Are you sure?" Cautiously, you laid a hand on his bicep knowing that if you held there then he could still manage his crutches. "If you're tired or need a break, then I don't mind."

"Fuck it," Ivar rolled his eyes and giggled, "You're beginning to sound like Ubbe. Not a turn on, by the way."

Kissing Ivar's cheek, you can't help but grinning like a fool, slowly moving down the side walk with your hand still clasped to his arm. You had no idea where he was taking you, nor did you care. Ivar chatted idly about this place and that, nodding to one or two random people, a dumb smile plastered to his face.

He'd asked you to come visit and was convinced that you'd decline, much to his surprise and yours, making the trip was a no brainer. Six months of knowing one another, racking up phone bills, and endless FaceTime conversations the idea that he wanted you here was overwhelming and heart warming.

"Hey, are you even listening to me?" Ivar chuckled, nudging you and stopping short. You glance at him, his eyes mischievous under the wide brim of his hat.

"Of course," You half lied. You had been listening, his voice soft and enjoyable, but the words had faded together and you'd caught none of them.

"So, you're okay with shaving your head and letting Sigurd sacrifice you?" Ivar nodded, his lips turned into a pensive frown. "Good to know, we can work on signing the paper work tonight."

"Okay, you caught me." You took the teasing with good nature. "What was the question? The real question?"

"I asked," Ivar repeated, "How would you like going back to my place, I'll make us lunch and we can hang out until dinner?"

"Hmm," You lift your chin and drop it in a slow, half nod. "Are you sure? I don't want your brother feeling like I am overstaying."

"Ubbe is at work," Ivar informed you, biting his bottom lip, his eyes shifting past you nervously. "And you'll be fine, Ubbe likes you. Hvitserk and Sigurd will, too."

"You're sure?" Your nose wrinkled in a sniffle from the cold. "I don't want to impose and have them hate me."

"They won't hate you, if anything they're going to love you." Ivar's lips turned into a shy smile, before he leaned in for the most innocent kiss. "Because I do."

@pathybo , @imgoldielikehawn , @sparklemichele , @titty-teetee , @kirah34 , @kduran04 , @pagan-raider , @alex-ivar-minx , @hoeghfabulous

#two strangers #take you home #ivar imagine #ivar the boneless imagine #modern ivar #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #vikings imagine #au #ivar/reader #alex hogh imagine #Alex Høgh Andersen fanfiction #Alex Høgh Andersen #alex hogh andersen #fluffy #drabble

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the-film-librarian · 7 years ago

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Star Wars: The Last Jedi-Review

I’m planning to write up some essays about the film, but wanted to get my initial thoughts out before I see it for the third time, and really start to dive in.

WARNING: SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT

First things first, I liked the film when I saw it the first time, but absolutely loved it the second time. When I was watching it the first time, I had this nagging feeling that it wasn’t Star Wars-y enough. There was so much humor; Luke was such a wise ass and didn’t seem to be as serious as I thought he should; the weird relationship between Kylo Ren and Rey; the seemingly meaningless casino subplot. Then I started thinking about why it was bothering me, and I think it’s because we, as fans, have this idea that Star Wars films must follow a certain structure, must conform to this idea of what we’re expecting to happen, and when it doesn’t, it’s uncomfortable. Hell, part of why I loved The Force Awakens, and why I watch it every time I feel down is because it conforms to the expectations we have for a Star Wars film and having it be similar in structure to A New Hope makes it feel so comfortable. It’s like the macaroni and cheese of Star Wars films--it makes us feel all warm and gives us the characters we love but also has that extra spice of something new. With The Last Jedi, it’s like I was expecting macaroni and cheese, but when I looked at my plate, the waiter brought me fettuccini alfredo instead--the ingredients are basically the same but it’s also much different in flavor and feeling; it tastes delicious, but it takes a bite or two, after accepting that it’s not what I expected, and then realizing how much I enjoy it.

So before seeing it the second time, I started picking apart the discomfort I had with it:

What does being Star Wars-y even mean?

Isn’t Luke still, at his core, a smart ass farm boy? Why is it so shocking that he’s still a smart ass?

The relationship between Kylo Ren and Rey--what is it that bothers me? It is because they’re male/female? Is it something else?

Am I mad about the casino subplot because they fail and if heroes are doing something, we expect them to succeed?

Once I started thinking about these things, and why I was uncomfortable, I realized that’s kind of the point. The trailer laid out the point for us: “This is not going to go the way that you think.”

Johnson’s visual style is so unique, which is part of why I love him as a director. I also love the subtle nods to his own work-the image of the light on the detonator immediately made me think of the “Fly” episode he directed of Breaking Bad

And the work of others including:

The tracking shot in the casino referencing Wings

The B/SF-17s being modeled after the B-17 and the opening sequence drawing from Twelve O’Clock High

Being on the run from the First Order who is tracking them through Light Speed, similar to the “33″ episode of Battlestar Galactica

The fight with Kylo Ren, Rey, and Snoke’s guard modeled after samurai movies like Three Outlaw Samurai

I know there are plenty more, and I’m planning to write one of my essays looking at the cinematic influences and their significance, but I wanted to add these here too.

I also have been thinking a lot about the subtle use of language to reveal the true insidiousness of Kylo Ren--primarily, utilizing the language of abusers, e.g. telling Rey she is nothing and worthless to everyone...except him. Kylo Ren and Rey’s have a lot of chemistry together (which, shout out to Daisy Ridley and Adam Driver for some really fantastic acting, especially considering that, for the majority of their scenes, they weren’t even in the same room), but, at it’s core, their relationship is abusive. It’s not a healthy relationship, and I wish I could impart to people how important it is to not idealize their relationship. I’m planning to hone in on this point in another essay as well, and delving into the idea of learned behaviors and how those who have been abused often abuse others in the same way, but there’s a lot to unpack there--more than I can get to here. There’s another a fantastic article out on Den of Geek about the impact of toxic masculinity on both the heroes and the villains of The Last Jedi, and I think it would be interesting to analyze the film within the framework of feminist film criticism. I would be remiss without also mentioning that @infinitybuttons pointed out to me that “A lot of the same ideas are at play in Looper, too. Possessive, selfish men making decisions that affect & hurt everyone around them until one has the courage to put someone else's needs ahead of his own,” which also ties into my next point...

As far as the casino scene, this is the thing I’ve heard the most complaints about, and it felt odd to me at first too, but the point, to me, is twofold. The first is that this is the first time our protagonists have truly failed, and seeing the “heroes” fail isn’t comfortable. I think a huge failing of a lot of movies is that we feel like no matter what, the heroes are going to succeed, which gets boring after a while. Having this plan where that doesn’t work out, where the heroes fail, is a good thing, not just for something different, but to have some sort of reality, and some sort of stakes. This subplot is also inherently political, and demonstrates something that we don’t see often in science fiction--that is, whenever there is war, there is someone profiting from that war, and that there are people who are exploited, regardless of who is in charge. One of the best reviews I’ve read so far was on /Film, and I love this quote:

Rian Johnson is unabashedly political and unafraid to slaughter the sacred cows. The First Order isn’t just a group of guys whose costumes provide cool cosplay opportunities – they are fascists, evil and cold and frightening. The Resistance isn’t a team of plucky heroes – they are a band of fighters who are specifically cast with diverse men and women to reflect the fears and frustrations of millennials who feel trapped and afraid in a world where resistance often feels futile (and who really wouldn’t mind tearing apart a casino city operated by the 1%). The Force isn’t just a cool excuse for heroes to lift rocks – it is something mystical and mysterious that cannot be easily explained and comprehended, something that even Luke Skywalker has a complex relationship with at this point.

I really loved that this movie wasn’t focused on the Skywalkers, at least in the traditional sense. It’s about the main characters overcoming their greatest weaknesses: Rey not letting herself be defined by her past and letting go; Finn no longer running away; Poe learning to become a leader instead of a hot-shot fly boy. While I think the repetition of “Destroy the past” is a little on the nose, I think balancing it with the “Nothing’s ever really gone” is at the core of the movie. Letting go of the past is necessary for growth--you shouldn’t cling to it so tightly but letting go doesn’t mean it’s completely pointless. The old Star Wars films that we all love aren’t going anywhere--but in order to grow as a franchise, to continue, it has to grow away from the past, to focus on more than the Jedi lineage, to recognize that The Force isn’t something the Jedi and Sith have exclusive access to, but is something that binds together this universe, and that encompasses the galaxy.

And that’s really the point to me--that loving Star Wars, being a fan of Star Wars, isn’t something that only “purists” have a right to. Star Wars is for everyone, and I believe The Last Jedi seeks to break down a lot the gatekeeping that goes on within the Star Wars fandom, and, really, geek culture in general. To me, Star Wars isn’t about the Skywalkers, and never has been. It’s about the choices we make.

The Force doesn’t belong to a certain bloodline. It belongs to all of us--whether we’re a farm boy on Tattooine, the child of drunks who sold us for beer money, or an enslaved stable boy hearing the tale of how Luke Skywalker single-handedly stared down the First Order.

#star wars #star wars the last jedi #the last jedi #the last jedi spoilers #tlk #tlj spoilers

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jimharbor · 7 years ago

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Exploring Ixalan's Story: A Question of Confidence , Annotated

Welcome guys. This week Ixalan was fully spoiled and with it the next installment of the MTG Story. Today I’ll be going back to my roots and annotating the story.

Before we begin, if you like these articles and would like to see more, please like and retweet, and as always feedback is welcomed.

Let’s begin!

Huatli looked around the plaza as she and her cousin passed under the arch at the entrance to Pachatupa.

Pachatupa is the capital of the sun empire, and takes it’s name from an inversion of Tupac Amaura, the last native ruler of the Inca.

The high arches of the Empire are to let large dinosaurs pass through.

Only the two knights' mounts (two bright-eyed clawfoots) seemed to care about their presence.

In the same way we don’t call dogs Canis lupus familiaris , the Dinosaurs of Ixalan aren’t referred to be their taxonomic names as we usually do. The made up dinosaur names also give them an excuse to have more fantastic dinosaur designs. Clawfoots are based on Dromaeosaurs, commonly known as Raptors and are often used as mounts.

Inti held out a hand, and Huatli passed him the stolen sword. He rolled his wrist to test its weight and handed it back. "You should have seen their priest," he said. "Hierophant," Huatli corrected.

Hierophant isn’t a rank used in Spanish or Catholic clergy, but a term stemming from ancient Greece, were it was used for the leaders of the mystery cults. The word means “to show the holy” and the job entailed sharing holy wisdom with acolytes. It’s well known today because of it’s Tarot card, which (tying back to the Catholic vibes) is also known as The Pope.

The Legion of Dusk are very religious, being co-ruled by the Church of Dusk and their Queen Miralda, and their Vampires wade into battle, feeding only on the blood of non believers.

A girl no older than thirteen broke from the group and ran up to her, eyes wide and breath short. "Warrior-Poet, are you delivering an oration at the homecoming ceremony.

A warrior-poet is a character type of a civilized artisan warrior, who finds glory in battle as well as the arts and philosophy. While the rank here is totally fictional Hautli’s status as a poet (and somewhat similar name) show a link to Nezahualcoyotl.

A famed warrior-poet himself, he ruled the city state of Texcoco and revolutionized Nahua poetry by writing from a personal point of view, a sharp divide with the anonymous hymns of earlier generations. His poems were stepped in oral tradition for decades and to this day he is the namesake of the Nezahualcóyotl Award, given to writers in indigenous Mexican languages. Nezahualcoyotl’s personal style is reflected with Hautli’s emphasis on using poems to share her feelings.

Poetry that is honest has magic in it; the ability to let other people feel what you feel is a very powerful magic indeed."

Huatli’s magic based on feeling is an example of wotc showing the non destructive parts of red magic.

Huatli lay a hand on her dinosaur's rough hide and willed her to be still.Wait, she urged, sending the scent-memory of food through the connection between her and the beast.

Knights of the Sun Empire form mystic bonds with their steeds. This power is connected to the Threefold Sun, as seen in the text of Sun-Blessed Mount.

The city around them shone with amber and the light of the noonday sun.

While amber-like resin was heavily used in Mesoamerica, these copal, served as incense for ceremonies, it’s less solidified state making it more aromatic for burning.

The temple itself had been built on the foundation of an older temple, which had been built over several ruins even older than that. The Sun Empire itself was much the same. It was the latest iteration of a land whose rulers were constantly vying for power, building on top of the old and reaching ever higher with the new. Whereas the River Heralds had once controlled the continent, under the leadership of its new emperor, the Sun Empire had cemented its grip on the land.

This process is called Spolia and is very appropriate for the setting. By the time The Spaniards arrived in Mesoamerica a long list of various civilizations had risen and fallen in prominence from the Olmec to the Zapotec to the Maya and Toltec. The Aztec Triple Alliance Cortex encountered was the product of a long line of mesoamerican cultures. The idea of the Sun Empire supplanting the River Heralds takes it’s cues directly from how the Mexica people rose from wandering squatters and mercenaries to the dominant power of the region by usurping their predecessors.

The thing was flimsy and thin, meant for quick stabs rather than smooth cuts, and a tacky black rose was welded to one side. To think that these inferior craftsmen thought themselves conquerors.

The weapon is a Rapier , invented by the Spanish. Destreza, a martial art of it’s use was formalized around the same time they made landfall in the Americas. The Spaniard themed legion of dusk use them, but also have fangs at the tips to showcase their vampiric nature. The Black Rose is an emblem of the Legion of Dusk, and like the Sun Empire symbol, it looks very much like the seal of Ixalan’s binding.

"Kinjalli, hear my call! The time has come to wake the sleepers, To pierce the eastern shadow That would darken all our days.

Tilonalli, hear my call! Fill your children's hearts with fire That we may be the dawn that breaks To immolate the Dusk.

The Sun Empire worship three aspects of the sun, one for each color of mana they use. Kinjalli is the wakening sun, of white mana Tilonalli is the burning sun of red mana. Huatli being RW homages these aspects of the sun in particular.

Kinjalli is close to K’injal which would be Mayan for “Sunify.” While Tilonalli is a corruption of tōnalli, the Nahua word for day.

A bit of irony in that the Aztec inspired faction is the one with the Holy trinity.

"Driving the Brazen Coalition and the Legion of Dusk from our eastern coast means that we are ready to reclaim the south," Apatzec announced.

Miraldanor is the name of the Vampire territory in the south of Ixalan. It’s named after their queen, and is where they first landed.

He had the body of a blacksmith, but the head of an animal that Huatli had only seen around Legion of Dusk forts—a bull? Heavy iron chains were wrapped around his chest, and he seemed to glow from within like a furnace, a steady flow of steam rising from his snout.

Bulls aren’t native to Ixalan and Hautli only knows them from the Legion, just as in real life bulls were brought to mesoamerica by Europeans. Angrath’s burning horns are drawn to look like the burning ropes hair Blackbeard used in his hair for intimidation.

Hijack by Sveltin Yelenov

Blackbeard by Miles Teves

"I am the dread pirate Angrath," he said, "and I seek the Immortal Sun."

Huatli laughed out loud. "You and everyone else, fool."

“Dread Pirate” is a term taken from the classic film/novel the Princess Bride. Angrath’s foreign accent and alien way of fighting are because he is a planeswalker, one who is trapped on Ixalan and as Angrath’s Marauders tells us, not very happy about it. His name is an on-the-nose meld of Anger and Wrath that is similar to Dominarian hero and Tahngarth of the Weatherlight Saga.

The Immortal Sun is a lost treasure that all four factions on Ixalan want for different reasons.

The Vampire believe it will make them immortal without needing to drink blood.

The Sun Empire wishes to reclaim their lost city of Orazca

The Pirates want the ultimate treasure

and the Merfolk want to keep it from anyone else because they believe if found it will cause doom.

Her vision burst into a miasma of color and light, sound rushed through her ears, and she felt her body begin to break away from itself. It was bright and warm and should have been frightening, but it felt like the most natural thing in the world—she felt her head pass forward, deeper into the color and light, and she saw.

It was a city that shone with the warmth of gold.

Huatli’s first planeswalk is an attempt to get to Kaladesh, a plane ruled by the creativity she so values and one that has a golden city, just as in her culture’s legends.

Her perception was yanked sharply back, as if some unseen force was pulling her backward to the jungle. Whatever door she peered through had slammed shut, barred her from entry. Everything was flying again through color and light, sound and noise, until her body rearranged itself on the forest floor.

Huatli's blood pounded, and her vision settled on a strange triangle-and-circle symbol hovering with a strange glow above her head.

Huatli’s first planeswalk is stopped by the same sealing that trapped Jace and that also traps Angrath.

She was not a seer, yet she had seen. She was not a voyager, yet her mission was to voyage. Huatli was two things, and neither seemed connected to the destiny that lay ahead.

Huatli closed her eyes and calmed her busy mind. Her dreams were dappled with gold, shining with the colors of a place beyond her any she had ever seen. The dream shifted, transformed, became more prophecy than dream, and she saw herself as she would someday be.

Huatli has been compared to Joan of Arc by her creators, in that both are female knights driven by religious visions. The Golden City of Orazca’s mythic and sacred value to the Sun Empire as a bygone city mirrors the status of of Aztlan as the legendary homeland of the Nahua people.

And that wraps up this chapter’s annotation, I hope you guys enjoyed and special thanks to cultural consultant @stevethesorcerer .

#ixalan #mtg #vorthos #mtgxln #mesoamerica #aztec #maya

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seeknot2alterme · 8 years ago

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Dumbledore Guy

Summary: When Emma was born she was marked with, in her opinion, the worst soulmate mark anyone could ever have. People are born marked with the first words their true love would ever say to them, and Emma’s happened to spoil one of the greatest plot twists of all time.

Rating: T (because of Emma’s lovely foul mouth)

Word count: 2,233

Also on: Ao3

a/n: I’ve been working on this for an embarrassingly long amount of time and was super nervous to post it. If there’s enough interest I may add another chapter in Killian’s point of view and maybe a little more about what happens after.

Emma Swan was twenty-eight years old and had yet to meet her soulmate. She may be the only person in the world to be thankful, but when you have a life altering spoiler tattooed in lovely delicate script across your shoulder blade all your life, you tend to be a little resentful.

She was no different than any other poor sap on Earth; born with a tattoo revealing the first words her soulmate would speak to her. However, in her opinion it was by far the shittiest, most embarrassing soulmate marking she’d ever heard of and she didn’t even know what it meant until 1998 at the age of ten.

*** Growing up in a group home was hard, to say the least. It was very rare for kids in the system to receive any special attention at all, even rarer to receive nice and new things. Especially books that had all their pages and didn’t smell of mildew, but the year Emma turned ten, they did. A very generous donor gave a box full of new books, and Emma, always ready to escape the world around her grabbed the biggest book she could get her hands on.

Little did she know as she curled up on her top bunk in a room she shared with three other girls, she’d find the inspiration behind her tattoo within the first chapter of the book she’d grabbed.

Suddenly the words, “Man, I can’t believe Dumbledore died,” made a whole lot more sense. She’d spent quite a few years worried about this Dumbledore guy, so she did feel a bit relieved when she found out he was a fictional character. *** Even though Emma grew up keeping her mark as much of a secret as possible, for fear of spoiling it for someone else, and even though she was carrying around this huge spoiler literally on her shoulders, she couldn’t help but fall in love with the books. She’d wished, and hoped, and prayed for a Hogwarts instead of a new foster home, a Hagrid instead of a new foster parent, and a Dumbledore instead of a new case worker.

However, no matter how much she loved the books, as each new book came out she despised her soulmate more and more. With the release of each book she fell more in love with every character and the fact she knew one of those characters wasn’t going to make it was terrifying, because she never knew when it was coming. *** When Emma was sixteen and had long since given up on finding a family, she was finally given a break. She’d only been back in the system for three months after running away with a guy whose first words to her were, “hey baby, got a light,” when the Nolan’s came to visit.

The Nolan’s, probably the loveliest couple anyone had ever seen, took one look at Emma with her golden haired head buried in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and they were sold.

“Man, I can’t believe you like Harry Potter too!” had been David Nolan’s first words to Emma. He’d plopped down on the couch right next to her, while his wife sat down gracefully on his other side.

“Yes, David and I just finished it a few days ago. It may be the best one yet,” Mary Margaret added.

Emma, though hesitant, was a little bit sold on the two of them as well. Their words so close to those inked on her shoulder, their kind loving faces already smiling at her. She’d never had anyone look at her the way these two had. “Just don’t spoil anything yet… I haven’t finished yet,” she responded quietly. *** The first time Emma shared her mark with the Nolans was nearly a year later. They’d all decided to read the newest book, Half Blood Prince, together. They would end their evenings in the living room and would normally take turns reading, though Emma liked it when David read best. He’d make faces and change his voice and even though Emma was seventeen, it was something she’d missed out on as a kid and she couldn’t help but love it.

To say the Nolan’s were surprised when Emma’s response to Dumbledore’s death was, “Oh thank God, finally!” would be an understatement.

“Emma! What do you mean finally? Have you been reading without us?” Mary Margaret asked, the look on her face more amused than anything else.

“No! I mean, I’ve kinda known about it my whole life,” she said cautiously. As she stood, she took a deep breath before pulling her left arm out of her sleeve. “As you can see, I’m destined to be with an asshole.”

“Emma, I think that’s amazing!” Mary Margaret squealed, temporarily forgetting to correct her language.

“Amazing? How in the hell is this amazing? I’ve carried around one of the biggest literary surprises of my generation on my shoulder! This guy ruined one of the biggest plot twists of my favorite book series. My soulmate is the worst!” She spat, fixing her shirt before plopping back down on the couch.

“Oh Ems, think about it. You already know he likes something you like! He didn’t spoil it before you got a chance to read it yourself, well he didn’t spoil it in person. Poor guy, he doesn’t know what he’s done! You can’t help who you love and you can’t help what their first words to you are,” David said as he moved to put the book away for the evening, dropping a kiss on Emma’s head as he passed. *** With Dumbledore’s death came expectancy. Try as she might, there was a big part of Emma; the part that wasn’t angry, that now hoped her soulmate would be right around the corner. Surely, if she had to wait for some loser that had only ever seen the movies then she really wasn’t going to like him.

However, teenage Emma suddenly became grown up Emma. The final book came out when she was nineteen, the last movie when she was twenty-three and still no soulmate.

On Emma’s twenty-fifth birthday she added her first voluntary tattoo to the inside of her right wrist, one word. This word meant that while the books were finished and the movies were done and that while she’d probably missed her soulmate in the midst of all of it, that she would always remember. *** “Have you met anyone special recently?” Mary Margaret asked as she placed a warm plate of cookies and a steaming mug of hot cocoa in front of her daughter.

“If you mean Dumbledore guy, the answer is still no,” Emma groaned, as she scooped up some whipped cream with her finger.

“Well, what about someone else? You don’t have to be alone. I saw men before I met your father.”

“Oh gross. I don’t want to picture you with anyone other than Dad,” Emma said with her nose scrunched up. “There aren’t exactly people lining up to have meaningful relationships with someone that’s not their soulmate. So, one night stands are about as far as I ever go.” “Oh! Please warn a man before you have these kinds of conversations! I don’t need to be hearing this about my little girl!” David said from the front door. “Oh hush you! She’s a grown woman David.” Mary Margaret said getting up to take David a cookie and give him a kiss on the cheek. “I mean, I’m twenty-eight years old! If I haven’t met him by now, then I’m not going to and that’s fine! I still think he’s probably an ass and I have my job and I’ll just go buy some cats and get a head start on the rest of my life.” Emma responded dryly. “Plenty of people meet their soul mates later in life.” David reminded softly.

“Yeah, except my mark is about a book series that ended years ago. If it mentioned prune juice or how much retirement I’ve accrued then maybe I’d feel differently,” she said before stuffing an entire cookie in her mouth, ending the conversation. *** Emma never made a habit of reading Half-Blood Prince in public, it always felt like she was pushing fate. Not that she believed in fate, because she absolutely didn’t. Fate couldn’t exist in a world where you’re born with a tattoo on your shoulder telling you who you’re supposed to love. So, Emma Swan didn’t read Half-Blood Prince in public, except the time she did.

She was in the middle of one of her many rereads of the Harry Potter books. She was just past the halfway mark in Half-Blood Prince when the electricity in her loft went out. That’s how Emma found herself tucked away in the corner of a very busy coffee shop, breaking her one rule.

As she read chapter twenty-seven, the chapter that gave her the mark on her shoulder, she had to wonder if the reason she’d hung on to Harry Potter so tightly was because of Dumbledore Guy. Sure, Harry’s life was some twisted and much more magical version of her own. He’d been her only friend when she’d had none, her only family until the Nolans, but maybe it was more than that.

Maybe she loved Harry Potter because she knew one day it would lead her to her own family, her true family, her missing half. It brought her to the Nolans after she’d given up on ever belonging somewhere, why couldn’t it do the same for her again?

“And maybe I’m becoming too sentimental in my spinsterhood,” she mumbled bitterly as she turned the page.

“Man, I can’t believe Dumbledore died.”

In that moment Emma’s world stopped. She didn’t hear the chatter of people around her. She didn’t hear the coffee machines whirring across the room. The only thing she could hear was her heart beating rapidly. This was it, this is the man. Dumbledore guy.

Her eyes slowly left the pages of the now forgotten Harry Potter book to scan over the man that leaned lazily with one hand on her table. Dressed in black slacks with a white button down rolled to his elbows. She could make out the last few letters of a tattoo that seemed to be written down the inside of his forearm. His eyes as blue as the ocean and his hair looked like it’d been in a windstorm instead of a quaint coffee shop.

“Oh. You’ve got to be shitting me,” she nearly growled, her eyes still wide with shock.

Emma watched as realization hit him. She knew it’s him but he didn’t. Not until she said her first words. Her first words that had contained a curse word. She watched his eyes widen and a blush flush his face, just visible under his well maintained scruff. Emma gasped and let her head fall into her hands.

“Ah, so we finally meet,” Dumbledore guy chuckled, his laugh only making Emma blush more.

“You’ve had, you’ve got to be shitting me, tattooed on your body your whole life? That may be worse than mine,” she groaned, finally looking back up at him.

“Well, I’m guessing I spoiled one of J.K’s best kept secrets. My apologies, love. I will say, I’ve always been quite fond of your colorful vocabulary. My mother on the other hand, not so much. Though, no one was really surprised that would be a lass’s first words to me.”

“So you’re a troublemaker then?” she said, her voice more flirtatious than she intended, almost as if she couldn’t help herself.

“I prefer dashing rapscallion,” he grumbled with wink.

Emma just stared at him dumbfounded for a minute, not believing this guy was real. “Wait… How did you know I’d even read these books! You could have totally ruined this secret for me on purpose!”

“Two things,” he said slinging his bag off his shoulder on to the table and took a seat, “you read that book like I read that book. Like nothing else matters, like all your worries are gone.” He spoke assuredly as he pulled a well loved Prisoner of Azkaban out of his satchel. “And I saw your tattoo,” he said taking her hand in his and turning her wrist upward, revealing the one word written in delicate script, “really didn’t think you were my soulmate.”

Emma’s reaction time was slower than usual but she quickly jerked her hand out of his hold.

“Not that I’m not pleased! Erm, that is you’re very lovely. Not that I wouldn't… Oh this is a lot harder than I’d imagined,” he said, as his hand ran nervously through his hair.

“Have you… Have you thought about this? Me?”

“Bloody hell woman, of course I have. Almost given up at this point if I’m being honest.”

“Yeah, me too. Especially when, you know… Harry Potter’s been gone for so long now I didn't… I figured I’d missed you.”

“That’s why I came over. I um, I’m a sucker for girls that like Harry Potter. Especially girls named…” He said, a cheeky grin on his face.

“Very smooth. My name is Emma Swan. I’m twenty-eight years old and I’m terrible at this.”

“I’m Killian Jones, I’m thirty and I happen to be wonderful at this. Now, would you like to get married now or would you like me to take you on a few dates first?”

#cs ff #cs ff au #captain swan #ouat #ouat ff #captain swan ff #my stuff #my fics

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the-raven-writes · 7 years ago

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Drowning

A thing I wrote while inspired at like...midnight while very sleepy. This is just me embellishing an actual event from a session wherein we return to the local tavern to relax after some dungeon crawling. Our DM had the innkeep and all the staff play a trick on us where they disguised a broomstick as a person wearing a coat of similar fashion style to my character’s, and my DM has no idea he just enabled me to write possibly the edgiest thing I’ve ever written lol. I also wrote this in light of some revelations our DM made about my character’s Warlock patron. All the angst. All of it.

Does this count as fanfiction? If my friend’s characters are in it briefly? Friend-fiction maybe lol.

Louise is drowning. Has been for a year now.

That practical joke by the local bartender is tasteless, in her opinion. In a world of pretension, silver tongues and large words, the chaos of a clever prank is a joy she would have enjoyed…a year ago. The figure’s coat has her enraptured in memory. The dark fabric, adorned with buttons and buckles, reminds her of strolls in the park near the winter solstice. Snow catching in his dark hair, a scarf pulled up to his nose, coat buttoned up to his neck.

Louise has always had a sharp, logical mind, but the several pints she’s already downed made common sense fade into a bubbly haze. She watches her companions poke and prod at the figure while his name hangs on her lips, a desperate impossibility.

The figure slumps over. A broomstick in a classical trench coat. The bartender bends over in wheezing laughter. The server with a whip-like tail roars.

Louise frowns. Orders another ale. The fourth? Or fifth? She lost count and frankly, by now she doesn’t care. She drowns herself in a mug of ale. Pale gold, bubbling, bitter foam against her lips, the vague hint of citrus? The numbness spreads through her limbs. She feels heavy, emotionless. It's better this way, to be numb. She hopes her new friends never see her sober. Soberness is when the flood comes. She’d rather drown in crappy ale than her own regrets.

She looks at her reflection in the surface. A black-shrouded eye pokes out the top of the mug, staring back at her. Wispy tendrils creep out of the foam and wrap around the glass rim. Somewhere in her head, she feels pressure and hears dripping water.

“Go away. You can bother me whenever you wish, but leave my booze alone,” she hisses to the eye. The language is rough on her tongue, all hard, near impossible consonants. It blinks and sinks beneath the surface. The foam ripples.

The bartender turns. “You say something, miss?”

Louise shakes her head. “No. Must’ve been that bard over there.” She waves her hand lazily towards Carmina. The tiefling’s tail flops back and forth as she ogles Rutherford. Her face is flush with girlish enthusiasm. Louise rolls her eyes and wonders if she was that ridiculous when…

No. Another drink to stop thinking about the past.

It doesn’t work. Once the thought comes, it pours in. What would he think to see her now, like this? She wasn’t a mage then. Or an alcoholic. Or having vivid hallucinations. She hasn’t picked up a book in a while. She left the house abandoned. She hasn’t spoken to her family in over a year. Or their friends. Their lab has probably fallen apart. All they researched, their life's work, destroyed. Or so she assumes.

Louise can’t stop thinking about how her life is falling apart at the seams. How difficult it is to wake up in the morning, and not just because of the hangovers (which, one would think she’d be used to by now). She feels a tear slide down her cheek. It slips into her mug, now a little more than half empty.

She could keep going. Her tolerance is quite high. Louise tends to drink until her mind is blank and she can barely walk. She hasn’t been too bad with her new friends yet. They haven’t had to pick her up off the floor at least. Drown herself more and more until there’s nothing left.

Instead, she lets out a dejected sigh. Her breath smells of pungent hops. She wipes the tear away before anyone notices her show any emotion that’s not callous judgement, selfish apathy, or petty sarcasm.

“You guys have fun, I’m going to bed,” she announces to no one in particular. Rutherford continues being ostentatious and Carmina devours every second of it. Meana stares on looking reasonably annoyed and Jaune is as stone-faced as ever, as though she is babysitting a group of children (which, admittedly, she might as well be). The elf whose name they’ve all forgotten and subsequently refer to as only “The Dude” is nowhere to be seen. Probably out fishing.

Louise’s bed here at the inn is comfortable. She strips off her coat, her trousers, unbuttons her shirt to her smallclothes and slides between the sheets. The room is cold. It reminds her of the deep sea. Moonlight streams through her window. In the shadows between the beams, she sees writhing things of amorphous shape that reach out for her. Inviting. A companion. The others wouldn’t understand. She’s afraid to tell of the moon and the sounds of water in her skull, sloshing about this way and that. The already think she’s a bit out of sorts. What will they do when they learn she’s fucking insane?

She frowns, reaches out for the moonlight with a hand. The shadows wrap around it, cold and viscous. “Can’t you just let me forget tonight? Please.”

The tendrils squeeze between her fingers. The moonlight is cold and warm at the same time. Guiding as it always has. She trusts it to lead her back to him.

Louise finds herself holding her hand out into thin air. The moonlight is gone. The curtains block all view of the outside. The air in here is cold and she shivers. She buries herself in blankets, sinks into the mattress, waits for the intoxicated dizziness to subside as she falls...

A loud splash echoes in her ears all around her. She is underwater. Above her, moonlight beams against the rippling water’s surface. Below, is the fathomless depths, dark and abyssal. Her blonde hair flails about around her in the water like a cloud. She is clad in her smallclothes still. The water is freezing.

She hears an echoing whisper call her name. Louder and louder. Unbelievable agony. Screams from somewhere in the depths.

She struggles against the waves, trying to swim forward. She sees a light in the distance, glowing and pale. A figure floats in a familiar vest, slightly unbuttoned at the top, hair disheveled. Large tentacles wrap around him like chains keeping him imprisoned beneath the waves while the moon face looks on, uncaring, unfeeling. Instinctively, she reaches to her side for her pistol. Her fingers flail about instead at the elastic of her underwear, bare, exposed. She fires off a spell of force against the tentacles that have him imprisoned. The water pulses around her and the spell dies out before it can reach.

She tries to swim forward in frantic movements against the tide.

Help me! She hears. Anyone! Someone! It is so dark, so cold.

She tries to cry back, I’m here! I’m coming for you! You’re safe. The cries continue, unceasing. He is in so much pain, the way he screams. It breaks her heart, her tears mingle with the water. Her arms flail out to reach him but she hasn’t the strength and she’s running out of air…

She chokes and clutches her throat as if her arcane tricks could provide more oxygen. Salty ocean water fills her lungs, makes color cloud her vision, and for a moment, she glimpses the moon face as a massive eye with a thousand pupils of impossible colors and shapes, and it is filled delight? Passion? Something altogether unknowable that makes her feel a fleeting glimpse of pure, unadulterated terror. And hatred. Give him back! Louise yells as she drowns beneath the waves. You promised! You filthy, lying thing!

She wakes up in her bed, gasping for air, drenched in sweat. It has soaked through her undershirt and left the bedsheets smelling of salty perspiration. Louise coughs, gasping and choking in the cold night air around her. She feels water bubble up from her chest, yet when she gags, nothing comes out. Another illusion. She sets her head in her hands and stays there for a moment, feeling a migraine coming on. Her chest heaves as she takes in massive gulps of air, wishing that she could turn over on her side and nestle against his shoulder.

But the bed beside her is empty, leaving her to drown again, as every night before.

#original #d&d #louise

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sasusakufestival · 8 years ago

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Samsara (Part 2/3)

Summary: Sakura’s words die in her throat as the man’s eyes shoot open, and the coldest red irises she has ever seen meet hers. She is hit by a wave of terrifying certainty about two things right then – that she knows these eyes better than any other and that, if he wanted to, this man could stop her heart with just a look. [SasuSaku Festival 2017 – Day 15 – Prompt: “The Biggest Gesture”]

Disclaimer: This story utilizes characters, situations and premises that are copyright Masashi Kishimoto, Shueisha, Shonen Jump and Viz Media. No infringement on their respective copyrights pertaining to episodes, novelizations, comics or short stories is intended by the author in any way, shape or form. This fan oriented story is written solely for the author’s own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All fiction, plot and Original Characters with the exception of those introduced in the books, manga, video games, novelizations and anime, are the sole creation of KuriQuinn and using them without permission is considered rude, in bad-taste and will reflect seriously on your credibility as a writer. You will be squished by a Susanoo wielding demi god if you are found plagiarizing.

Warning: Spoilersfor pretty much everything up to Naruto Gaiden.

Canon-Compliance: Takes place during the Blank Period.

Fanon-Compliance: Takes place several years before An Inch of Gold and Unplanned.

AN: So, I decided I didn’t feel like waiting to post this. It’s unedited, but I will put up the edited part as soon as is humanly possible. Also, although I had originally planned for this to be a two-part fic, my plot bunnies decided to hit me with a bunch of other plot possibilities. So it’s probably gonna end up three parts. Therefore, if you want to read the continuation, you guys’ll just have to follow on my blog or something once SasuSakuFestival is over. I hope to post the next chapter within the week :P

__________________________________

“Indra.”

Sasuke repeats the name slowly, sounding out the syllables as if the word is completely foreign to him. There is a deceptive calm in his voice, as if he is putting every shred of his considerable concentration into not reacting to Sakura’s tale.

“It’s…it’s not exactly a common name, is it?” she murmurs tentatively, hanging on to that tiny shred of hope that’s taken root since she awoke in a terrified sweat.

“No.”

They regard each other in heavy silence. Neither knows quite what to make of this development.

“Do you…” she begins, then pauses, because the question is utterly ridiculous and there’s no possible way… And yet. “Do you remember any of it?”

She doesn’t know what exactly Sasuke saw or experienced when he interacted with the Sage of Six Paths, whether the transfer of his chakra also meant a transfer of memories. It’s not a time they speak of very often.

“No. Whatever I knew that day disappeared quickly,” Sasuke tells her quietly.

“Oh.” She wraps her arms around herself. “So why am I dreaming this then? If anyone should be dreaming about you – past-you – it should be you. Or Naruto even. Unless –” She peeks up at him. “Maybe it’s my past life?”

“Then why are you only experiencing it now, after everything we’ve seen?” he counters, the calm from earlier giving way to something sharp.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “It does kind of seem like something the Sage of Six Paths should have mentioned when we all met. But what else could it be? It’s like I’m her, Sasuke.”

Sasuke’s eyes narrow in contemplation, jaw clenched and she swears she can hear him grinding his teeth. She reaches out – it’s instinctive to want to comfort him, even though she’s the one who woke upset – and places a soothing hand on his shoulder. The other automatically covers her still flat stomach.

Sasuke’s eyes follow the movement, and then snap back to her face.

“The dreams didn’t start until you found out you were pregnant,” he says in a low tone.

“It’s possible,” she allows.

“That’s the connection,” he muses, almost to himself, staring into the distance like he is seeing something she can’t. “He is the ancestor of the Uchiha…you’re carrying the next generation…it has to have something to do with that.”

“You really think so?” Sakura asks. The idea is unsettling.

“Do you have any other explanation?” he replies, almost harsh. The calm from earlier has begun to erode.

“Well, no, but we can’t just jump to conclusions,” she reasons. “Maybe it’s just…maybe every woman in your clan has dreams like this. Or…or maybe only women who are about to give birth to someone of Indra’s bloodline. Or –”

“Or maybe it’s because I’m Indra’s reincarnation that it’s happening,” Sasuke interrupts, running a hand across his face in agitation. His right eye flickers briefly between red and black. “Of course, we’ll never know for sure and there’s no one to ask because –”

“Sasuke, stop,” she cuts him off, taking hold of his hand. She squeezes it, trying to transmit some sense of calm, despite the fact that his obvious panic is frightening her. She has never seen him lose composure like this, and her immediate instinct is to put a stop to it. “It’s not something worth getting worked up about. These are dreams. Dreams that might not even be real, and are probably just my mind shoving together a bunch of information. You know, odd facts I know about you and me and maybe some of the plot from that horrible romance novel I was reading. If it helps, I’ll stop reading it.”

“Sakura –”

“Let’s not worry too much about unwanted commentary from dead people, okay?” She makes a face. “And that is a sentence I never though I would say.

The look Sasuke gives her now is equal parts awed and disbelieving.

“You are taking this remarkably well,” he says, sounding almost accusing.

Sakura tosses her hair. “I told you, didn’t I? The day we met the Sage of Six Paths? Nothing will ever surprise me again.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he says stonily. “Are you sure you don’t know any sleeping draughts you could take? Just to stop the dreams until we know more.”

“Nothing that wouldn’t harm the baby,” she confides. “Relax, darling. I’m sure this is all just a big coincidence. We’re reading too much into it.”

“I’ll have to watch out for you better. Until there’s a way to protect you from this, I need to know everything you see.”

Sakura snorts at this. “Right, and what exactly are you going to do, pry my eyes open when you think I’m having a nightmare and use the…Sharingan…to…Ehhh!” She sees the subtle shift in his expression. “You’re actually th– no! No, no, no! You can’t do that!”

“I wasn’t going to. I was just…considering.”

“Well, considering me breaking your nose!”

“Using the Sharingan that way wouldn’t be possible anyhow.”

“Possible or impossible, that’s never going to happen! You promise me right now, or I’ll put you down so hard, losing an arm will look like a bee sting!”

Sasuke’s skin turns a shade paler, and he nods.

眠り

Sakura might have quelled at least some of Sasuke’s fears, but she isn’t as confident as she pretends. The idea that the fetus inside her is connected to as dark and tragic a past as Indra Ōtsutsuki is worrisome, but at the same time…

She has to admit she’s curious.

That doesn’t stop her being relieved when the dreams inexplicably stop bringing her to the strange beach. Her nightly visions become vague again, bursts of colour and emotion, occasionally faces that are familiar to her but inconsequential. She still experiences the frustrating moments of abuse, attacks from a faceless father and sister; her experiences paralyse her as she sleeps, and leave her irritated upon waking. But overall, there is such a vague and hurried quality to these that she suspects she is experiencing time passing.

This pattern continues long enough that it’s almost a shock when she falls asleep one night and finds herself once more in a completely lucid, detailed dream.

She is sitting uncomfortably at a table in a richly decorated room, and the dim memories Sakura can access suggest that her attendance here is rare, perhaps even only occasionally required. Sitting across from her are two people whose presence not only disheartens her – the small, curious part of her had been hoping to meet Indra again – but also fills her with overwhelming wariness.

“There’s talk among the court of a newcomer,” Father says as the servants place their meals before them. “A man of great talent, said to be the son of a wise sage from the East. They say he can call lightning from the sky and breathe fire like the dragons of old.”

“It would be useful to have such a man beholden to you,” Older Sister remarks, sounding bored as she picks at her food.

“Yes, it is better to be on the side of a demon than in his path. Should the stories of this man be true, I intend to offer him alliance. I am told he is young and ambitious. Command of my armies should sway his loyalty. Or, perhaps, marriage.”

Older Sister scowls. “Marriage to a foreigner won’t grow the coffers of this land.”

“Maybe not, but talents he is said to be able to teach could,” Father says. “I am confident you’ll do your duty, daughter.” He then suddenly turns and barks, “What’s that look for, Shachi? Have you something to say?”

They are both looking at her now and she realises that she is Shachi.

Her lips part. “If…if…”

“If…if…if…” Older Sister mocks. Sakura inwardly snarls, knowing if she had control of her body right now, she would wipe the floor with the painted doll before her.

“I-If Older Sister doesn’t wish to marry h-him, I w-would take on th-that duty, F-Father. If it would p-please you.”

He snorts. “Dishonour an important man with a concubine’s spawn instead of the heiress to the land? I intend to court an ally, not lend insult. Keep your ridiculous opinions to yourself. Don’t make me regret my generosity in allowing you to sit at my table.”

“As you wish, Father.” She bows.

“May the gods soon find me a man who can look past your whore of a mother’s legacy and take you off my hands,” he grumbles to himself.

Sakura – Shachi – looks down at her knees, shoulders sinking.

Older Sister sniggers. “Oh, don’t look so downcast. Besides, if the stories of this stranger is true, he attracts many followers. Maybe someone among the riffraff will take an interest in you.”

The two of them laugh, leaving Sakura – Shachi – clenching her fists.

夢

They are at the back of an izakaya, scouring dishes from a busy dinner rush; they don’t have any money tonight, and in exchange for a room they’re helping with hostess out. Sasuke washes, Sakura dries. There has been nothing but companionable silence until she breaks it.

“Can I…can I ask you something?”

“Hm.”

“It’s about your brother,” she goes on, hesitant, because the topic is a difficult one, and usually provides some cue for him to make an escape. She’s hoping soapy hands make that a little harder this time.

From the tense set of his shoulders, she knows he’s already planning bolt, and she hurriedly continues.

“It’s about your relationship before – before all of it. You never talk about it, and you don’t have to now, I just…I never had an older brother or sister, so I don’t know myself. I was wondering…is it normal for an older sibling to hate the younger one?”

She winces, because it still came out awkwardly, and she bets he’s going to ignore it, because it’s not exactly what she was asking but –

“For a long time, I thought so,” Sasuke answers in a low voice. “But over time, I learned it’s the exception, not the rule.”

She exhales at this. “Oh.”

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Just thinking.”

“Sakura.”

She scowls, because he’s getting a lot better at reading her voice. Or maybe he always could, now he just chooses to react to it.

“It’s something I noticed in my dream –”

“You had another one?” he interrupts sharply, nearly dropping one of the bowls in his hand.

“Yes – and no, I haven’t seen him again, if that’s what you want to know. Don’t you think I’d tell you right away?”

“Hn.”

“Well, I would. I just…haven’t had to say anything lately because nothing happened. I don’t think he’s in the picture right now. But this – the person I am in my dreams – her name is Shachi, I think.” She peeks at him. “Does that sound familiar to you?”

Since their conversation about a possible past life or odd Uchiha-specific pregnancy quirk, she has found it easier to ask him these questions. After all, between the two of them, he’s the only one who has a definite link to whatever it is she’s dreaming.

He closes his eyes, frowning in concentration, then shakes his head. “I feel as if I’ve heard the name before, but it could be from anywhere.”

He’s right, they meet enough new people every day, perhaps it’s a name they’ve encountered in their travels.

“It’s just, her family – or, I guess the people who raised her – they treat her so badly. It’s as if she’s beneath them, and I don’t…I don’t understand how family can do that,” she exclaims, frustrated. “How can someone not protect their younger sibling? How can a parent not love their child? I can’t imagine a world where you look at our baby like he – or she – means nothing.”

“It would never happen.”

He says it so instantly and certainly that she feels a wave of pure joy wash over her, and she offers him a loving smile. “I know that. But in my dream –”

“You said yourself your mind might just be processing things,” Sasuke continues. “You’ve mentioned feeling weak, held back. It’s possible that you’re drawing on experiences you’ve actually lived and your brain is interpreting them in the simplest way.”

Sakura shoots him a suspicious look. “You’ve been reading my medical scrolls, haven’t you? The psychology ones?”

“They offer the most logical explanation to all this.”

She sighs. “Darling, you can’t search for clues based on the answer you want.”

“It’s not what I want. It’s what it could be. And all of this could simply be a quirk of your dreams.”

They work in silence for a spell.

“You don’t really think it is, do you?” she asks eventually.

A pause.

“No.”

“So, if it is something that happened, why do you think she’s treated so badly?”

“Back then, people saw children differently. A means to an end, a legacy.”

“And what’s our child?”

Sasuke holds her gaze, no trace of doubt there, and simply says, “Hope.”

眠り

For some reason, after this conversation, the tone of her dreams changes. Her awareness of being in a dream fades faster. Memories of an entire life crowd out her identity during waking hours, and so when the stranger arrives in their land, her first reaction – Shachi’s first reaction – is of surprise.

Even though she shouldn’t be. Because there aren’t many men who can control lightning, after all, and there is such a commanding air about him that the idea of him as the leader her father spoke of is not impossible.

The day he steps foot in her father’s court is grey and overcast, inauspicious in it’s normalcy, and yet her body – both in her dream and her present self – feels taut with awareness. He arrives quietly, with little pomp, into Father’s audience chamber. If he notices her sitting on the dais by her sister’s feet, he gives no indication, his every attention focussed on the lord of the land.

He says very little, and yet before the audience is over, everyone knows who he is: Lord Indra of the Eastern Lands, a master in the secret arts. He is well-spoken and a warrior by bearing and – based on Older Sister’s expression upon seeing him for the first time – an acceptable possible match.

He seeks followers, those he will impart with teachings, and who he intends to make stronger, asks only for the freedom to recruit whoever he wants.

“My methods are difficult,” he warns quietly, “and only those willing to lay down their lives in dedication will succeed. In exchange, I will instruct the soldiers in your armies as well.”

Father is beside himself – this is exactly what he wanted, after all – and the accord is soon settled. He celebrates by throwing a lavish banquet in Lord Indra’s honour, despite the obvious fact that the young man has no use for the gesture. He appears restless and impatient, as if he wishes to get started on his mission as soon as possible.

Sakura – Shachi? – watches him with wide eyes, thinking on the helpless man she nursed back to health, the one who could have killed her but didn’t. As frightened as she is by him, she can’t fight down her interest.

He notices her watching him and looks up, holding her gaze. Her entire body tenses, and she feels as if she’s looking into the eyes of a snake moments before it strikes. She can’t look away until he does, and once free, her entire body shivers. Her breath comes in sharp bursts and she wonders if, perhaps, he hasn’t used some of his strange power on her.

夢

“It sounds like genjutsu,” Sasuke as he sets up a wire-trap.

“I don’t think so,” Sakura muses, leaning against a nearby tree. “He wouldn’t need to use that on her. She’s too afraid. Too docile. You only use genjutsu on someone if you expect resistance.”

She and Sasuke exchange a tense look, both of them acknowledging a bitter shared memory.

Sasuke grunts and hops down from the tree.

“When we’re done here, we’re heading to that temple we passed. Maybe there will be someone there who can explain why you’re seeing this.”

“We might as well stop at a hospital too and have me speak to a bunch of therapists,” she deadpans. “I don’t think anyone is going to have answers on this one.”

Sasuke scowls. “So, your strategy is to wait and see?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t accept that.”

“Well, tough. While I’m incubating the tiny human, I make the rules. And as of right now, I’m not in any actual medical danger, and other than being annoying and sometimes confusing, what I see when I’m asleep isn’t affecting my health in any way.”

“Yet.”

This time it’s Sakura who scowls. “Need I remind you of your history of overreacting?”

Which Sasuke can’t exactly argue with, and so he settles on beleaguered silence while they set up the remainder of the traps.

She sighs to herself and wonders if there’s a point to keeping him updating about her dreams if he’s just going to get so upset about them. And she definitely doesn’t want to admit to him that the longer these dreams continue, and the more often she has them, the more she feels as if she’s living a completely different life.

“Sasuke…I know there’s no way to be one-hundred percent sure about all of this, but…would it be so bad?” He stares at her, askance. “If this actually was my past life. It would just mean that I’ve care for you longer than be both thought.”

“You know it would mean more than that. You know that it’s a story that doesn’t end happily.”

“We don’t know if that’s completely true.”

“He broke everything he touched,” her husband says darkly. “He had everything, and just…” He cuts off, making a disgusted sound. “Because of him, my family… because of him I did the same. Might still do the same. What if this is a reminder, a warning, that I’m going to break this too?”

The question is so soft, so distressingly uncertain that for a moment Sakura doesn’t have an answer.

Sasuke very rarely shows any type of vulnerability, and to this day she is certain she is the only one alive who has ever seen that part of him. What makes this particular display so heartbreaking is that she knows he isn’t even asking it for his own sake, but for their child’s.

Tears fill her eyes, but she holds them back. Crying right now will do nothing to help him; she swore long ago that when he was struggling, she would support him. And if that means shrugging off her puzzling dreams, so be it.

“I never thought you were the superstitious type,” she says, trying to break the tensions with levity.

Sasuke scowls. “It’s hard not to be when your past life decides to haunt your wife’s dreams.”

She smiles. The fact that he sounds so waspish is a good sign.

“Come here,” she says, and without giving him opportunity to resist, she presses his hand above her womb. “Listen to me: you are not going to break this.” He opens his mouth, and she drowns him out. “No – listen. You are not going to break this. I don’t break easy, and you can summon a giant chakra monster to protect yourself. This child? Half you, half me. Definitely not breakable.”

He still doesn’t look entirely reassured, but the tense set to his shoulders fades somewhat.

眠り

Lord Indra becomes a guest in their kingdom, permitted to walk among the people and seek students. He accepts any who come to him, man or woman, and weeds out the weak. Many of them die – strangely enough, it’s usually the soldiers that Father sends who are unable to succeed – and yet still more continue to seek him out.

He is the only one who knows this strange, magical teaching. He calls it ninshu, yet when he says it there is a sneer in his voice, as the very name offends him.

She finds this odd, but Father doesn’t care. As he sees it, his kingdom will soon grow to rule over all the rest, if only he can convince Lord Indra to remain here instead of moving on. Older Sister preens and poses, trying to entice a smile from the sullen faced stranger, and taking it out on Shachi when he doesn’t.

No…I’m…Sakura?

That name seems so distant to her when she is here, when she is Shachi. Though she knows this is but a dream, she feels tethered to it as much as if it were real.

She watches Lord Indra from the sidelines. Although drawn to him, longing for him to acknowledge her again, or at least thank her for saving his life, she feels safer in the shadows. Sometimes, he is apparently alone, training or meditating by himself, and yet when she makes a move to approach him, she imagines she hears someone speaking to him. Whenever this happens, she hurries away. After all, their last encounter up-close is fresh in her mind, and as compelled as she is to seek him out, she is also afraid of him.

And so she keeps away, watching his training sessions from the protection of the forest.

Sometimes she is caught, receiving a reprimand or a beating from her father, but these days both are more an afterthought; Father only cares about her whereabouts when someone reminds him, and Older Sister, only if she notices her. For the most part, she is free to watch the stranger as she wishes.

Lord Indra teaches with brutal efficiency. He never raises his voice above a murmur, yet retains perfect control over his students. He can make a simple nod feel as if he has fallen to his knees in praise, and a derisive glare make a man want to fall on his sword to avoid dishonour.

Several do.

Only once he is satisfied with their ability to maintain discipline and control does he teach them the new abilities. Shachi watches as men learn to bend water in their hands, or call up mounds of earth like fangs from the ground. Some command the wind and others turn blades of grass into needles. With a flash of his red eyes he instructs them all, precise instructions, having them repeat them over and over, making motions with his hands as he does.

She mouths along his words, trying to capture the sound of his voice in her mind. When he speaks normally – not threatening her life as he did that day on the beach – his voice is pleasant, inviting. Despite the danger he represents, he makes her feel safe, and that is something she isn’t used to feeling.

From her place in the shadows, she makes the hand gestures as well, arranging her fingers until she can do it perfectly. Soon she does it without noticing, can allow herself to just listen to the sound of his voice as he instructs. One day, his words seem closer to her than usual, even though he is so far away, and she closes her eyes, imagines that he is watching her, not his students, is telling her –

You build up chakra, stop it once it collects between the mouth and the chest area. Once you have enough, you release it all at once.

She inhales deeply, focussing on the warmth in her chest, and then breathes out.

To her absolute shock and horror, flames spew from between her lips and incinerate the tree in front of her.

She stumbles backward in shock and fear, unable to believe what just happened. She takes a split second to look around, to see if anyone saw her, and then takes off at a run, pulling her cumbersome skirts to her knees and stumbling back through the forest.

In the distance, she hears people calling out, confused shouting, demands for water. Commotion as students try to put out the flames with buckets, or with their new chakra wielding talents, she isn’t sure, because she keeps on running –

Only to find her way blocked by Lord Indra.

His eyes blaze at her and she recoils, dropping to her knees and bowing her forehead to the ground.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to – I didn’t even realise I was – please don’t tell me father, I – I’ll never do it again –”

“How long did it take you?” he interrupts.

She blinks at that, chancing a glance up at him. “M-my lord?”

“You have been watching for weeks but you have never attempted anything before,” he informs her, earnings a small squeak of surprise. “Today you tried. How long did it take you.”

“I-I… not long. I just… I listened to what you said, and I tried it.”

“Hm.”

He gives her an inscrutable look, like he’s considering something he hadn’t before, and she bows her head again. “I didn’t meant to hurt anyone or cause trouble.”

She is aware of the sound of feet near her ear, and when she looks up he has begun to walk away, back to the training grounds. She isn’t sure if she imagines it or not when he mutter, “Next time don’t stand next to a tree.”

夢

“You forgot again, didn’t you?”

Sakura scowls at the gash in Sasuke’s leg, the product of a stray flail and misguided intentions. The villagers in this part of the country are so wary of strangers, they attacked before letting Sakura explain herself. Sasuke, of course, instinctively pushed her out of the way, but ended up with another limb nearly being severed.

“Forgot what?” he grumbles, observing as her fingers glow green over the skin there.

“That you don’t have to protect me,” she chides him. “Even if I didn’t have a basic capacity to dodge, a flail isn’t going to hurt me.”

“Maybe not, but as far as I know, your regenerative abilities don’t apply to the baby,” he reminds her. “You’re not as invincible as you’re used to being.”

Sakura blinks at this, surprise waylaying the retort on her lips.

He’s right.

For a minute, she did forget.

It’s all so new – the changes in her body, the adjustments she’s had to make. No more chakra suppressors, she can’t drink coffee anymore, she’s tired more often – it sometimes feel so disconnected to her. Some days she is completely aware of the new life within her, unable to stop thinking about it, and other days, when everything gets so busy and confusing – like today – she forgets. Even looking in the mirror is deceptive – she doesn’t look pregnant at all, even with her clothes off.

There is movement to the left, and she glances up as two young girls carry in buckets of water; she smiles at them gratefully, earning half-awed, half-shy expressions in return, and then they hurry off.

The villagers backed off when she sent a crushing blow to the ground, forcing them to retreat if they didn’t want to fall into the broken earth. Upon watching her lean down to heal him before he bled out, they finally realised that she was a healer and spent the rest of the evening apologising profusely. They even insisted on putting her and Sasuke up for as long as they wanted to stay, hence the small apartment where they are currently staying.

They even carried Sasuke back here on a litter so she could preserve her healing abilities. He nearly threw a fit at that (he still hates appearing weak in any way) but the people felt so terribly about it, Sakura insisted they go along with it.

Somewhat out of deference to this, she decides to relent a bit.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, checking the progression of closing skin. “I’ll try to be more careful in the future.”

“Hm.”

“I’m just not used to hanging back. It’s been a while since I had to stay out of the direct line of danger.”

“I know.”

He finally relaxes, however, allowing his eyes to close and breath to even out. As if he didn’t expect her to take it easy until she said the words.

Ridiculous man…

She shakes her head, considering the calm picture he provides. It reminds her of those first few dreams she had, of healing Indra on that beach.

Sasuke’s former incarnation is starkly different than he is, she realises that now. He watched her – watched Shachi – with the distrustful gaze of someone who expected her to be incompetent or treacherous. Sasuke’s attention is intent, but in a different sense – watchful and wary for the sake of he health, not his.

As if being pregnant made her breakable.

She’s forgotten what it’s like to need to be protected. It makes her nightly sojourns in the life and mind of Shachi all the more confusing.

The other woman is such a stark contrast from her. Docile, obedient, hesitant – all of these are qualities she either never possessed or grew out of in her early childhood. Their very nature is utterly opposite.

In fact, even their ability to use chakra is completely different, judging from the way they learned to use it. Shachi’s first act was so powerful, charged enough to destroy an entire tree. Sakura remembers the first time she used ninjutsu, she had to try her hardest just to manage a passable substitution.

And that’s another thing. It’s not just their different temperaments. Why does Sakura have an affinity for water, when Shachi is clearly more suited to fire? Isn’t that the type of thing that should carry over?

“Not necessarily.”

Sakura jumps, realising suddenly that she has been musing out loud the hold time. Sasuke is frowning at her thoughtfully.

“The goal of reincarnation is to be reborn as a better self. Perhaps it means stronger, as well. Water is superior to fire.”

“Oh.”

“I take it you’re dreaming of him again then?” he asks, voice entirely too casual.

Sakura looks away, caught out. She’s been trying to avoid bringing it up because she knows it upsets him. “Only recently. Only last night, really. It’s a little confusing, so I didn’t say anything until I could get my thoughts in order.”

“I’m not going anywhere for the next little while,” he reminds her, nodding to his leg. It’s completely healed by now, and she shoots him an amused look. He raises an eyebrow, as if challenging her to call him on it. “Tell me what you dreamed.”

“As long as you don’t get upset every time I talk about Indra.”

His jaw clenches but he nods. “Fine.”

眠り

Eventually Father grows tired of Lord Indra skirting the issue. He wants to ensure everlasting loyalty, wants someone who will train and preside over his army in perpetuity.

In front of the whole court, he offers a permanent, eternal bond between them.

“My daughter, Shibasuri,” he declares proudly, gesturing to Older Sister. “She will make a fine wife, and through her, your children will be the heirs of my land.”

Every other man in the court seethes at this, because Lord Indra may be strong, but he is a foreigner. And more than a few covet Older Sister for themselves.

But the solemn stranger shows no interest in either offering.

“I have no interest in possessing this land,” he says quietly, his words easily audible in the stunned silence. “And I have no need of a woman who revels in her looks and is ignorant to the world. A creature whose body is starved to uselessness in pursuit of fashion, who will never be fatted with child.”

Older Sister makes a noise born of incandescent fury, and Father turns scarlet in anger.

“You dare – !”

But Lord Indra has turned away from both, and instead his gaze falls upon the crowd.

Upon her as she stand with her guardians.

“I will take this one instead,” he declares imperiously. “On that condition I will remain here.”

She gasps, because this makes no sense. He has never, ever given any indication of seeing her, let alone –

“Shachi?” Father inquires, confusion dampening his anger. “Why would you��? She is of lower status, not of any importance – ”

“I will hear her answer,” Indra interrupts. “And if she has no wish for wedlock, I will take my leave with any disciple that will follow.”

There’s a stunned silence then, a dangerous note of expectation in this, and then the whispering begins. Already the members of the court are wagging their tongues, expressing surprise and glee at this turn of events. They imagine blackmail, a play for power from a younger daughter, a secret love –

It is none of these things. From her weeks observing him, she knows that Lord Indra has his own mind, his own plans that he follows. If he prefers her over her beautiful older sister, there is a reason, and not one as basic and superfluous as caring for her.

Older Sister glowers at her, as if Shachi has indeed done something to organise all of this, and Father frowns at her with a look in his eye that promises a lifetime of broken bones if she doesn’t accept.

He needn’t bother, because she knew the instant that Lord Indra spoke, what her answer was going to be.

Even so, it feels as if she is signing the death warrant of her fate when she whispers, “I accept.”

夢

Sakura stretches a hand over her head, making a high-pitched, purring noise at the back of her throat, and then relaxes once more, head pillowed on Sasuke’s blanket-clad inner thigh. They lie head-to-foot, naked and sated, the smell of sex still lingering in the air.

Sasuke is on his side, his face pressed against one side of her abdomen, his hand curved around the other. His eyes are closed, and his mouth is pulled into a not-quite-smile of tranquility. It’s far too early for any kind of kicking to be felt – for anything to be heard – but it doesn’t seem to matter to Sasuke. Sakura’s own smile is gentle as she reaches forward, brushing his hair back from his face. He cracks his right eye open and there’s that brief look – soft, content and happy – and then he closes it again.

It’s a look that’s reserved only for her and, she knows, their future child, and which encompasses everything. Even though he rarely says it – only when she has him reduced to panting, overwhelmed gasps as she did minutes earlier – she feels the unquestionable love he has for her. Seeing it fills her with warmth from the inside, because it’s something she never truly believed she would experience.

It makes her feel guilty for asking him, once, if the only reason he wanted to be with her was to repopulate his clan. Sasuke was, by then, a changed man.

Such a difference from the man in her dreams.

She wonders about him. His temperament, his motives, his relationship with Shachi…

“Why do you think he chose her?”

“Hm?” Sasuke’s voice is low and rough from sleep.

“Indra,” Sakura clarifies dimly, gazing up at the wooden ceiling. “He washes up in this strange land, tries to kill her, disappears, then comes back. And her father offers him practically the world, anything a guy back then would want, and he throws it back in his face over Shachi. A girl he barely even spoke a hundred words to.” She shakes her head in confusion. “That’s something a person does for the one they love, but I don’t…do you think he was even capable of it at that point?”

“Capable of?”

“Love.”

Sasuke is silent for a long moment, leaving her wondering if he intends to answer the question. Then he says, “I don’t think it was possible in the way you understand it.”

“Meaning?”

“After being betrayed – or rather, after deciding he had been betrayed – by Hagoromo and Ashura, he would have been more guarded than ever. He wouldn’t have been capable of feeling for her what…” He trails off here, his voice becoming more quiet, more furtive, “For what I feel for you.”

She doesn’t acknowledge the admission beyond a soft smile – he gets defensive and grumpy if she makes a big deal out of moments like this.

Instead, she returns to the topic. “So why choose her?”

“She did help him. He may have seen it as repaying a debt.”

“But he also said she reminded him of being weak. And she was weak. Wouldn’t the likelier choice have been the older sister? The one with status?”

“A man like him would chose a bride more suited to his purposes. You told me she had the ability to use chakra – which she learned just by observing his teachings,” Sasuke points out. “To members of my clan, Shachi would be the more sought-after candidate.”

Sakura considers this, and then nods. “That make sense.”

“I don’t believe it was the whole reason though.”

She shoots him a confused look.

“He might have seen her as a parallel of himself,” Sasuke continues, thoughtful. “A child mistreated by family. In his view, he was betrayed by his; this girl, she’s the scapegoat of her own kin – and for an utterly underserved reason, based on what you’ve told me.”

“But in that case, wouldn’t it make more sense to kill her family? Why agree to a marriage with her? An actual link to these people?”

“I have no doubt he had some kind of long-term motive. However…I suspect it may have been different than anything he actively planned.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s entirely possible, she provided him with something he didn’t even realise he was missing,” Sasuke tells her, staring off into the distance. “As far gone as he was, he needed something to ground him. When Indra first awakened his abilities, he was strong because he was protecting someone precious. His brother. And he remained strong, even as he became more drawn to the darkness, because he always thought he had the support of his father and brother. When that was gone – when Hagoromo named Ashura as his successor – for the first time in his life, he was truly alone. When you have as much power as he did, and as much hatred, you need something to justify your actions – some goal that makes everything else you do worthwhile.”

She knows now that he is speaking of himself, and not Indra. Of how his love for his brother drove him to commit horrible acts.

“Then he meets this girl, and she’s obviously drawn to him, and she helps him,” Sakura suggests. “And he keeps seeing her, and he knows she’s in a bad situation, so he starts to feel what it’s like to have someone trust in him again.”

It sounds far too plausible, and Sakura shivers. She doesn’t like the idea of Indra using Shachi’s misfortune for himself, but at the same time, she knows that the other woman – this shrinking violet – would see it as an opportunity to escape. In a way, the two are saving each other, even if they don’t know it.

“Hm.” Sasuke nods here. “She is someone who will be utterly loyal to him – both because of who she is as a person, and because as a wife, it is her duty to be subservient to his will.”

Sakura lifts her head and shoots him a sardonic smirk. “Oh, so I have to be subservient to you now?”

“…I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I may incriminate myself.”

“Damn right,” she nods, falling back, and then squeaks indignantly when he tweaks her left nipple in retribution. She slaps his hand away and then jabs a finger in his general direction. “Don’t start something if you don’t intend to follow through.”

Sasuke snorts. “Who said I didn’t intend to follow through?”

眠り

The wedding approaches, and for the first time in her entire life, Shachi finds herself treated according to her station.

She is bathed in scented waters and anointed with rich oils, adorned in silks and jewels, and fed the finest foods that her servants tease will ensure she bears healthy children.

Older Sister lingers resentfully in the background, while father busies himself with the preparations. Whatever he felt for her in the past, whatever he feels for her now, his greed for the power Lord Indra can provide has increased tenfold since seeing what the young man can do. He pretends like he has never resented her, calls her his “beloved child” and introduces her to visiting dignitaries.

The wedding is meant to be lavish, a way of showcasing Father’s current wealth, and offer hint of what it might become. In this, he is able to stand up to Lord Indra’s more frugal nature. For his part, the prospective bridegroom is nowhere to be found and makes no effort to involve himself in the affair; he continues to train in the courtyards up until the day of the ceremony.

That morning, she is woken at dawn and bathed. Her handmaidens draw long black ribbons of henna across her forehead and face, crisscrossing around her neck and again above her breasts, winding down her arms and legs as if she has been encircled by a snake. Her hair is braided with freshly picked cherry blossoms, and golden rings are fitted around her wrists, neck, fingers and even one through her nose. It all feels heavy and cumbersome but she knows better than to complain. The bridal gown is of red silk, the only garment she has ever worn that was not one of her sister’s castoffs, and the final touch is a purple, rhombus-shaped jewel set in the centre of her forehead.

Father walks her down the aisle at a quick pace, as if worried that the longer he takes, the sooner his future son-in-law may change his mind. Older Sister holds her veil for her, and as she goes to sit at her place, sneers quietly, “Do not think your life will be without hardship.”

Lord Indra stands at the front of the assembled guests, bored and irritated, and he doesn’t even acknowledge her when she is beside him. The high priest begins the ceremony, raising the sacred marriage cup before them, his words washing over her.

Shachi’s mind is strangely blank at this, either from disbelief or fear for the future, and Sakura feels more present in the moment than she has in months. The marriage ritual is very different from any she has ever seen, from her own wedding to Sasuke, and while she is uneasy about the circumstances, she can’t help being fascinated.

The priest places a smooth, obsidian rock – taken from the sacred river of their land – and wishes them an enduring and lasting union. He pours wine and honey as well, wishing fertility and health, and then takes their hands, lightly pricking their palms over the rim of the cup, to signify the mingling of their blood now and in the future. Then, he passes it first to Lord Indra, who will be master of the union.

Her bridegroom takes a tip – barely wets his lips – and passes it back. His expression never changes, and he still doesn’t look at her.

Then the cup is in front of her face, the priest reminds her of her duties as wife now. She begins to lift the cup to her lips as well –

Lord Indra chokes suddenly, and doubles over.

There is stunned silence all around, the high priest stares in wide-eyed horror, and there are gasps from the other guest.

“My lord?” she whispers, reaching for him. “Are you…?”

His eyes snap toward her, flickering red and black and she gasps. But it isn’t the Sharingan that have her shocked. Instead, she rapidly takes in the sight of his features – pupils dilated, mouth slackening, a bluish tint around his lips.

“Poison!” she cries, because she can’t do anything else here. “He’s been poisoned!” Her head whips around, looking for someone who might help. “Fetch a healer!”

Father appears shell-shocked, slow to realise what is happening, and Older Sister –

She stands to one side, smirking and with a look in her eyes that is all-too-knowing.

“You…” Sakura – Shachi? – realises. “Why would you – ?”

Indra begins to convulse, and the answer never comes. Instead, she falls to her knees, trying to hold his flailing arms as he convulses. Shachi is terrified, that fear returning her to full control, pushing Sakura’s awareness down again, but she refuses to allow this.

You can stay out of this right now, or he’s going to die!

She focusses her attention – sees the cup dropped by the priest, liquid spilling out. The sacred rock as rolled a few inches away as well, leaving a strange, chalky residue.

So that’s what it was. Poison in the marriage cup. Indra wasn’t the only intended victim.

Her mind flips through a mental catalogue of poisons, all while calculating the amount of time it will take before he dies. Given how fast he reacted, the chalky nature, the blue veins on the mouth

“Ainu,” she determines. It’s a relative of aconite, albeit much more potent. There isn’t much out there that can save him, and in the limited time she has, she doubt’s she’ll be able to find –

Then she freezes, remembering herself.

No way. No way could it be that much of a coincidence.

Her hands fly to her hair, tugging out the delicate blossoms there. Cherry blossoms have some healing properties, but aren’t used very often in antidotes –

Except in cases of ainu poisoning.

She doesn’t pause to dwell on the improbability of it all. Instead, she begins to crush up the petals – in her fingers at first, then an idea occurs to her and she puts them in her mouth, chewing them into a pulp and leaning forward to press her lips against his. As she pushes the petal paste into his mouth, she wills her chakra into him as well, calling up every bit of her concentration to do so. She visualises her energy moving into him, chasing the poison through his veins and overtaking it.

She doesn’t find out if she succeeds or not, because that’s when she suddenly loses her control. All of her concentration, all of her focus in helping him, recoils like an elastic band. She is once more, no more than a passenger, and Indra gives one last violent tremor, and then goes still.

Someone emits of a moan of grief.

It takes a stunned second for Sakura to realise the sound came from her. To understand that her dream self is weeping, throwing herself over Indra’s chest. This man, who she saved, who in demanding her hand offered her a future away from the abuses of her blood kin, and now he has left her before there was even a chance.

Tears streaming from her eyes, she looks up as Father demands of Older Sister, “What were you thinking? You’ve ruined it all!”

“I have done nothing but save you from a charlatan,” she replies airily. “He had no interest in becoming your right hand, Father, he would have taken his students and left you with ease. And if he truly intended to honour your wishes, he would have accepted the bride you offered, not that.” She tosses her hair. “Now, we have men who have sworn oaths of loyalty to you, who know of his teachings, and they won’t tempted to disappear with their wandering master.”

Father’s expression becomes thoughtful at this, and he nods slowly.

“Besides,” Older Sister goes on, a cruel set to her mouth. “He gave me insult, in public, and that is something that cannot be abided. How dare – ”

But her words are quickly and brutally cut short.

A bolt of lightning rips through the ceremonial hall, through her shoulder and out her heart, leaving a bloodied and black hole in its place. Shachi screams in horror, staring at the shocked expression on Older Sisters face as her body crumples to the ground. Father’s bellow of surprise turns to terror, and she understands why, because Indra is alive.

He shrugs her off and stands, moving like the lightening that just passed through her sister’s body, and grabbing Father by the throat.

“Those who break oaths are scum. Those who betray their own blood are worse than scum,” he growls. “And that cup was meant for her as much as it was for me.” It’s the only warning he gives before twisting his fingers, snapping the man’s neck. “A man who makes a move against me makes a proclamation that he is my enemy. And I will not allow my enemies to live and take a second opportunity to weaken men.”

Eyes still blazing red fire, he turns to the stunned guests.

“Your lord is dead. Either rise up and avenge him, or flee. One of those choices will lead to a swift death, so choice wisely.”

As he takes a few steps down the procession toward the door, there is a flurry of movement. Guests and members of the court scatter, tripping over each other in their finery. She is left on her knees, gaping at his back, unsure what just happened.

Then, as he did before, he turn to face her once more.

“You have saved my life twice,” he tells her coolly. “And so I will offer you a choice. An opportunity. Save yourself. Forget this farce of a ceremony and ties you agreed to for their sake. Leave this place and seek a happier future, with a man who will offer you the respect and fondness you desire. Or –” his eyes darken back to black here, “come with.”

Her mouth parts in surprise at this.

“If you do, know that from this moment, you will be completely mine. And I am not a patient man. I am neither gentle nor kind, and your life will be one of duty. You will bring forth children to whom I can pass on my legacy. So long as you are loyal and obedient, I can make you a goddess by my side, but if you falter I will make their deaths look enviable.”

Terror and confusion make it hard to understand what he is saying to her. For several seconds, she can only stare from his intent face down to the corpses of her father and sister, turning over his words in her head.

And then it makes sense.

He is giving her a choice.

She has never, in her entire life, known what it is to make a decision that is not based on the will or needs of another. For the first time, she is free. She gets to decide what her destiny will be.

The gesture brings tears to her eyes, because she knows he is not a man who operates in choice. There is his will and death, but here he is, offering her the chance to leave that behind. And with the same certainty that he could stand against any of her father’s vassals who would challenge him, she knows he would let her walk away to a better life if she chose.

She wonders, as she takes his hand, if he realises how terrifyingly easy it is to make her decision.

__________________________________

つづく

To be continued in another prompt :)

I hope you enjoyed the story! As part of the SasuSakuFestival, please go to the ssfest page and vote, like and/or reblog, it would be majorly appreciated!

クリ

#ssfest17 #sasusaku #ssfanfiction #ssfestday15 #submission #ssfestentry

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mysteryshelf · 7 years ago

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BLOG TOUR - A Cajun Christmas Killing

A Cajun Christmas Killing: A Cajun Country Mystery by Ellen Byron

Welcome to

THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF!

DISCLAIMER: This content has been provided to THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF by Great Escapes Book Tours. No compensation was received. This information required by the Federal Trade Commission.

A Cajun Christmas Killing: A Cajun Country Mystery Cozy Mystery 3rd in Series Crooked Lane Books (October 10, 2017) Hardcover: 304 pages ISBN-13: 978-1683313052 E-Book ASIN: B06XW23LPG

Maggie Crozat is back home in bayou country during the most magical time of the year. In Pelican, Louisiana, Christmastime is a season of giant bonfires on the levee, zydeco carols, and pots of gumbo. Except, this year, the Grinch has come to stay at the family-run Crozat Plantation B&B. When he floods travel websites with vicious reviews, Maggie thinks she’s identified him as rival businessman Donald Baxter. That is, until he’s found stabbed to death at Maggie’s workplace. And Maggie and her loved ones become top suspects.

The Crozats quickly establish alibis, but Maggie’s boyfriend, Detective Bo Durand, remains under suspicion. With Bo sidelined during the investigation, Maggie finds herself forced to work with an unlikely ally: longtime family enemy Rufus Durand. Her sleuthing uncovers more suspects than drummers drumming, and lands her in the crosshairs of the murderer.

The sleigh bells are jingling, and the clock is ticking for Maggie and Rufus, who must catch the killer or it will be the opposite of a Joyeux Noël in A Cajun Christmas Killing, the recipe-stuffed third installment of USA Today bestselling author Ellen Byron’s Cajun Country mysteries.

Interview With The Author

What initially got you interested in writing? My dad was a Mad Man. I was Sally Draper growing up, visiting my father at all the advertising agencies that inspired the show, Mad Men. He always thought I should write, but I wanted to be an actress. Oh, I wrote bad poetry all through high school, but that was about it. Then in my mid-twenties, I got the chance to join the Actors Equity union. That sounds great, but it means I couldn’t do non-union theatre. And since Holly Hunter and Ellen Barkin were getting all the roles I auditioned for, I had a lot of free time on my hands. I wrote a play, submitted it to a theatre, which snapped it up for a reading. I wrote more plays, they got produced and published, and I was a writer. I supported myself as a freelance magazine journalist until I moved to Los Angeles, where I’ve had a fruitful career as a sitcom writer/producer.

What genres do you write in? As an author, I only write mysteries, both traditional and cozy. I’m currently also writing a stand-alone that I’ll call a traditional suspense.

What drew you to writing these specific genres? I LOVE mysteries. I’ve read them since I was a kid. Yes, I’m another woman whose love of the genre began with Nancy Drew. Then when I was fourteen and commuting to Manhattan for a six-week acting program at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, I needed books to read on the train ride and discovered Agatha Christie. I think I’d read every one of her books by the end of the acting program

How did you break into the field? A mystery author I know, Denise Hamilton, happened to mention she was going to a convention called ThrillerFest. I wondered if there was something similar for cozy and traditional mysteries. I did a Google search and found the Malice Domestic Convention. I saw they had a grant program, applied for one, and won. You Can Never Be Too Thin or Too Dead, the book I wrote that won the grant, has yet to sell but it got me my agent, and while it was on submission, I wrote Plantation Shudders, the first book in my Cajun Country Mystery series. And that did sell. So here I am!

What do you want readers to take away from reading your works? I’d love the takeaway to be that Cajun Country is a fascinating region with a wonderfully diverse and unique culture. I’d love my readers to feel like my books are a mini-vacation – albeit with murder! But justice and goodness will always triumph in the end, at least in my books.

What do you find most rewarding about writing? I get such pleasure when I’ve crafted a really great sentence or character description. There’s an odious character named Philip Charbonnet in A Cajun Christmas Killing, and I have to say that I love my description of him: “His sandy hair had thinned, a muffin top spilled over the leather belt holding up his chino pants, and the rosacea blooming on his face and nose warned of a drinking problem. None of this dimmed his arrogance. Philip Charbonnet was a catch, according to himself, and no one was more surprised than he that three wives had already fled his company. “

I also love when readers tell me they were so touched they cried at the end of Body on the Bayou. Ever since I was a playwright, my goal has been to make people both laugh and cry with what I write. It means they were deeply affected by it.

What do you find most challenging about writing? Doing it! There are SO many distractions these days. It takes enormous will power to sign off Facebook and hunker down with a manuscript.

What advice would you give to people wanting to enter the field? Be passionate about your genre and commit to a long end game. It still took me nine months to find a book agent, despite the fact that I have a successful television career. There was more than one day when I put my head down on my desk and wept from a rejection. But I never gave up.

What type of books do you enjoy reading? I love traditional mysteries and non-fiction. I also become obsessed about a subject and read everything I can get my hands on about it. I’ll read anything about the Brontes, the Titanic, the discovery of King Tut’s tomb, and Bernie Madoff. I went through a period where I was fascinated by Houdini, and read about four biographies of him.

Is there anything else besides writing you think people would find interesting about you? I love Bollywood music and dancing. There was a Bollywood dance class at my gym for a while, and I got totally into it. I now have a Bollywood playlist on my phone that I’ll put on and dance to when I’m home alone! Our dogs have no idea what’s going on, but try to dance with me.

What are the best ways to connect with you, or find out more about your work? You can check out my website and email me through it: http://www.ellenbyron.com/. You can also “Like” my Facebook author page, https://www.facebook.com/ellenbyronauthor/

and follow me on Twitter , https://twitter.com/ellenbyronla

About The Author

Body on the Bayou, the second in Ellen’s Cajun Country Mystery series, won the Left Coast Crime Lefty Award for Best Humorous Mystery, and was nominated for a Best Contemporary Novel Agatha Award. Her debut book in the series, Plantation Shudders, made the USA Today Bestsellers list, and was nominated for Agatha, Lefty, and Daphne awards. Ellen is also a recipient of a William F. Deeck-Malice Domestic Grant from the Malice Domestic Convention. Her TV credits include Wings, Still Standing, and Just Shoot Me, as well as network and cable pilots. As a journalist, she’s written over 200 magazine articles for national publications. Her plays, published by Dramatists Play Service, include the popular Graceland and Asleep on the Wind. A native New Yorker and graduate of Tulane University, Ellen lives in the Los Angeles area with her husband, daughter, and the family’s spoiled rescue dogs.

Author Links

http://www.ellenbyron.com/

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https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/23234.Ellen_Byron

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September 25 – Cozy Up With Kathy – CHARACTER GUEST POST

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BLOG TOUR – A Cajun Christmas Killing was originally published on the Wordpress version of The Pulp and Mystery Shelf with Shannon Muir

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mrmedia · 8 years ago

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118 Kristin Harmel, romance novelist, "The Art of French Kissing"

Today's Guest: Kristin Harmel, romance novelist, The Art of French Kissing.

Novelist and University of Florida Gator Kristin Harmel (Photo: UF Communigator)

Order from Amazon.com by clicking the book cover above

Kristin Harmel’s new novel, her fourth, in fact, is titled The Art of French Kissing. It’s a sweet, surprisingly gentle story of a young boy-band publicist, who’s a woman from Orlando, whose life there collapses, and she goes to Paris to escape and maybe find herself again. It’s chick-lit for sure, but I enjoyed it. It also made me think more fondly of Paris than I had since the one time that my wife and I visited there back in ’88. Maybe we’ll get into that later.

KRISTIN HARMEL audio excerpt: "the novels I write are very connected to sort of my own life, and I would say sort of the experiences that myself and my friends are going through right now. I’m 28, almost 29. I’m still sort of going through the struggles that you do sort of in your twenties and thirties of finding yourself and of sort of finding where you fit in the world and among others, the funny, little adventures that I get to go on and like I said, the bad dates."

Kristin Harmel Website • Facebook • Twitter • Pinterest • Order The Art of French Kissing from Amazon.com

BOB ANDELMAN/Mr. MEDIA: So tell us that you’re in some fabulous part of the country. KRISTIN HARMEL: I’m actually back home in Orlando, Florida right now. In the past week, we’ve been in Boston, New York, Atlanta, and now back in Orlando for launch parties. ANDELMAN: Oh, Orlando. Well, that’s okay. We’ll just pretend you’re in Monte Carlo or something. HARMEL: Exactly. Can I backtrack and revise that? I’m lying on a beach in Hawaii. ANDELMAN: C’mon, you’re in the fiction business. It’s all about theater of the mind. HARMEL: Exactly, my mistake. Sorry. ANDELMAN: You just released two books pretty simultaneously, The Art of French Kissing, and what I believe is a young adult novel, When You Wish. HARMEL: Yes, that’s correct. They’re both from different publishers, which I think accounts for the reason that they both came out around the same time. But, yes, When You Wish is my first novel for teenagers, basically for ages 12 and up, and it came out just a couple weeks ago. I’m really excited about that one, too. ANDELMAN: But tell the truth, Kristin, because everybody wants to know this. You actually outsource the writing of your books to India so you have time for fun stuff. HARMEL: I wish! I’m gonna have to start thinking about that. Thanks for the idea. ANDELMAN: I hear they do everything for less. HARMEL: There you go. Exactly. If I could do that or just find more hours in the day, I think we’d be all set. ANDELMAN: The Art of French Kissing, which is the book that I just finished reading, from what I’ve read, it seems to hug very close to certain details of your own life. That true? HARMEL: In some ways. It was basically inspired by the fact that I, myself, five years ago, went over to live in Paris sort of on a whim the same way that the main character of the novel does. And like the main character of my novel, I really didn’t speak much French when I went over, and I went over to live with a friend sort of at a time in my life when my own life was in a little bit of disarray. However, my path sort of parted from the main character of the novel when I went over there in that she actually had all these fabulous adventures of dealing with this crazy international rock star and whatever, and I would say my adventures were much more tame. So I had to use my imagination a little bit to create her world. ANDELMAN: Oh, I just feel so sad now. I was hoping to hear that you had to tamp down your own experiences to put them in the book. HARMEL: Well, I will have to say, a few of the things that poor Emma has to do in the book include hanging upside down from between a couple of buildings in Paris. So I’m happy that I didn’t have to do anything wacky like that, but I did have some crazy adventures. Paris is quite a place to go, I think, as a young person or goodness, as any person. I think it’s just such a wonderful city where you could just explore all sorts of different things. I did have quite a lot of adventures there, though. ANDELMAN: And I’m thinking anyone reading this book is gonna feel the way I did when it was over: “I gotta go to Paris.” But then I think back, and I can’t believe that I wrote down it was 1988. It has actually been 20 years. HARMEL: Oh, my. ANDELMAN: I wasn’t terribly impressed. The city is wonderful, but the people there, they kind of spoil it for you. HARMEL: I had always heard that before I went to Paris for the first time. I actually went to Paris for the first time the year before I lived there, and I had a great experience. But when I went back to live there for the summer, my experience was even better. And I think that maybe 20 or 30 years ago maybe Americans got a frostier reception from Parisians. I really just didn’t have any problems with it. I found people there to be very friendly. I think it’s just a different type of mentality. Probably the best way I can describe it is that I think that, in general, and this is a big generality, but in general, I think that French people tend to warm up to strangers a little more slowly, whereas in the United States, particularly in the South, I think that you meet someone in a store, and within 30 seconds, you feel like they’re your new best friend. Everyone’s very friendly, everyone’s talkative, everyone smiled. In France, in general, I think people tend to be a little bit wary of strangers but not in any sort of negative way. In a way, they’re a little bit more genuine like they want to get to know you as a person a little bit before they make a judgment about whether or not to be ultra-friendly to you. So I found that when I realized that about the culture and that when I realized that a reception that wasn’t warm wasn’t necessarily a cold reception, I think I really sort of understood where they were coming from, and I realized that they were not actually being unfriendly. ANDELMAN: I’m sorry. I’m going back to my notes here. I just want to be sure. Are we talking about Paris? HARMEL: Yes, we are. But see, you’re saying you haven’t been there in 20 years, and my experience of having been there more recently is that the people there actually were very kind. And I also think that one of the problems that Americans encounter is going over there and expecting every French person to be able to speak English, and that’s not always the case. But generally, in the big cities like Paris, especially in the retail industry or if you go out to a meal or whatever, generally they speak at least basic English. So I feel like, as an American, if you either make an effort to speak a few words of French or if you just say I’m so sorry, I don’t speak French, they’ll usually warm right up to you. I think that sometimes Americans get a negative reception when they just sort of assume that their language will be spoken. You know what I mean? ANDELMAN: I’m dying for you to ask me what happened to me in Paris. HARMEL: Oh, I’m so sorry I missed my cue. What happened to you in Paris? ANDELMAN: Alright, the only story that I will share because it’s your time and not mine. HARMEL: No, no, I would like to hear it. ANDELMAN: I’m dying to tell this. So I’m there with my wife. It’s like middle of the afternoon. We’re starving. We go into a café, a patisserie, I don’t know. It was a place where there were tables for dining, there was a bar. It was the middle of the afternoon. There was no one there, but staff was hanging out at the bar. We walked in, we’re dying of thirst and hunger, and we sit down and we’ll wait, and we wait, and we wait, and no one waits on us. No one comes over, and I finally get up, and I walk over, and I say, “Excuse me.” Maybe I even said, “Excuse moi, pardon.” I tried. I had my University of Florida college French. HARMEL: Go Gators. ANDELMAN: So you know it had to be good French. I asked for a menu. Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’ll bring it to you. So I go and sit down, and we wait and we wait and still there’s only us and the staff. HARMEL: Oh no. ANDELMAN: So we wait and we wait, and finally, someone else comes into the restaurant, and it’s a man with a full-sized standard poodle. And he goes over to the bar, and they immediately give him a drink, they give him a croissant, and then the poodle puts its paws up on the bar, and the poodle gets a bowl of water. And this was when I knew that my impression of the French to that point was not far off. They made a real good show of how little they cared for us American people. HARMEL: Oh goodness. ANDELMAN: This is in central Paris. We weren’t out in the boondocks. That’s why I keep asking are we sure we’re talking about Paris? HARMEL: That’s a terrible story. I’m so sorry that that sort of shaped your opinion of Paris. I will say that I have found that, it seems like it wouldn’t be that logical, but I found that, sort of in the more touristy areas of Paris, they do tend to turn their nose up to tourists a little bit more, which is sort of a strange contradiction. But I think there’s another thing about the French that, for me, took a little bit of getting used to because I’m very kind of rush, rush, rush from one thing to the next, and I think sometimes, particularly when it comes to eating or situations in restaurants, they just do things much more slowly. So they were probably having a little coffee break in back or something and thought oh, he can wait. ANDELMAN: Yes, I think that may have been it. Well, now the reason I asked you this is that… I saw the segment you did on “Good Morning America.” First of all, eight minutes on “Good Morning America” is amazing. But you’re being called on, I think, I guess, more and more to be that American expert on Paris and the French. How do you feel about that part? HARMEL: I love it. It sounds silly, but the summer that I spent living there, and it was just three months, and it was just sort of a very impulsive thing to do. I just picked up and left my life here behind, took three months off my job, and went and lived over there for three months. But it was a three-month period that I would say really, really shaped my life, and again, it sounds a little corny, but I just feel like Paris has sort of been a part of me ever since, if that makes sense. I felt very passionate about the city, about the country, about learning about French customs and things like that. I’ve enrolled in a French class, and I take French classes now so I’m learning to speak French, although I certainly don’t speak it very well. I’m still working on my accent. But I just feel so passionately about Paris that it’s an enormous honor for me to be called on in any way, in any arena, to talk about what makes France so wonderful. And I think like any country, there are things I don’t like about France, certainly, but I think that, in general, they just have such a different and lovely outlook on life. Being over there and sort of being around that, I think really taught me to appreciate the little things in life a little bit more than I had learned to here in the United States. ANDELMAN: Okay, but Kristin, now you’re teasing me because you just said there were things you didn’t like. HARMEL: As soon as I said that, I was like, “He’s gonna ask me about that.” ANDELMAN: Yeah, you know I want to hear that. HARMEL: I’m trying to think what I could say that I don’t like. Some of the things are just things that I didn’t like about being over there such as when you’re over somewhere for a few months, you really start to miss the things that you took for granted at home like being able to drive in a car that I’m familiar with or being able to speak to anyone I want in the language that I’m familiar with, so just those little things that would be pieces of traveling anywhere. I will say that I think there are some upsides and some downsides to their approach to life. I have always thought that it must be lovely to live in a country like that where people work to live rather than living to work, if that makes sense. Whereas in the United States, I think that we’re sort of a very work-driven society, like a lot of our lives revolve around our jobs and making money and finding success and things like that, I feel like, in France, people work a short workweek, and again, this is a very broad generalization, but in France, I think the tendency is more to work a very short workweek and then truly enjoy and savor all of your time off. They have standard six weeks of vacation every year and the thirty-five hour workweek is fairly standard, although I believe that’s beginning to change. I think it’s been changed in their legal system, if I’m not mistaken, but for a while, I believe that they were actually limited by law to a 35-hour workweek. I could be mistaken about that, but I believe that’s the way that it is. So in a way, I think that’s wonderful because I think that, as Americans, we could take a little bit of a lesson from that, sort of learn to enjoy our lives outside the office a little bit better. But at the same time, I will say that I think in the United States, we really should also be proud of everything that we’ve built up, and we’re such a successful nation, and we have such successful industry here, not that France doesn’t, but I feel like we’re a little bit further ahead of that curve because of the attitude we have toward work. So there are sort of upsides and downsides, I think, to every nationally-prevailing attitude, if that makes sense.

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ANDELMAN: Kristin, I like you so much more now that you’ve given me something else not to be so fond of the French about. We have a call. I think I know who this is. PETE WILLIAMS: Hey Bob. Pete Williams here. ANDELMAN: Hey Pete, how are ya? WILLIAMS: Doing just fine. Hello Kristin. HARMEL: Hey, Pete, how are you? WILLIAMS: I am fine. And I want to share this little anecdote first. I’m out covering a sporting-related event here in the Tampa Bay area, talking to a young lady who’s a year out of college, and she’s covering football for a TV station and talking about, “Geez, I don’t know how I’m ever gonna move up.” And I’m thinking it would seem like just the other day, and I know it was 10 years ago, but there you were still in college covering the Devil Rays for a now-defunct publication, and here you are. So congratulations. I know it’s been a lot of work and well deserved for you. HARMEL: Thank you. Well, Pete, you were actually always one of the people who really was very supportive of me early on, like you were one of the first journalists I met when I first started working, and you were always really good to me, so thank you for that. WILLIAMS: You bet. And obviously, I am not a chick-lit aficionado, but I recognize the importance and the attraction it has to millions of readers. And I’m just wondering where do you get your material for these books? HARMEL: A lot of bad dates. No, I’m just kidding. I think that the novels I write are very connected to sort of my own life, and I would say sort of the experiences that myself and my friends are going through right now. I’m 28, almost 29. I’m still sort of going through the struggles that you do sort of in your twenties and thirties of finding yourself and of sort of finding where you fit in the world and among others, the funny, little adventures that I get to go on and like I said, the bad dates. I think I sort of tie together loosely from my own experiences sort of the basis of these characters, and then I sort of put them in worlds or situations that are interesting to me whether they are things that I have experienced or not. For example, with The Art of French Kissing, of course, I set it in Paris, which is the city that I feel very passionately about, but the things that happened to the character there never happened to me. Those were sort of just out of my imagination, but the lessons that she learned I feel are lessons that I’m still learning myself and lessons that I think are fairly universal for women of my generation, I would say. WILLIAMS: Do you have any plans to take these characters down to the French Riviera and have some, I guess, saucier, racier experiences for them? HARMEL: I’ll have to think about that. I’m actually in the midst of writing a new novel that’s going to be set in Rome that will come out in summer of 2009. I’ll probably tackle that first, but I do generally try to drop characters from previous novels into my new novels, not in any major role, but I like to have the old characters cross paths with the new characters so that readers who have read a lot of my books sort of can say, “Hey, I remember that person from your first book or whatever.” WILLIAMS: Well, again, best of luck with everything, Kristin. I’m proud to say I knew you when. HARMEL: Well, I’m proud to say I knew you, and I’m proud to say I still know you. You’re a good friend, and I appreciate that. WILLIAMS: Alright. Bob, thanks as always. Appreciate it. ANDELMAN: Thanks for calling in, Pete. And let me tell everybody that Pete is a host on blogtalkradio.com himself. He does a show called The Fitness Buff. Airs every Friday, at 4 PM. ANDELMAN: When you jokingly said that you had a lot of bad dates, it worries me there because I thought boy, if that’s all it takes to write a chick-lit novel, then I probably inspired an awful lot of them. HARMEL: I think that’s just my rationalization in my head when I go on a bad date. I just think to myself that was horrible, but at least maybe it’ll inspire a scene in a book or something. But, no, I’m actually just kidding. I really have not been on that many bad dates. I’ve been fortunate to know and to go out with a lot of nice people. ANDELMAN: Okay. She’s backtracking again. HARMEL: I’m backtracking. Sorry guys. ANDELMAN: It’s funny. When you said that, it reminded me of something my dad said to me when I was starting off as a writer many years ago. He didn’t say it in necessarily a good way, but he said, “The thing about you is if anything bad happens to you, you’ll just write about it and make it a good thing.” HARMEL: Exactly. There you go. ANDELMAN: That’s really what it comes down to. I’ve got to ask: What does make a bad date? My sense is that you’re single so it’s a fair question. HARMEL: Yes. What makes a bad date? Let me think. I think that maybe the reason I don’t feel like I’ve been on a lot of bad dates is because I usually just enjoy talking to people and finding out about them. I enjoy meeting new people so usually dates are fine, but I think the ones that are bad are the ones that you feel like you’re pulling teeth just to talk to a person. You know what I mean? Like when I feel like I’m interviewing somebody as opposed to having a conversation with them. To me, that’s sort of the worst kind of date where you have these I ask a million questions, and they just answer them with yeses or nos, and they stare at me blankly. It’s like, “Okay, I only have so many questions. I’m running out here.” But, fortunately, I have not been on many of those. ANDELMAN: Let’s come back to the book. Emma, the lead character, comes off as kind of a doormat at the start of the book. I’ll use the male description here. Everybody’s kind of lifting their leg and peeing on the poor woman. HARMEL: That’s true. ANDELMAN: Have you been through anything as consistent and awful as she, or can you just pile on the poor girl in the book? HARMEL: No, you know what? Writing her like that at the beginning of the book was actually sort of a personal thing for me. I feel like it was something that, to some extent, I feel like I used to be like that a little bit, too, and I think that’s something that many novelists do. They sort of work through some of what they feel to be their own issues, in their fiction. I think, hopefully, that I’m mostly past doing that, but that was a lesson I had to learn a couple years ago. And at the beginning of my novel, you’re right. Emma is a little bit of a doormat. But I think it’s less of her being a doormat and more of her foolishly sort of seeing the world through rose-colored glasses. And then when it doesn’t turn out that her perceptions are correct, I think not having the guts to stand up for herself, and I think that’s a mistake I have made in my life, too. At the beginning of the novel, Emma actually has her fiancé say, “I no longer want to be with you,” and I think that’s one of the most hurtful things that someone can say to you. Like I said, she’s engaged to him, and she’s planning to spend the rest of her life with him despite the fact that, in retrospect, there were obvious problems in the relationship. I think that she sort of chose not to see them and turned a blind eye on them and therefore, became sort of a doormat. ANDELMAN: It was tough. And I don’t want to give away anything from the middle or the end of the book. There was one thing at the beginning that happens with her. I hope I can give this away. HARMEL: We’ll see. If it’s the beginning, that’s no problem. ANDELMAN: Alright. The fiancé dumps her, and she loses her job. And that in itself is horrible, but when her best friend sleeps with the fiancé, I just thought oh, I actually feel sorry for this character that doesn’t even exist. HARMEL: Fortunately, I’ve never had anything like that happen to me before. But I guess I just wanted to create a situation in the book where she sort of felt like everything that she defined herself by had been sort of ripped away. And I think part of my point with doing that was to sort of show that I think, all too often in life, we define ourselves by the things that are outside of us, who we’re dating or who we’re engaged to or who we’re married to, for instance, or what our job is or even who our friends are. And I think that that’s sort of a mistake. I think that you can rely on those people and love those people around you and believe in those people, especially if they truly are good people, but I think that a lesson that Emma learns through the course of the book and that I feel I’m still sort of learning through the course of my life is that it’s important to define yourself by what’s inside of you. You know what I mean? And who you are as opposed to all those external factors. And I guess I sort of wanted to create a situation where Emma was forced to learn that the hard way. ANDELMAN: That was tough. Now, I wondered: Was there a moment in your life where something clicked for you where you became very aware, very self-assured, the world just kind of came together for you? HARMEL: Gosh, in my own life? ANDELMAN: Yes. HARMEL: I feel like I’m still getting there. I feel like I have a lot more self-confidence and self-assuredness than I used to, but I feel like I’m still kind of growing into that. I don’t quite have myself figured out yet, and I certainly don’t have the world figured out yet. And I think, again, that’s something I’m just sort of exploring through my writing. And this sounds silly, but like you mentioned at the beginning of the program, this is my fourth novel now, and I feel like with every novel, I feel like my writing has grown, and I hope that people who have read a few of my books would agree with that. I also feel like it’s been almost therapeutic for me because I sort of work through these issues that I feel like are issues in my own life and sort of through the characters, I feel like I learn a little bit, and I become a little bit more confident. I sort of feel like I’m still a work in progress, but shoot, maybe I should be writing like six novels a year, and then I’ll be a totally complete human being in the next couple of years. ANDELMAN: If you decide to go that route, I really recommend outsourcing to India. HARMEL: Exactly. The outsourcing. I’ll just write the outline, yes. ANDELMAN: There’s a web chat that goes alongside the Mr. Media interviews, and Missy333 just wanted to ask you a question. HARMEL: Okay. ANDELMAN: I don’t know if this is serious or not. She says, “I hear Disney is casting for the lead role in their new live-action ‘Alice in Wonderland,’ and they’re looking at you for the part. Is this true?” HARMEL: Missy and her husband Al were the first people who gave me my break in journalism way back when I was 16-years-old, and I pitched them a story about the, I believe, it was the St. Louis Cardinals Instructional League, which was happening in Tampa Bay. I actually really wanted to be a sports reporter at the time. And I didn’t tell them my age, but they met me fairly soon after and realized how young I was. But I don’t know that I’d be doing what I’m doing today if it was not for them. Missy and Al, who ran, at the time, Tampa Bay All Sports and now run Accent magazine and Fight Zone, they really completely put their trust in me, helped me to grow as a writer, and sort of gave me my start in the business, and they always tease me and say that I look like Alice in Wonderland. So that’s where that comes from. ANDELMAN: I see, I see. I have to tell you. I guess we have something in common: We are both graduates of the Martino School of Faux Journalism. HARMEL: See, I didn’t know. I didn’t know you knew the Martinos. It’s wonderful. ANDELMAN: I do, and I wasn’t sure when I asked you the question. I knew who Missy333 was, but I didn’t know if you’d know. This is going to be really boring for anybody listening, but yeah, I actually worked for Al’s brother, Ray. HARMEL: Oh wonderful. ANDELMAN: Twenty years ago and I learned magazine layout and design from him. Of course, no one does it that way anymore. We did it by hand, obviously. We had a typesetting machine and all that kind of stuff. So, yes, I’ve known them a long time. That’s funny. It’s a small world. HARMEL: Small world, but look at the legacy that the Martino family is creating. ANDELMAN: That’s true. That’s true. And they’re good people. No doubt about it. HARMEL: They’re incredible people, yes. ANDELMAN: That’s so funny. So how come the sports writing didn’t work out for you? HARMEL: It did. I loved it. I loved doing that, but when I was in college, I really hoped my senior year of college to get an internship at Sports Illustrated. I had applied to the Time Incorporated magazine internship program hoping that I’d be placed with Sports Illustrated. Instead, I was placed at People magazine, and I thought oh, I don’t know if this is something that’s really gonna be up my alley, and I loved it. It was one of the best experiences of my life. I had a fabulous summer working for People. I worked hard. The bureau chief at the time, his name was Joseph Harmes, put his trust in me, and they wound up hiring me, and I’ve been working for them for eight years now as a contributor. So I still do sports stories for People occasionally. If they need a sports story in the Southeast, I’m generally the one to do it or have been until recently, and I still love doing that. I really enjoy sports, particularly baseball and college football -- as you know, as a Gator. What I had always enjoyed about sports, though, was getting to know sort of the people behind the teams and the personalities behind the athletes, like that kind of thing. I liked doing the personality profiles. So it was actually a very natural move to work for People instead. ANDELMAN: And you’ve done some other magazine stuff as well, I guess. HARMEL: I primarily work for People magazine when I do magazine writing, but I also do work for Runner’s World, and I wrote a medical column for American Baby for quite a while. I’ve worked for Men’s Health in the past. I’ve done some writing for Woman’s Day, Health magazine, just a bunch of them. I’ve written for probably dozens of magazines over the years, some that I really enjoy doing. ANDELMAN: I was asking if there was a moment where you became more self-assured, but I’m kind of wondering, too. You’ve just recently been out touring on these books. What do the women that you meet, what do they want to talk to you about most? Is it your characters, your success, your smoky eyes, what is it? HARMEL: My smoky eyes. A lot of times they want to talk about something that has happened in the book that meant something to them. I get a lot of emails from readers who say, “I really connected with Harper in your book, The Blonde Theory, when she did this or when she said this or a very similar experience happened to me.” It’ll be something that sort of connects to something in their lives. Generally, they want to talk about how something in one of my novels has touched them, which means so much to me. When you’re sitting at your computer writing a novel, it’s almost like writing into a vacuum so it’s amazing when someone comes up to you and not only has read your novel but has actually been touched or moved in some way by something that you’ve written. So that has been a wonderful experience for me. But a lot of times people want to find out about how to write a book, too, so I’m always happy to talk to them about that. And, in fact, I teach a novel-writing class for an organization called mediabistro.com, and that’s actually been filling up every semester. I really enjoy it. It’s an eight-week course, and I get to teach it online and talk to aspiring writers about how to put together a book, which has been a good learning experience for me, too. ANDELMAN: MediaBistro does a lot of good work. They’re good people over there. HARMEL: Absolutely. ANDELMAN: On “Good Morning America,” you talked about the things that French women know that American women don’t know. HARMEL: Yes. ANDELMAN: Now, I gotta tell you, Kristin. I don’t really care about that. But what I do want to know is what is different about French men, we’re back to the original theme here, but what’s different about French men from American men? In other words, what is it that those Frenchie guys, what is it that those guys have that Mr. Media doesn’t? HARMEL: Well, I’m sure none of them have anything on you, Mr. Media. ANDELMAN: Good answer.

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HARMEL: Oh, gosh, that’s a good question. Well, first of all, I, as I think probably many girls are, am a sucker for accents so you put on that sexy French accent. ANDELMAN: Ah, oui, oui, mademoiselle. HARMEL: Exactly. I think that probably one of the major differences that I can think of is that really, in general, French men, and again, this is a broad generalization, and it’s hard to sort of generalize about an entire culture or country full of men, but in general, I would say that French men tend to be more unabashedly romantic, if that makes any sense. I was sitting at a bar with a friend of mine one time in Paris, with a female friend of mine, and this French guy tried to start talking to us, and he didn’t speak any English at all. And this was five years ago when I didn’t really speak any French so there was really no basis for communication between us. So after literally not being able to communicate, he turns away for a moment, and he comes back about ten minutes later with something scribbled on a gum wrapper, which he handed to me. He had written me a poem in English, I guess, using the only English words that he knew and at the end, asking me to see Paris with him. So it was cheesy to be sure, and I think it’s sort of funny that it happened, but I can’t imagine ever having that experience in the United States with someone who was actually serious. And this guy was dead serious. He really thought that his poem was going to sway me into being swept off my feet in the beauty of Paris. But that silliness aside, I do feel that French men do tend to be more romantic and not at all ashamed of it. I think there’s more of an emphasis on being sort of just masculine and sort of like keeping your feelings a little bit, maybe playing your cards closer to your chest here in the United States, whereas I think in France, people wear, men in particular, their emotions on their sleeve a little bit more. ANDELMAN: Now, having said that, I did read your book so I do know about the French character in there who makes a big play for Emma, and he’s so sweet, he does this. Well, it turns out he does that to every American woman. HARMEL: Yes, that’s true. ANDELMAN: I’m reminded of that Geena Davis movie from years ago, Earth Girls are Easy. HARMEL: Yes. ANDELMAN: Is part of it over there that they think that American women are easy? Is that part of it? HARMEL: I don’t know that they think that American girls are easy as much as some of the slimy guys, and there are slimy guys, I think, in every country. ANDELMAN: I don’t know what you’re talking about. HARMEL: I would say the small handful of slimy guys that exist in France probably do look at American girls, to some extent, as easy prey because, quite frankly, we probably are. We’re used to men, like I said, sort of being a little bit more or maybe like withholding their emotions a little bit more. So I think it’s easy as an American girl to listen to a guy saying sweet things to you in that wonderful French accent to the backdrop of this beautiful city and telling you how beautiful and lovely you are. They’ve never seen anyone as lovely as you. I think that there are certainly cheesy guys in the United States, though, who would use the same line with the same amount of success. So I don’t think it’s just American girls that would be singled out as easy targets by those types of people. I think it would probably be any girls who look like they could be easily swayed. ANDELMAN: Alright. But it really does come down to the accent, right? HARMEL: The accent, perhaps. Gosh, it’s such a beautiful accent. I wish I had a French accent. ANDELMAN: I wish you did, too. HARMEL: I will have to start talking in one. ANDELMAN: But if you did have the accent, you wouldn’t be talking to me so let’s keep things as they are. So you told us a little bit about how you got the magazine break. You got the internship. You wound up at People instead of Sports Illustrated. How did you get your fiction break? How did you get the first book published? Was there a good story to that? HARMEL: I always wanted to write a novel, and I thought to myself, “I’m too young to do this. I don’t have the life perspective yet.” And then, to be honest, it really was that summer that I went over and lived in Paris. It made me think to myself why not try? Yes, I could just stay on the fast track and try to do everything I can in the magazine world, or I could continue to do that but also sort of pursue my dream. So slowly, I started writing my first novel. I had not contacted an agent yet. I had not contacted a publisher. I just came up with the idea for a story. And I had a few friends in Tampa at the time that all worked in the same office, and I said, “Hey, I’m gonna try to write this book. I need to stay motivated. Could I send you one chapter a week so that I know that someone’s waiting for it?” And they were all excited, and I started sending them one chapter a week, and so slowly, I actually wrote this first novel. And then when I finished it, I started sending it off to literary agents, and I got an agent, and we did a little bit of work on the book. They thought I needed to make it a little bit funnier and a little bit shorter, and so I made those fixes that they suggested. And then they sent it off to, at the time, Warner Books, which is now Hachette Book Group, my current publisher that I’m with now, and they made an offer almost right away. I had the chance to work with a wonderful editor there named Amy Einhorn, who now actually has her own imprint. She’s just a fabulous, super editor, but she was the one who really gave me my first chance, and I was so happy with that and so happy that I’m still with Hachette Book Group. I have another wonderful editor there now named Karen Kosztolnyik, and she’s equally fabulous. I feel like I’ve really become a part of a really wonderful family there. ANDELMAN: Would you describe yourself as successful at this point as a novelist, or are you still looking for that around the corner?

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HARMEL: This is the first year that I would say yes to that question. The first two years I always sort of felt like well, I have these books out. And it was so exciting to walk into any Barnes & Noble in the country or any Borders and see my books sitting there. It still took a little bit of getting used to, like, “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe it. That’s my novel.” This is the first year, though, that I feel like something has really clicked into place. I’m having a lot of people turn up at my launch parties -- and I’m having these launch parties all over the country -- and strangers, people I’ve never met, and say things to me like, “Oh my God, I’m so excited to read your book. I loved your first two books and such a fan.” I guess I never thought I’d get to the point where people would say that. I always kind of look at them like, “Really, are you sure you have the right person?” It’s just an amazing, amazing feeling. So I guess because of that I do feel like I’ve achieved a moderate level of success, but I feel like I have a long way to go. It’s funny. I’ve had people ask me before, “Oh, you must be so rich now,” and obviously, these are people who have probably never read my book or known what a book contract could be. I’m certainly not speaking to you from the deck of my yacht or anything like that yet, but I do feel like I’m in a very good position where I feel like I’m beginning to get readers who are reading all of my books. And I’m able to support myself doing this, and at the end of the day, I think that’s what it’s all about. I have a life that I’m very, very happy with, and I’m doing something I love, and to me, I think that’s all you need to feel successful. ANDELMAN: Do you indulge yourself in any way from time to time? HARMEL: I shop too much. It sounds so stereotypically girly, and I know I sound like I’m trying to be Carrie Bradshaw from “Sex and the City,” and perhaps, in a way, I am. But I’m obsessed with shoes, and I do love to shop. And cupcakes, they’re my other indulgence. I’m obsessed with cupcakes. ANDELMAN: Cupcakes and shoes. HARMEL: Yes. ANDELMAN: So if a guy shows up at your door with a French accent, puts a cup of cupcakes in each of two new shoes, he’s got it made. HARMEL: I’m sold. Exactly. ANDELMAN: Okay! HARMEL: That’s all you need to charm me. Exactly. ANDELMAN: I’m learning so much here. Now I have to figure out how to apply all this to a 20-year marriage. HARMEL: There you go. Just show up with some shoes and cupcakes for your wife and speak French. ANDELMAN: Speak French. That’ll be the tip-off. Okay, speaking of girly moments, have you had a, maybe this is kind of a boy thing, but have you had any in-your-face moments with girls that you went to high school or college with since the books have come out? HARMEL: What do you mean by in-your-face moments? ANDELMAN: Oh, I think you know. Someone who did not think very highly of you in high school or college, somebody you were competitive with, perhaps. HARMEL: No, no, no. I’ve certainly had nothing like that. In fact, at my Atlanta party and my Orlando party, I actually had girls who I had gone to high school and college with, which was really nice. In fact, I even saw in New York, this doesn’t answer the girl part of the question, but I actually saw a boy that I had gone to kindergarten through third grade with at my New York party. So I think I’m fortunate in that, hopefully. I’m sure there are some people out there that probably don’t like me, but I think that, for the most part, I have not made many enemies along the way. So I’ve been fortunate in that. ANDELMAN: Okay. This boy from third grade? Did he have a French accent? How do you remember him? HARMEL: No, you know what? I remember him because we had gotten in touch recently on Facebook, which is obviously just a great way to connect with people, but he was actually my very first crush, my very first crush back in the third grade. When I was nine years old, I had a crush on him, and I actually saw him again for the first time since we were 10. ANDELMAN: That I can buy. Okay, that makes sense to me. Now, I think Pete was kind of heading this direction when he called before. Now, I kept turning the pages in The Art of French Kissing thinking, “Okay, there’s gonna be sex on the next page, right? What? No, not this page. Okay, it must be the next page.” And just seeing the book, as tame as the book looks, it is called The Art of French Kissing. So my wife sees it, I’m reading it in the course of a few days, and she’s like thinking the same thing, and she made me swear that I would keep this book out of my daughter’s eyesight. HARMEL: Oh, how funny. How old is your daughter? ANDELMAN: She’s 11. HARMEL: Oh, how funny. ANDELMAN: So I get to the end of the book, there’s no sex. So what is it that I, as a man, do not understand about chick-lit? What have I missed here? HARMEL: Oh, chick-lit is generally not sex. There’s generally very little sex in chick-lit, and if there ever is, it’s never like in a romance novel where it’s a sex scene for the purposes of getting you turned on or whatever. The only sex scenes I’ve ever seen in chick-lit novels are ones that have to do with the growth of a character or the growth of a character’s relationship. Chick-lit is a very different genre from romance, and I think a lot of people who don’t read a lot in this genre assume that it’s a very close sister to romance novels, and it’s really not. So I would describe chick-lit, in general, as more, basically, stories that are often light-hearted in some way but stories that are basically, at their core, stories of women finding themselves and of developing or learning some major lesson in their lives. It usually involves some level of romantic interest, but there are also a lot of chick-lit novels that are written about women who are married or women who are new moms or even women who have been recently widowed. I think chick-lit encompasses a lot of different types of novels and a lot of age ranges, too, but generally, there’s not a lot of sex in chick-lit. Sorry to disappoint you. ANDELMAN: Especially if you’re telling me that a lot of it is marriage-related, I know there’s no sex. HARMEL: The title of my first novel was actually How to Sleep with a Movie Star, and you should have heard the reactions about that. My God, I’ve been asked 50,000 times which movie star I’ve slept with, and I keep telling people nobody, nobody, but I think I’m going to start just saying, “I never kiss and tell,” and just leaving it up to their imagination. ANDELMAN: But now you say what you will, but, ladies and gentlemen, go to kristinharmel.com, and the picture that pops up is her with Patrick Dempsey. HARMEL: Who is very, very happily married with three wonderful young children and a gorgeous, gorgeous wife so he’s just someone I’ve interviewed a few times, and he’s an extremely, extremely nice man. And, yes, I admit to thinking he’s one of the most attractive people on the planet. ANDELMAN: As Chris Farley would do, “interview,” and he’d be holding up his fingers like “interview” several times. HARMEL: No, no, no. Just interview. ANDELMAN: What is the difference between chick-lit like this, but there is no sex, which is okay, I get that, some people don’t want to read that stuff, and then doing a young adult novel which, I’m assuming, there probably is no sex in, either? HARMEL: No, certainly not in the ones that I write. I think, at their core, they’re sort of very similar types of novels. And a lot of writers who write chick-lit also do a very good job with young adult novels. I think it’s a pretty easy transition because it’s obviously different types of settings, different types of scenarios, and obviously a different age group. But I think, in general, we’re doing the same types of character explorations and following our characters sort of on the road to learning a little bit more about themselves. The lessons tend to be a little bit different because the girls in the books are 15, 16, 17 as opposed to 28 or 35 or 42. You know what I mean? So they’re obviously at a different place in their lives in terms of discovering who they are and what they want out of life, but I think, in general, they deal with similar emotions and similar complications in their lives. And it’s funny. If you think about it, if you think back to high school, I think that sometimes the issues that you confronted in high school are sort of issues that continually re-appear throughout your life in just sort of in different form, if that makes sense. ANDELMAN: I don’t know if my wife will agree, but I actually got to the end of this, and I thought my daughter actually could read this book. HARMEL: Yes, I think so. It’s important to me, just personally, not to really write anything inappropriate in books. I’m certainly not marketing The Art of French Kissing necessarily to pre-teens, of course, but there’s certainly nothing in there that would be inappropriate for a girl who’s 15 or 16 or 17 to read and certainly the same with my teen novel, When You Wish, which is geared toward ages 12 and up. But I talked to a 10-year-old last night about it at my Orlando party. She was a really sweet 10-year-old who was telling me that she wanted to be a writer when she grew up, and I gave her a copy of the book cause I thought yeah, she might really like this. And I told her if she wanted to email me, we could keep in touch and talk about writing and stuff. So I think that I really try to keep the books very appropriate. ANDELMAN: So what’s next? Do you have another book already in the pipeline, are you writing, what are you working on? HARMEL: I do. I have two books due at the end of the month of April so I’m sort of losing my mind right now. I have one more young adult novel due and one more women’s fiction or chick-lit novel due at the end of April. So I am bearing down and working hard on those. And then when they’re done, I’m actually going to take a trip to Paris and to Rome – Rome, because my next book is going to be set there, and I need to do a little bit of research and Paris, just because I can’t go all the way to Europe and not go to Paris. So that’s what’s in the next couple months for me. ANDELMAN: I’m going to recommend Vienna to you. I just thought that was a far more romantic and wonderful city than Paris could ever hope to be. HARMEL: I’ve heard that Vienna is really beautiful, and I regret that I’ve never been there so maybe I will have to do that either this spring or when I go back in the fall. ANDELMAN: I’ll watch for that. HARMEL: Okay. ANDELMAN: Alright. Well, let’s end with this. We’re both Florida Gators, apparently proud Florida Gators at that. Is there anything you’d like to tell the world about membership to the world’s best and, at times, most-reviled alma mater? HARMEL: Gosh, I’m so proud to have gone to school there. I think it’s a wonderful, wonderful school, and I say that from the bottom of my heart. I feel like I could not have gone to college at a better place. It was a fabulous balance of a wonderful education as well as a great social life, and, of course, wonderful athletic life. God, who’s better than the Florida Gators?

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