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cozycryptidcorner · 4 years ago

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The Mad Prince, Chapter 13 (slightly nsfw)

tw: alcohol/drinking, drunken consensual groping.

“What are you doing?” Clementine asks, almost amused.

You’re busy rummaging around all available cabinets in the kitchen, several of them open, plates, glasses, and other kitchenette stuff laid out on the counter. While you’re pretty sure there’s a far better kitchen below your feet, this one appears mostly for aesthetic and midnight snack reasons. You, though, have a very intentional way of searching, fingers nimble as you run your hands over the inner panels, just one.

“I’m bored,” is all you say, as if that’s the only explanation she needs. Unsatisfied with what you’ve found so far, you begin to put everything back, sealing the cabinets firmly on the latch. Jumping down from the upper counter, you continue on your quest on the lower compartments.

Once you resume your rummaging, it doesn’t take you too much longer to find a strangely shaped bottle, glass long and ornately spun around a strange purple liquid. All you have to do is unlock the seal at the top, and the scent of the thin, violet liquid makes your eyes water. You haven’t had a single thing to drink with any kind of percentage since the Starward Matchmakers™ took you into their loving flock, and to say you’ve been itching for a goddamn shot would be an understatement.

“Holy shit,” you half gasp, half wince. Whatever is in the bottle smells like paint stripper, your body is already trying to cough back up the liquor you haven’t even had a chance to drink.

“What are you going to do with that?” The shell slips as a touch of her real personality peeks through, her face scowling before she catches herself.

“Drink it, duh,” you can’t read the label, the large, swooping lettering elegant and filled with opulent promise.

“Is that a good idea?” Clementine prods further, arms on her hips.

“Oh please,” you glance over your shoulder just to make sure no one else is eavesdropping on the conversation, “if I couldn’t keep my mouth shut while drunk, I’d never have a job. Besides, I have a super fun idea.”

“Super fun,” Clem echoes, eyebrows arching.

“Come on, bestie, let’s go find two other players.”

It doesn’t take a lot of time to locate the prince, in his own makeshift office he’s turned one of the rooms into. The desk has a holographic screen hovering just slightly over the slab of dark metal.

He looks at the crystalline bottle in your hand, then back up at you. “Yes?”

“I thought we could have a fun game night.” You say, gently swirling the bottle around and offering it up like a vicious cat bringing its master a dead thing as a gift. “Involving liquor, of course.”

His eyes widen as his brow arches, a quizzical gesture, you’ve come to learn, and you feel his gaze flicker over your shoulder and land on Clementine, who is probably doing her best to appear like she thinks that this idea is the motherfucking best. Then he looks back at you. “And what games are you thinking?”

“Well…” you try to wrack your brain, “I was thinking poker, but I’d be fine with blackjack, diamonds five, lemon lemon…. Or like, old maid. Monopoly, even, if you like.”

The prince blinks. “Most of those are forms of gambling.”

You feel Clementine’s aggressive aura on your back, but you offer up a nonchalant shrug. “I suppose so, but like… we don’t have to play for money or anything. Winner or loser, doesn’t matter.”

There’s a beat of silence, you can see the synapses firing within his brain as he thinks over the suggestion. Then, calmly, he suggests, “I suppose that there are things we can gamble other than money.”

“I like your style!” You shake the bottle, “I was thinking about inebriation.”

”Babe,” Clem says, her voice slightly grated, “fun idea… but no.”

Oh, now it seems like the prince is very much interested, but only on account of Clem’s quick attempt to shut it down. “What do you mean?”

You’re quick to talk over Clem’s continuing protests, “instead of gambling money, the loser of the round takes a shot. Uhhh, but since your body’s like three times bigger, you get to take two.”

“Oh, I get to take two?” He asks, cocking his head with a slightly amused look. And he’s not immediately refusing, either, you knew he wouldn’t, but you supposed he wouldn’t actually consider it so seriously. “Is this something humans do?”

“Yes,” you say, nodding, “for fun.”

“And you would like to play it with me?”

You nod again.

He mulls it over, looking back at a now-silent Clem, and says, “and will you be playing.”

“I suppose,” she says, pursing her lips.

“We were also hoping that Elias would play as well,” you say, almost slyly, “to make it an even four.”

“I will let him know.” He says, completely serious, as though he’s talking about affairs of the state, and not about getting drunk while gambling.

“Okay,” you say, bouncing on the edge of your toes in excitement.

“Okay,” he echoes, as though tasting the word on his tongue.

“See you later, then,” you take a step back, trying really hard not to smile.

“Oh my god,” Clementine mutters as you turn around, quietly enough for only you to hear. “You two are ridiculous.”

“I hear most couples are,” you whisper conspiratorially back at her as the door to the office closes.

“And here’s to thinking you were at your wit’s end just a day ago,” she says, and you can feel the motion of her eyes rolling even though you’re not looking at her. “I can already see you making out with him in your head.”

“Okay but also consider: inebriation makes for honest conversations,” you say, running your fingers along your scalp, “and I plan on having a very calm and collected conversation about things like how many people he thinks are planning to kill me, while you, my dearest and most precious friend in the entire universe, are going to be keeping Elias distracted with your fantastic tits.”

She chokes, scrabbling for words, voice cutting in and out as though her brain is fried. “He does not think my-”

“You may be trained to clock someone’s fighting style twenty klicks away by the way they shake their ass, but I,” you turn around and walk backwards to drink in her glaring face, grinning, “have been teaching myself to recognize carnal lust on sight.”

“Princess,” she says, her voice full of warning, “you’re on thin fucking ice right now.”

“See you later!” You sing, escaping into your room before she sees fit to smack you into the next century.

---------------------------------------------_

“Okay,” you say, shuffling the cards between your fingers, “rules are simple.”

To your right side, the prince, and to the left, Clementine, with Elias sitting across the table. The bottle of liquor is in the center of the table, four shot glasses in front of each person as a grim reminder that you’ll have to drink the moment you lose your hand.

“So the loser of each hand has to drink the shots placed in the betting pool,” you say, cheerfully, “except for Aksanos, who has to take an extra two because his blood alcohol level is more difficult to raise since he’s bigger than my first studio apartment.”

Their first mistake: letting you deal.

“We bet with alcohol shots based on how confident you are with how good your hand is.” You begin to deal out cards, mentally counting to five for each stack. “High card is when you have no matches, two of a kind is when you have two of the same numbers, three of a kind is the same but with three-” etcetera, etcetera. The winner isn’t the important hand, here, it’s the loser. “Folding in this context means that you take the shots you threw into the pot. Any questions?”

“I don’t understand why I have to be here,” Elias says, holding his cards like this is a game of Go Fish.

“I mean any questions in regards to the game rules?” You skip over him, just for the sake of being annoying.

“What does the winner get?” Clementine asks, lounging with one arm swung over the back of her chair. “I think the person who wins first the most should get something.”

“You mean besides an intact liver?” You ask, taking a peek at your cards. Nice, unless everyone has a really fortunate hand, you should be alright this first round. “I don’t know, I’m not exactly in a position to hand anything out.”

All eyes turn to the person with the fattest wallet, and, to his credit, the prince actually looks like he’s pondering the question. “A favor,” he seems to conclude.

“From you?” Clementine asks, sounding suddenly like she’s ready to put her competitive hat on.

“Yes.”

“And what if you’re the winner?” She asks, prodding.

“I suppose that my prize will be peace of mind.” He says, looking at his cards. “Since I won’t have to offer up my services otherwise.”

“Awesome,” you say, reaching over and pouring the potent liquor in every single one of your shot glasses, sliding one into the center of the table. “Let’s begin.”

When you first pitched the game, you thought your only real competition would be Clementine. After all, you’ve seen soldiers like her lay waste to the poker tables before, especially since ceasefires make for bored tacticians with little outlets for their strategies. As predicted, Elias continuously seems to either fold or lose, he doesn’t seem to have much of a grasp for the game in general, nor does he even care to try. The prince, however?

He starts out slowly, cautiously. Like he’s testing his boundaries. He folds once or twice, watching you closely as he throws back his shots of purple liquor. After you’ve leapt into a significant lead, the thrum of hot alcohol from your folds burning through your blood, he seems to take a sharp turn and starts winning, as in, beating you as time eats into the night.

As you shuffle the card stack once almost every hand possible could have played, you observe him closely. He’s staring at your hands, intently, watching the way your thumb flicks one half into the other, head shifting slightly as you twist your wrist to part the deck once more. Almost in an accusation, you don’t look down at your hands as you shuffle, knowing this movement by heart, and then begin tossing everyone their cards.

Elias doesn’t even look at his hand as he folds, face and ears a mottled blue as he nurses a glass of water. Clementine is ‘resting her eyes’ for ‘just a minute,’ head slumped over on the table, her bra hanging from the side of the chair (when did she even take that off?).

The prince has already learned to only look at his cards once, hand over the backs, then gauges you for any sort of reaction as he pushes his filled shot glasses in. Luckily, though, the more you drink, the less your face works, so all you offer up is a resting bitch face that would kill any human man, matching him without hesitation.

You lay your cards out, revealing a four of a kind.

He lays his out, revealing the same hand… but with straight aces.

Four shots. You have to take in four shots.

“Careful,” he says, as though he has no cares in the universe, “I hear alcohol poisoning is a terrible way to go.”

You drink the first, wiping your mouth with your sleeve and refusing to give him the satisfaction of wincing from the burn of the liquor. “I’ve had worse.”

The second shot is harder to drink without making a face, you think your nose twitches despite your attempts not to move.

Your body is sending warning signals to your head as your fingers wrap around the third shot glass, not exactly nauseous yet, but with the knowledge that you definitely will be if you finish what you started.

“I fold,” the prince says just before the liquor hits your lips.

“What?” It takes you a moment to process what he just said.

“I fold,” he repeats, pushing his winning hand to the center and grabbing the remaining shot glass.

“You can’t fold after you’ve played the round,” you say, though your body screams in relief at not having to finish the shots.

“I don’t remember that being in the rules,” he says, “besides, it’s not going to be fun if you’re passed out on the table like your friend here.”

“-’m wrake,” Clementine mumbles, her words so slurred you can barely recognize their meaning.

You wait for a beat, then put the glass down and push it in his direction. “Fine. Here, don’t forget the extra.”

“I would not dare,” he says, amusement in his tone. True to his word, he pours another shot, drinking all three in quick succession.

For a while, you didn’t think he was getting drunk, blaming his more spidery bits for his supposed immunity to alcohol, but the more you stare, the more you notice unusual symptoms in his body. Like the flushed skin around his eyes and nose. Or the way his shoulders slant as he sits. How he’s started to rest his chin on his hand.

Slowly, you begin to shuffle the cards, keeping an eye on how he seems to be watching you with more intensity than before, and you realize something. Oh, oh, for fuck’s sake, you should have noticed it before, but now that he’s drunk, he’s not hiding it so much.

“You’re counting cards,” you accuse.

“And you’re playing with a marked deck,” he responds just as snidely.

You hesitate for just a moment because you hadn’t expected to actually get caught, and then you realize; oh. OH. That’s how he started making a heavy-hitting comeback, he figured out the almost nonsensical pattern on the back of the cards is actually a code.

Fuck.

And then you think further, hands folded like you’re praying. Yes, your mind is clouded with drink, but you’re still capable of weighing the pros and cons of an extremely critical concept. It’s not about the how he figured it out, you decide, but the fact that he quickly adapted, continued playing, and even started winning… without saying anything. He could have demanded a new deck in the face of fairness, but he didn’t.

That’s so…

So…

“Hot,” you say out loud.

“What?” He sounds confused.

“I mean,” you lean back in your chair, clarifying, “if you’re going to continue being so smart and attractive, I’m going to have to have sex with you.”

Elias coughs into his glass, bless him, you forgot he was even there, with his eyes bugging out of his skull. ”Keias,” he almost sounds like he’s begging, “please excuse me for the night, I’m afraid in order to best serve you, I will need to rest and recover.”

“You are dismissed,” the prince says, face a shade of blue you didn’t think he was capable of having.

And oh boy, does Elias leave like the entire goddamn room is on fire, though with the efficiency of an incredibly drunk individual. Even though his first few steps are wobbly, he still manages to flee the thick sexual tension your aura is probably emanating through the air, shooting out the door and disappearing into the ship.

Mercilessly, as soon as the door shuts, you turn back to the large drider at the receiving end of your arousal. To his credit, he seems to be so unused to blatant invitations to use someone’s body like a goddamn carousel that he’s at a loss for words. On the other hand, you have a variety of positions you would like to try out if what the anatomy charts they showed you back at the Starward Matchmakers™ are accurate.

But first… you need to take some measures to dull the oncoming hangover.

“Let’s raid the kitchen,” you say, knowing the sudden change of pace will give him whiplash.

“I’ll call someone to carry her to bed,” the prince says, gesturing to Clem’s body, “someone who isn’t inebriated.”

“Excellent idea,” you say, knowing full well you would drop her halfway through the hallway and somehow end up breaking both your noses in progress.

A servant is ridiculously quick to retrieve her, as though they had been lying in wait just outside the door at the prince’s beck and call, but you find yourself not caring about that creepiness factor in the face of food.

“Shall I call the chef?” He asks as you push through the doors leading into the kitchen.

“Nah,” you say, “they’ll need all the sleep they can get for the breakfast we will collectively want tomorrow. I can cook, I’m not an animal.”

Already, your vision blurs as the last two shots fully hit your system. Even with the glass of water you absolutely chug like a dehydrated lava scrapper, you know it’s going to be a hot minute before you start seeing straight again if you don’t start shoving carbs down your throat. So, quick as you can, you start rifling through the many different cabinets and the three (?!) refrigerators to locate something that your drunk stomach positively craves.

“Normally,” you say, “during my nights out, I go to one of those hover-stands that park out by the clubs and stuff specifically for the drunk hungry people leaving. I don’t know how to describe just how good Abuelita’s Tacos are when it’s three am, and you’re stumbling out of the club, exhausted.”

“And is that something you often do?” He asks, voice slightly slurred.

“It’s a good way to meet people,” you climb up one of the counters, rifling through bags of food with labels you can’t read. “Especially if you’re freelance. You never know who needs to transport cargo if you don’t start asking around.”

“Mmm,” he muses, “and do many pilots tend to frequent bars for customers?”

“Only the ones that aren’t in a guild or privately hired,” you say, hopping down from one counter and heading for the other.

“And you’re not?” He’s wheedling you for information, but you’re comfortable with offering up more than usual.

“Do I strike you as someone who likes being told what to do?” You ask instead of answering. “Oh, my god, the guilds have so many rules. Cut your hair like this, wear these clothes, go to those places, don’t do drugs. Gets old fast when someone is in charge of how you live your life.”

“Hm, we will have to agree on that.” The way his hands are cradling his head is… cute, you think. “Unfortunately, sometimes we don’t have a choice.”

“Yeah I’ve heard that your mom’s a mega-bitch,” you say, surprised that you’ve never outwardly spoken against the queen before.

For a moment, you think you’ve gone too far, but then he laughs. He laughs. And it’s a beautiful laugh, you think, head empty but for the warmth of the sound. Sweet. Gentle. Nothing like the stories of a cruel, maniacal shriek, you have to stand there, speechless, committing that fucking delightful voice to memory.

“What?” He asks when he notices you’re uncharacteristically still.

“You’re cute,�� you say, resuming your hunt. Aha, bread! Finally! Your stomach gurgles with joy, and your liver sighs with relief.

“Oh,” you can hear a bashful tone tangled with his words. “Thank you. It’s not every day I am observed to be so.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll just tell you every day from now on.” You find a knife and a slab of plastic you assume is a cutting board, and unwrap the bread from the clear wrapping plastic. Everything in your body screams for protein, so you begin to rummage through the fridge for anything that smells vaguely like it will satiate the craving.

Once you bring a pile of stuff to the counter, the prince says, almost like he’s taking a gamble, “you’re not exactly what I was expecting.”

You start cutting slices of bread. “You mean today? Or just in general.”

“You were such a meek little thing when we first met,” he says, almost dreamily, “I was afraid you would be so easily crushed by my enemies, and so I tried to protect you like a little, delicate flower.” He holds his hands out, as though simulating how he might hold the aforementioned plant.

“But?” You prod, adding a slab of… meat? Maybe. Cheese? Also maybe. It’s a gauntlet of stuff you’re adding to your strange sandwich.

“But, I now see that you’re a manipulative, lying cheat.” Even though those words should make your heart sink, he says them with such fondness you don’t feel an ounce of rejection. “It takes a very smart person to outdo my careful planning, and you’ve done so many times.”

You lick your thumb clean of a spread you found in the door shelf, finding it strangely savory. “And… you like that?”

“Absolutely,” he says with no hesitation. “You challenge me in all the best ways. No one does that, not anymore.”

Trying to come up with a response that doesn’t involve crying on the floor, you slide the finished sandwich in his direction. “Oh.”

“That wasn’t very romantic,” Aksanos seems to realize, eyes snapping back into reality. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound so terrible-”

You kiss him. Hard. Without the tentative shyness you had kissed him with before. Oh, no, this kiss is hungry, it’s starving, it’s full of desperation and adoration, laced with heated attraction and stifled desire. It doesn’t take long for you to introduce a tongue to this equation, and even though you don’t think he’s familiar with that concept, he’s a fast learner.

The cold metal of the counter presses up against your ass as you use it for leverage, lifting one of your legs and slinging it over his waist, pulling him closer. His hands come to rest on your hips, gilded claws pressing through your clothes, you can tell that he’s unsure of what your boundaries might be. So you help him out, breaking the kiss long enough for you to find the hem of your shirt and lift it up over your body. Just as quickly, you unclasp your bra, tossing it to the side.

He stares at your breasts like he’s never seen a pair of naked tits before, and you suppose that anatomy differences between your species might be throwing him for a loop.

“Wow,” he says, and immediately looks like he regrets it.

You laugh softly, tracing his jawline with your fingers. “Thanks, I grew them myself.”

And then you’re kissing him again, guiding his hands up to your chest as a way of encouragement. He’s careful and slow, the cool sharpness of his claws ghosting over your skin, lips and fangs so eager to please. There’s a heat building between your thighs, one that the seam of your pants only marginally relieves as you grind up against his waist.

“Give me your hands,” you manage to whisper, breaking away from him long enough to draw breath.

He’s a tad confused but obeys.

“I’m going to show you where to touch me,” you murmur, “but those knives strapped to your fingers need to be off.”

“Good idea,” he breathes in agreement.

You take his dominant hand in both of yours, taking a quick moment to kiss the heel of his palm. Then, carefully, you reach for the piece of clawed jewellery on his index finger, picking at the clasp with your fingernail until it comes loose, pulling it off and setting it to the side. You keep your hands as steady as you drunkenly can, knowing each individual ornament is worth more than what you would make in a year.

Next, pants- you need to get the last barrier between him and you off and gone. Hands shaking, you manage to undo the button just above the zipper, clasping that tiny piece of metal between your fingers-

The door opens to someone who looks like they immediately regret every single life decision that’s led them up to this point. And, in fact, they look like if you and the prince weren’t staring at them at this very moment, they would duck out and act like they never laid witness to this mess.

“A- a thousand and million apologies-” they begin.

“State your business.” Like a switch is flipped back on, he’s a regal and terrifying monarch again.

“It’s first shift for the kitchen staff, my keias, I didn’t- if I had known-”

You look up at the clock, realizing just now how late- or early, really, it is. If you were still on the planet, the prince would be getting up to start his duties soon, so... conceivably? A cook would need that head start for a fancy breakfast.

“Yeah, thanks,” you say, twisting your body to protect your nakedness as you find your shirt. Though, through your panic and drunkenness, you can’t seem to locate your bra. Oh well, the sooner you’re out here, the better. “Sorry we wrecked the place, this should have been a bedroom activity, anyways.”

And then you drag the sole heir of Lolth’s monarchal throne out of the kitchen before he decides to kill that poor cook.

#drider #exophilia #monster boyfriend #monster lovers

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mcmansionhell · 5 years ago

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Announcing the Winners of the 2019 McGingerbread Hell Competition

Wow! It was another great year for the McGingerbread Hell Gingerbread House Competition! The judges had their work cut out for them selecting between so many fine selections. Congratulations and great job to everyone who submitted an entry in this year’s contest. However, only six houses could make the cut.

Let’s start out with announcing the winners for Honorable Mention.

Honorable Mention: Priced to Sell! by Tina B.

The judges were wowed by the impressive nub, the tumorous turret, and the fantastically mismatched windows.

Quote from the Project Description: A true GEM of a house! 6,738 SF beautifully set on .23 parklike acres. Mediterranian villa in front, stately Federal in the back; it's the mullet of houses!...Entertain in your beautiful backyard featuring a real StoneTek(TM) patio! The heavily pruned weeping cherry tree will be a real showstopper in 30-40 years! The largest roof in the neighborhood has Chex shingle roof in molasses brown. 4 BR / 5.5 BA / $899,000 / Days on market - 923

Honorable Mention: Festive Roofline Soup by Jessica C.

The judges LOVED the complexity of the roofline, the absurd gabling, and the 3 car garage.

Quote from the Project Description: Features include: • Flaked almond shingles covering a roofline so complex that it required trigonometrical expertise from my math teacher father to work out measurements...[and] A low maintenance yard as the house takes up almost the entire block! Now accepting offers; the sellers are motivated as the couple are in the middle of divorce proceedings.

Honorable Mention: Vinyl Vanity by Joseph & Kayla S.

The judges were impressed by the impressive garage to roof ratio, the roof detailings, the candy-cane columns, and excellent lawyer foyer.

Quote from the Project Description: This 2 square foot, two and a half story Craftsmen Tudor Post Classical Revival estate is the luxurious home that your friends and neighbors never wanted...The car is truly the heart of Tudor England, so we put the garage proudly up front, where the yawning chasm of the door greets the outside world with disdain...Be sure to schedule your private tour soon, this edifice is sure to not last long. On the market. If you're curious about the price, you're probably too economically responsible for this property.

And now, our top 3:

Third Place: A Jersey Thing by Nùria O.

Judges were impressed by the size, shape, and meticulous detailing of the project, which is reminiscent of a truly terrible McModern. Anjulie, seeing the size of the huge roof said “this is some sustainable sh*t.” This project captures the true McMansion ethos in truly making us say “what the hell is going on here?”

Project Description: Inspired by a beatiful RealLife™ McMansion™ in Beach Haven, NJ, this year’s featured McGingerbread mansion is a modern 5-bedroom, 16-bathroom home made entirely in construction-grade gingerbread and held together with royal icing made from free-range egg whites. The nonpareil- and sugar-crystal-covered walls provide both isolation from stormy weather and give a vintage air to counterbalance the futuristic lines of the design...On the back of the house, you can walk out to a large deck (perfect for entertainment) boasting a valuable one-piece handrail. From there you can access the beautiful mediterranean garden, set in candy charcoal and stones, environmentally friendly as it’s practically maintenance free. Don’t miss your chance to visit this unique home—feel the sugar rush!

Second Place: Victorian Opulence by Beth & Tina C.

Reigning McGingerbread champs Beth & Tina C. returned to the scene this year with yet another gorgeous gingerbread. Judges were wowed by the complexity and scale of the project. Sarah was impressed by the intricate piping and lots of frilly details, and the homage to the traditional Victorian gingerbread form. Anjulie described it as “unbearably neat” - she loved the uncantilevered bay window, the detached garage that makes entryway irrelevant, and the hilarious-front balcoiny with half-wall (not code compliant). Kate was impressed by the detailing and the extensive cantilevers which too serious structural engineering to pull off.

Project description: New from the creators that brought you a true monstrosity last year: The Victorian Opulence! Featuring a lovely wrap around porch, adorable detached garage, and a truly magnificent waterfall in the backyard, this monolith of a house features thee decks overlooking somewhat patchy but still rescueable landscaping. Other features include an outdoor patio, a tower for all your princess capturing needs, and a truly cursed facade featuring a curved roof of all things! With several nubbins featuring windows, there is no angle on this house you can't see out of! Standing at nearly 2 feet tall and with an approximate total floor area of 550 square inches-excluding outdoor seating area-this Victorian style home will surely be the envy of all the gingerbread men in your country club. (Snow removal not included as part of HOA membership fees.)

And finally...

First Prize: Simply Having a Wonderful Building Crime by Erin E.

The judges all agreed: this house was outrageous - its execution was fantastic, and its design was full of so many delightful, humorous details. Sarah remarked: “This one is perfectly McMasion-scaled, with weirdly placed windows and gratuitous features to boot.” Anjulie couldn’t sing the praises enough: “I was particularly taken with the garage that is so far detached it makes the front door totally irrelevant...it's a castle of grand sadness. The Pete Buttigieg sign is the literal icing on top.” Kate loved the details: the Pete sign, the ridiculously diverse selection of windows, the piped on invasive plants and basketball hoop, and the glass and siding effects. Part of the competition lies in its absurdity and humor, and in that particular category, this house took the cake.

Project description: This home Defies the Ordinary. Located on a 2.3 acre lot, you'll be the envy of all your neighbors--and can watch from the top of the turret to be sure they're suitably jealous! Enjoy sitting al fresco under the portico above the garage, or on the hand-laid M&M stone patio! The two-story entryway accounts for just a few of the more than 60 sugar glass windows! All of the walls join up exactly where the architect expected them to, and no windows were covered up on accident!!!

Constructed over two weeks, out of ten pounds of flour, four pounds of powdered sugar, and more than half a gallon of corn syrup, this modest four-story house will surely stand the test of time. It’s been meticulously decorated with royal icing vines, wreaths, and Christmas lights, and landscaped with gingerbread boulders, definitely-naturally-this-green icing grass, and coconut macaroon topiary. The roof stands at 17 inches high, and is crafted from waffle cookie shingles over gingerbread rafters. For sale for just $1,895,000, this house is just perfect for new families or young professionals just starting out!

Special thanks to everyone who entered this year and to our judges Sarah Archer and Anjulie Rao for their contributions in pulling off yet another successful entry our search for the Gingerbread McMansion Hall of Fame!

See you next week with this month’s 1970 McMansion.

If you like this post, and want to see more like it, consider supporting me on Patreon!

There is a whole new slate of Patreon rewards, including: good house of the month, an exclusive discord server, monthly livestreams, a reading group, free merch at certain tiers and more!

Not into recurring donations or bonus content? Consider the tip jar! Or, Check out the McMansion Hell Store! Proceeds from the store help protect great buildings from the wrecking ball.

#architecture #design #gingerbread #gingerbread house #mcmansion #mcmansion hell

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idreamofplaid · 4 years ago

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It Begins

Square Filled: Tongue Fucking for @spnkinkbingo & Singing Christmas Songs for @spnchristmasbingo

Characters: Sam x Olivia (OFC); Jensen and John mentioned

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Oral (female receiving)

Summary: Olivia is new to the marketing firm owned by John Winchester, and is surprised to be assigned to an important ad campaign for a high profile client. She feels like she’s in over her head with the work, but she’s in even deeper with the boss’ son, Sam.

Word Count:3781

A/N: This is Part 1 of a Series called Surrender to the Truth. It’s an AU mash up of RPF and SPN characters. I’m also playing with time. Imagine Season 8 Sam and Jensen a year or so into the future.

It was beta’d by the wonderful @fangirlxwritesx67. Thanks Viv for your patience with all my questions, your enthusiasm for this project, your thorough reading that really made me think about what I was doing, and the series title.

Why were Mondays always like this? Olivia found it hard to decide what to wear after a weekend of being relaxed in pajamas and denim. Traffic was predictably the worst, even more so because of the holidays, and if there was any day she was going to forget and leave her coffee on the kitchen counter; it was Monday.

She made it to work on time with only a couple of minutes to spare. This was only her second week on the job at the city’s most up and coming marketing firm and being late was not the way to make a good impression on her new boss. John Winchester was a man with exacting standards and high expectations.

Her first stop was the coffee pot in the breakroom. There was no way her creativity was going to start flowing without caffeine. Cup in hand, Olivia made her way to her office. It was a respectable office, larger than the little more than a closet sized space she’d had in her last office. This one even had a small window. These things might seem insignificant, but Olivia had worked hard for them, and to her they were badges of success.

Olivia had barely had two sips of her vanilla creamer laced coffee when she had a visitor in her office, the kind of visitor who doesn’t knock: Sam Winchester. She hadn’t been here long, but she had been filled in on Sam. He was practically legendary among the women of the office, and some of the men. She took another sip of her coffee to hide the fact that her mouth had fallen open. This guy lived up to the hype.

He was wearing a white dress shirt, minus the jacket, and the way his shoulders and chest filled out that shirt was nothing short of sinful. His tie formed a perfect Windsor knot at his throat, and the face above that tie was Greek god handsome. He was a Greek god with dimples.

As he walked across the room, his every move exuded power and privilege, without the arrogance. Holy fuck. Could a man be more attractive?

He put a folder down on the edge of Olivia’s desk. Work. Right. He expected her brain to focus on what his family was paying her for.

She sat down to take a look at what was so important Sam Winchester himself had delivered it. When he spoke, his voice was just as delicious as the rest of him.

“New account. Dad wants you to take it.” He sat down smoothly on the edge of her desk to watch her look through the file like he owned the place, which he basically did. She finished looking through the file then looked up at Sam, more confused than ever. She was the new kid here. Why would they give her something this high profile, as in Hollywood high profile?

It wasn’t her most impressive moment or the most professional thing she’d ever said, but she blurted out, “Why me?”

Sam rested his hand on his thigh. The way his long fingers spread out over it wasn’t helping her concentrate or wrap her head around this situation. “Because you’re from Texas. Gives you insight into the culture, the vibe, the feel of it.” He stood and adjusted his tie, drawing your attention to his hands again. “This Ackles guy is a personal friend of my dad’s, so make it good.” As he left, he looked back over his shoulder. “Besides, everyone likes beer; you’ll come up with something.”

She said to the empty room, after he closed the door behind him, “No, actually I don’t.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For a couple of minutes after Sam left, all she could do was stare at the nicely framed but generic artwork on her wall. The Winchesters were trusting her with a huge account for some reason, and she was scared completely out of her mind that she was going to screw it up and ruin her future with this company, along with her career in advertising. Why did it have to be beer? Finally, she opened the file and spread the pictures of the brewery and the photos of its famous owner across her desk.

She picked up one of the glossy pictures of Jensen Ackles in all his male model perfection and took a good look at it. He was just as gorgeous as Sam, but his look was distinctly different. His eyes were a clear green, and they held a deep intensity. Those eyes were captivating in a photograph. What would they be like in person? She allowed herself to indulge in that fantasy for a few seconds then shook her head to break the spell. She needed some Bailey’s in her coffee. Excellent idea. She was already walking a perilous line at this new job, so why the hell not?

Olivia swiveled her chair and opened the cabinet behind her, reaching into the back to grab the bottle of liquor where she’d stashed it. She poured a generous amount into her cup, hoping it would calm her nerves. With that in mind, she turned on some music. The soothing notes of an instrumental version of “White Christmas” floated from the speakers.

She closed her eyes and let the taste of the coffee and the Irish cream sit on her tongue. This had been one of her favorite Christmas songs when she was growing up. It always took her to a fantasy wonderland, a place where life was ideal and Christmas cottages had perfectly trimmed trees with beautiful presents piled beneath them, fireplaces alive with glowing fires, stockings hung on the mantel, and snowflakes falling gently outside. Living in Texas, snow had been a magical and rarely seen event.

That long cherished holiday dream filled her mind and calmed her. She started singing along with the music. ...just like the ones I used to know. After a stanza or so, she opened her eyes to focus once again on the pictures of the brewery in front of her. A snowy Christmas was her fantasy, but she had a job to do; that was her reality.

By the end of the day when Sam came back to check on her progress, Olivia had practically nothing to show him. It would do no good to try and stall or hide just how little she had managed to accomplish. He was her supervisor on this project, and he was here to see how much progress she’d made.

He flipped through the work she’d done that day. His expression was unreadable, but his words were clear enough. “The Taste of Texas? Not exactly original is it?” He paused and cut his eyes over to her, then dropped them back to the papers he was holding. “The drawings aren’t bad though. We can probably use some of these hill country sketches. Maybe a logo design.” He closed the file and tossed it back on her desk.

“Do you know what you need?” Her silence said she didn’t. “Inspiration.”

She put her hand on the folder lying on her desk, the one that represented her failed day of work. “Where do I get that exactly?” She was unable to keep a hint of exasperation out of her voice.

He flashed her those unbelievable dimples and winked. “Follow me.” Sam took her to his office. It was easily four times the size of hers with an entire wall of windows that revealed a breathtaking view of the city, the lights from the skyline competing with the white lights on the tastefully decorated Christmas tree that adorned his office. It was opulent and sleek, a space befitting the heir to the growing empire.

She allowed herself to indulge in the breathtaking view of the skyline for a few seconds before commenting, “It’s an incredible view, but I don’t see anything about a family business in Texas out there.”

“Your inspiration isn’t out there; it’s in here.” His voice drew her eyes away from the magnificent view. Sam walked to his mini fridge and pulled out a six pack. He held it up. “A little Cosmic Cowboy from Family Business Beer Company. How can you create an impactful and memorable campaign without sampling the product?”

Sam twisted the top off a bottle and handed it to her. She took a sip of it. Unfortunately, she wasn’t one of those people who could describe the taste of beer. It was cold. It was beer. That was all she had. She was not a connoisseur. How was she ever going to do this ad campaign? She didn’t even like beer.

Sam had been watching her reaction carefully. Olivia didn’t have a poker face, though she’d tried to hide her reaction. It didn’t slip by him that she wasn’t comfortable with this beer thing.

“Not your favorite then?” He took a drink from his bottle. “Taste it again.”

He was the boss’ son, effectively her boss right now, and this was her job; but she got the feeling she would have done whatever he asked even if that hadn’t been the case. She took another sip, and Sam coached her through it. “Think about what you’re drinking; savor it. Just like wine, beer has notes; and they’re all different.”

She took one more drink. “What am I supposed to be tasting?” She’d never been good with wine either, but once someone explained there was blackberry or oak or whatever in it; she could pick up on that. She needed Sam to tell her what she should be tasting.

“Do you taste how it’s substantial but still light?” She took another sip and nodded. “It’s the grapefruit and pineapple that make it light; the pine in it gives it a little something more.” When he said it, she could taste it. She could taste it all.

Sam’s office had a fireplace, not like the one in her fantasy Christmas cottage, but when he picked up a remote and clicked it bringing the flames to life, it was cozy nevertheless. Sam took off his tie and tossed it on one of the upholstered chairs in front of the fire. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and rolled up the sleeves. Absentmindedly, Olivia took another sip of her beer while she watched him.

Sam sat down on the plush rug in front of the fireplace, his back leaning against the leather sofa, legs stretched out in front of him. He put what was left of the six pack of beer down beside him and patted the floor on his other side, inviting her to join him. Olivia lowered herself next to him. She was thankful her pencil skirt wasn’t so tight that it didn’t allow some freedom of movement, and she tried not to stare at the way the firelight danced over his golden skin. He caught her looking at his strong forearms, exposed below the rolled white cuffs of his shirt. Sam smiled, a flirty and suggestive sort of smile. He finished the last of his beer, and popped open another.

Olivia was slower to finish hers, but she was beginning to warm up to the taste. Perhaps it was something you had to acquire, or maybe the company you were in made all the difference. Beer might be okay after all.

He asked, “What do you think of it now?”

“I can taste everything you said.” The crackle of the fire, the lights from the Christmas tree, and the skyline in the background created a perfect storm of romantic atmosphere. Olivia noticed how Sam’s eyes were a beautiful honeyed brown, dappled with green and gold. His lips looked incredibly soft in contrast to the hard line of his jaw. He caught her starting again, this time at his mouth.

He took her empty bottle and slotted it back into the cardboard square where it had originally been and put what was left of his beer in the empty square beside it. Sam turned back to her and leaned in closer. He took her face into his hand and looked into her eyes for a long second or two before he lowered his mouth to hers.

The way he kissed was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. His tongue was sure but gentle as it circled hers. He had complete control of her through what his mouth was doing. A wet spot was forming in her panties, her body responding to him. At the same time his hand was cradling her face while his fingers moved slowly back and forth through her hair, massaging her scalp and melting her under his touch. He could do anything to her. She was eager for it.

He broke the kiss, and now he was holding both sides of her head in his enormous hands. His lips were still just inches from hers. She could feel his breath when he asked, “What do you taste now?”

This man could make her breathless. He was either meant for her, or he was excellent at reading her actions and responses. His attention was completely on her, waiting for her response.

“I...can still taste the beer, but the way you taste makes it better.” It wasn’t eloquent. For someone who worked with words to pull the maximum effect from them, he could make her forget how to use them properly.

Sam kissed her again, hands roaming down her back and stopped just above her waist. “You know what else might really inspire you?”

Olivia pressed her body so tightly against his she could feel the muscles in his chest and stomach through his shirt. It made her wetter. “I have some ideas.”

He took off her jacket and let it fall to the floor. “Then let’s get those creative...juices flowing.” The blouse she was wearing was form fitting. Sam’s gaze traveled over her breasts before his eyes locked onto hers.

A spark traveled between them. Lust? Need? Want? Whatever it was, the sexual tension hung in the air for a moment before their lips crashed together.

Sam lowered her to the floor while he pulled her shirt up. He broke the kiss to tear it over her head and throw it out of the way. Now it was his turn. She took a fistful of his shirt and pulled it out of his pants, then did the same on the other side. He propped himself over her on his hands while she unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. She ran her hand across his chest and over his shoulder. What he’d been hiding beneath that expensive shirt was impressive.

Sam smiled down at her. “You like?”

“Very much,” she answered while he took off her bra and lowered his head to take one of her nipples in his mouth. He teased it with his tongue until she was arching her back and raising her hips off the floor.

Sam sucked hard on the nipple in his mouth before pulling off it. “Do you want more?” Her eyes closed and her lips parted, a small moan escaping from them.

He unzipped her skirt and dragged it down her legs, then turned his attention to her lace covered mound. Sam rubbed his fingers over her panty covered core. “Already so wet.” He pushed her panties aside and swiped his fingers through her folds. Then he lifted his fingers to his mouth and sucked her juices from them. His eyes bore into hers. “Tastes so good.”

He tore her panties from her body to gain access to what he wanted; she heard the sound of silk and lace ripping. Sam’s hand felt huge on her thighs as he pushed them wide apart. He held them there, and his tongue found her clit. He sucked it the same way he’d worked at her nipple.

She was raising and lowering her hips beneath him, fucking nothing and needing to be filled until Sam swirled his tongue all the way down her slit to her opening and thrust it inside. She wasn’t empty anymore, and it felt incredible. He moved his tongue in and out of her, fucking her on it until she was writhing and grabbing fistfuls of his hair.

She wanted to scream but was still aware enough to know they were in the office building. So, with some effort, she held it in. But when he added the pad of his thumb circling over her clit while he continued to thrust into her with his tongue, she started to whimper and moan. Her thighs were shaking when she came on his face. He licked and stroked her through her orgasm until she went still beneath him.

Sam didn’t move for a few seconds, then he raised himself up so he could see her reaction to what he’d done to her, how it had affected her. Olivia smiled up at him, and Sam returned the smile while he unbuckled, unzipped, and pushed his pants and underwear down over his hips. If she’d thought what was under his shirt was stunning, what was under his pants was better. His cock was absolutely magnificent. It stood against his stomach long and thick, resting on his well defined abs. Sam caught her looking at him yet again, and his smile got bigger. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Sam lowered himself from his kneeling position until he was sitting on the floor. He pushed his pants farther down his legs to get them out of the way. He extended a hand to her, and she took it. He settled her on his lap. Olivia wrapped her legs around him. He looked at her with those beautiful eyes that combined colors in so many ways that seemed to change from moment to moment. “Do you want to go through with this? It’s not too late to say no.”

She squeezed her thighs into his sides. She was imagining the feel of his cock stretching her open. From the looks of him, it was going to be a tight fit. “I absolutely want to go through with this.”

That was all he needed to hear. He took a condom from the wallet in the pants pooling around his ankles and rolled it down over his length. Sam put his hands on each side of her waist and lifted her up, lining her up over the tip of his cock.

When he started to lower her down onto his shaft, she rolled her head forward. Her hair brushed over his shoulder as he continued to slowly ease her down onto his length, giving her time to adjust to his size. Once he was fully seated inside her, he began to roll his hips. Oliva imitated his movements, rolling her hips with the same rhythm.

She raised her head because she wanted to see into Sam’s eyes while he thrust up into her. There was something in the depths of them that she couldn’t quite define, something she wanted to figure out, something she wanted to understand and know better. He covered her mouth and kissed her with an intensity she could feel through her entire body.

His tongue was circling hers, tasting her, when she came again. Olivia clenched around him and her body spasmed in waves as her orgasm crested and blended into another. Sam kissed her all the way through it. She went limp in his arms, and he kept moving.

She could feel his hands on her and the warmth of the flame from the fire on her skin. She could feel the way his cock throbbed, still buried deep inside her, and she could taste him. He pulled away from her mouth and buried his face in her neck when he came.

“Olivia.” He said her name once, just the one word, and it struck her to the core. Olivia regretted that she couldn’t feel his hot release painting her insides. It felt like some part of him was being held back from her, and she wanted it all.

Whatever magic she’d felt hearing the sound of her name on his lips dissipated with the reality of Sam pulling himself from her body and carefully removing the condom. He pulled his pants back up before walking over to his desk to dispose of it in the wastebasket there. Olivia imagined it wouldn’t be the first time the cleaning service found one of those in his trash.

What was she doing? She just screwed the boss’ son in his office. She was a total cliche. Her mind told her she should feel like a slut, but she didn’t. She refused to be ashamed of what she’d done. The sex had been mind blowing; her body had never responded to any man that way. Sam had stirred something in her physically, but it had gone beyond that. It was something she would examine later and try to define, but now all she could think of was escaping the overwhelming thoughts and feelings consuming her. Hastily, she grabbed her clothes and was in the process of putting them back on when Sam returned.

He took her hand and charmed her with his boyish dimples and his eyes that had turned a soft gray like the color of a sky lit by a silvery moon. Still, it was his words that got to her the most. “Hey, don’t be in such a hurry to leave; you’re going to make me feel cheap.” He was flirting with her. Guys like him moved smoothly through situations like this as though they were born to it, and in a way they were. Still, part of her hoped he was being at least a little sincere.

Sam hadn’t let go of her hand. “Stay with me. We can watch the fire, enjoy the lights on the Christmas tree.” This was a fling, right? It was a one night stand with the irresistible guy at work. “Plan our trip to Texas.” What did he just say? “A six pack is just an introduction to the business. What you need is to see the brewery.”

Sam sat down on the sofa, and Olivia sank down beside him. She lowered her guard a little and let some of the bliss she was feeling wash over her. The ambience created by the light from the tree and the fire enhanced her mood; both the light and her mood seemed somehow softer now.

“We can take the company jet. Ring in the new year in Austin.” Listening to him, Olivia had a most happy thought. Maybe this wasn’t a one night thing after all.

Everything: @gambitwinchester @princessmisery666 @onethirstyunicorn @peridottea91 @logical-princey @emilyshurley @beenlovingromansincedayoneish @fangirlxwritesx67 @waywardbaby @atc74 @shaniquacynthia @mariekoukie6661 @tumbler-tidbits @67-chevy-baby @fandom-princess-forevermore @terrarium-jpeg @emoryhemsworth @crashdevlin @heycasbutt @jules-1999 @mrsdeannafuckingwinchester @cosicas-cuquis @sammyimpala-67 @queenoftheunderdark @dean-winchesters-bacon @mrs-meghan-winchester @timelordy-fangirl2 @sweetness47 @hobby27 @awesomesusiebstuff @kickingitwithkirk @becs-bunker @sandlee44 @supernaturalgrandma @lonewolf471 @sea040561 @dawnie1988 @volleyballer519 @outcastedangel @kdfrqqg @lizette50 @daisymoder72 @sorenmarie87 @winchesterxfamilybusiness @deansotherotherblog

Sam/Jared: @girl-next-door-writes @stunudo @feelmyroarrrr @sammit-janet @idabbleincrazy @evansrogerskitten @focusonspn @autumninavonlea @spnxbsessed @durinsbride @deansyahtzee @waywardnerd67 @fullmooner @julesthequirky

#spnkinkbingo #spnchristmasbingo #sam smut #sam x ofc #sam series

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 3 years ago

Text

The Dragon Egg (Parts 9-13)

There is a heaviness in the air. There is always a heaviness and she thinks that she might be the only one who feels it. Things have been running smoothly since the recording studio incident, they haven’t been so short with each other recently. Maybe they had gotten it all out of their systems; they had spoken their minds, they had told her off. And she is too tired to be anything but dully passive and nonchalant about it.

She finds that she doesn’t care to converse other than to make suggestions or deliver instructions. There isn’t much to be said really. She sits still as a team of makeup artists toy with her face. The decorate it with bruises and the SFX team accents these with bleeding cuts and welts. Whether they know it or not, they give her a look to match what she feels within. They apply a thick layer of glittering black eyeshadow and and twin curtains of blue dye to her bangs. She looks broken. Broken and beautiful. Beautiful at least for now, she can’t imagine that that will last past her third month of pregnancy.

They hold out her arm and enhance the ink on her arms and back. She isn’t sure why they bother with the dragonfly tattoos as they cover each with broken and tattered dragon wings that dangle limply where they had once spread wide and proud.

They clamp a faux iron collar around her neck and tether it’s chain to a spot on her waistband. She holds out her hands for them to slap manacles upon them. These are authentic, per her request and they are so heavy on her wrists. She supposes that it is all the better. If she is actually in pain she want have to worry about her theatrics. She can focus on lip syncing and other aspects of their music video.

A Dragon Bound has become their most popular single and she will give fans a video that lives up to the hype. Up to the darkly depressive atmosphere of the song. The video will be shot in two places; at the base of a volcano and on the inside of an old drainage pipe that they had happened upon on their way to the volcano.

She had planned on shooting in the drainage pipe first but the volcano is smoking heavily today, lending a more desirable atmosphere as well as a new sense of urgency. They will need to have their footage before the thing blows. At least now she won’t have to be the one urging them and nagging them to speed things up; Zhao, biting his nails, is already adamant that they rush through it if they absolutely needed to film here.

“You’re the best band on the label right now!” She hears him whine to Ruon, “I can’t just have you all burn alive.”

“We’ll be fine, dude.” Ruon shrugs.

She watches them paint ash and charcoal markings like tribal war paint all over his exposed chest and back. A design with many circles, dots, and swirls. Around his neck they fix a helping of carefully crafted dragon bones. Around his waist is tied a tattered skirt made of black leather. His hands and feet are dipped in soot as though he had climbed his way out of the volcano. Chan has a similar look with the circles and swirls swapped for claw swipes and horizontal lines.

She supposes that the aesthetic fits well enough. The pair will act as prison guards in the video while Zirin acts as a dragon’s rider, heart broken and morning. Dressed in a burnt white dress with her hair done into its usual braids. A strand of polished obsidian clanks on her wrist.

And so their costuming has come together nicely, it will serve the story of their video well. If all goes as planned it will convey a dragon--once mighty and powerful--chained, broken, and beaten before the eyes of a rider who can do nothing but ache in unison.

Azula wishes that she could have someone who would ache in unison with her. Who would cry out with rage for her as her life comes undone. As she loses her friendships and wonders just how much longer she can pretend for.

They haven’t even started the shoot and she already isn’t sure that she will make it through the day. She feels nauseous on top of exhausted and stressed. She is practically squirming in her attire, it feels tight somehow. The leather seems to cut into her waist and her top is chafing against her chest, most uncomfortably. No matter which way she tugs at it or how she tires to adjust it, the discomfort remains. And she is sure that she is imagining it. A baby can’t develop that rapidly, can it? She rubs her hands over her face.

“What’s wrong?” Chan asks, more carringly than she had expected.

“It’s too tight.”

“Well, yeah,” He laughs “isn’t that how you wanted it?” It is almost as though he hadn’t left her alone in the studio a few days prior.

She should take comfort in it, instead it only seems to add to the queasiness in her belly. She shrugs, “nevermind, it’s fine. We should probably start filming.”

She must have sounded cross because Ruon cuts in with a light, “look, things got really heated the other day. You’re allowed so feel bad about it. You’re allowed to be upset with us.”

She doesn’t think that she is. To be mad at them is to risk another fight. She can’t afford another fight. Not with her father breathing down her neck.

“It’s fine. Really. Let’s head to the volcano before Zhao loses it completely.” She forces a smile. She thinks that it would be overkill to repeat that it is fine.

.oOo.

There is something about faintly and sardonically humorous feeling nauseous with heat while dressed as a dragon. The volcano throws simmering waves upon her and the smell, that awful sulphurous smell--she doesn’t think that it was this dreadful when they had scoped out the place. She isn’t sure whether he should attribute its unbearableness to her pregnancy or its readiness to erupt. She thanks the spirits that she doesn’t have to actually sing.

And yet the heat rolling off of the volcano leaves her feeling sluggish and faint. It amplifies the vestiges of her morning sickness, bringing it back with full force. She feels sicker still thinking about how she should be having the time of her life; she is shooting what is to be their most bombastic and impactful music video yet. She is shooting it to promote success to come.

So why does she feel like she is building the scaffold to her downfall? Why does she feel like she is shooting a documentary on the fall of an empire? She is dressed in a pricey costume and decorated with the most opulent makeup but, Agni, does it feel so cheap.

The dance should be simple. Simple but efficient. It takes a slow sway of her hips, slow but powerful. Domineering. It takes a languid swivel that will, in theory, throw a glint off of her wings. And if she does it right it will further emphasize what her tight skirt does with an added hip sway for good measure.

She will let her voice do most of the work. She likes to think that most of the attention will be paid to it. But she knows better than that. She knows just as well that it is always good to keep Chan topless in the videos. She knows that it is a damn shame that regardless of talent, they will always get more views if she pivots her body in the right ways, if she shows her face in only the most flattering light.

She can’t seem to manage it today. She feels too sickly to roll her hips correctly. It only grows worse as the day crawls on. She feels weaker with each passing minute. She could go for some water. She has to at least make it through the rest of this scene. How humiliating it would be if she were the reason for their second take--she has never required more than one. Mostly it is Zirin who has them going into takes in the double digits. Zirin who accounts for the most hilarious bloopers. And when she is in the mood for it, it is all in good fun.

She is in no mood for it. Regardless, she finds herself holding her hand up and the director sharply calls for them to cut. It is only a small mercy to justify to herself that it is better to call for a cut than to force one by vomiting on camera.

“Why are we stopping?” Ruon asks.

Zhao seems to cringe, practically biting his nails. No doubt, in his mind, each wasted second is one second closer to the volcano exploding with them still in its circumference of destruction. She wonders if that would be any worse than being within her circumference of destruction. Agni, would she hate to be there and yet she can’t flee like the rest of them can.

And so she falls right into her own destruction. There really is no good place for her to throw up and so she makes it only behind a small grove of palm trees before doubling over and heaving. By the end of it her throat is burning but not as furiously as her cheeks are. She has nothing to clean her mouth with and she very well can’t just walk back on set in such a sloppy, disgusting state. So she doesn’t. She instead slumps against the tree opposite herself. She needs to wait for the nausea to pass, lest she find herself hustling right back here.

“Azula? Are you okay.”

She jerks as Ruon kneels down next to her. He seems to assess the situation and stands right back up. For a moment she thinks that he is to appalled to stick around but he comes back with a towel and fans her face as she dabs at the corners of her mouth with it.

“We can finish tomorrow if you’re not feeling well.”

She gives her head a furious shake.

“It could erupt at any time.” She mumbles. “I’m just a little hot.” At this point, she isn’t entirely opposed to finishing the shot with layers of body paint instead of restrictive clothing.

“I’ll tell the director that you want to finish the volcano scenes and that we can film the rest when you’re feeling better.”

There is no sense, she won’t feel any better for at least nine months. In fact, she is certain that she will feel worse with each passing day. She shakes her head. “I’m fine now. I can do this.” She has to, she has to. She is her father’s gleaming little star.

--------

“You should get therapy or something.” Zirin laughs. “Is there a rehab for workaholics?”

She nearly slams the phone down then and there. But sometimes she thinks that it is true. She thinks that she could use it for several things. Where her dad has alcohol she has an endless list of tasks and things that need to be done. She would rather get lost in these tasks than lost in her own mind.

She tries to think things over, tries to formulate a plan; to either work up the courage and work out a plan to get an abortion without her father knowing or to figure out how she would deal with carrying to term.

Both options are ugly. Everyone already sees her as cold and pitiless but she is no mother. And maybe it would be less evil to pick this baby apart bit by bit rather than letting life slowly pick it apart the same way it is deteriorating her.

“Perhaps I should.” She mutters.

“Geez,” Zirin grumbles, “I was just joking. But I do think it would do you some good to have a break. You’ve been so tired lately.”

“What makes you say so?”

For a moment there is only a soft crackle on the other end of the line. “I don’t know, you just aren’t as alert. A few weeks ago, Chan would have never gotten away with drawing a penis on the recording equipment.”

“He did what!?” She snaps.

“Oh...you still didn’t notice it…” Zirin trails off. “Yeah, there are three of them now. If you can find all of them, I’ll wash them off for you. No hints though.”

Azula crinkles her nose, she can’t say that she shares their sense of humor. She audibly sighs, “I’ll see you at practice, Zirin. We have a show tomorrow night and, tired or not, I still expect peak performances.”

She hopes that they will go hard on her if she can’t uphold her own standards.

“See ya tonight!”

Azula ends the call, puts her phone to the side, and flops onto her bed. She drapes one hand over her forehead and the other she leaves at her side. One leg is outstretched and the other is bent at the knee. She is so, so exhausted. She hasn’t even exerted herself today and she is wholly fatigued.

If her father saw her like this he would give her a verbal lashing like no other; she should know better than to slack so close to Audio of Agni. She reminds herself that she still has several months.

Several months and she is torn between preparing for the big show and preparing to give birth.

Her mind drifts again and she wishes that she had called for an early practice. This time when it wanders, it wanders in a brand new direction and with a brand new set of what ifs; if there’s one thing that she can be thankful for, it’s that she isn’t just some girl lingering at a locker.

She can only imagine what it would be like to wander the halls with a baby bump. Can only imagine the relentless sneers and comments. The complete social death.

She knows that she won’t have to imagine for long.

If she were just some girl, she would only have a few hallways, one building of speculators.

She has, possibly, the whole world.

She has to come up with a plan.

She has to make a decision.

She has always been good at strategizing, so why is her mind failing her now?

Had she been thinking productively she might have requested the money for an abotion disguised as funds for her music video. But she would still need his signature. He would still check over all of her expenses and realize that it doesn’t quite add up.

For the first time in ages, she wishes that her mother were still alive.

---------

Ozai slaps the magazine against her head. It is just a bundle of pages, it shouldn’t hurt. Somehow he makes it hurt. He throws it at her. “What is this?” He roars.

She scans her eyes over the headline. She nearly cries with relief. Absurd and humiliating as it is, at least it isn’t the truth. But Agni if it isn’t a reminder that she can’t hide for much longer. She holds the magazine, it quivers subtly with the shaking of her hands. It has been a long time since he has yelled at her like this, and he isn’t even drunk this time. She thinks that his sobriety somehow makes it even more terrifying. She knows that she has disappointed him and he doesn’t even know how profoundly yet.

His voice is booming. Clear. It puts a lump in her throat and a sinking feeling in her stomach; If this is how he is reacting to a sensationalized weight gain headline, she can only imagine how he will take the truth. “Tell me how this has happened!”

Sensationalized or not, it brings color to her cheeks. True or not, she feels disgusted with herself. He makes her feel disgusted with herself. And somehow she thinks that he has every right to make her feel that way. It isn’t just her own reputation she is ruining, not just her own image. But his as well.

She puts all of her focus into not stuttering, neglecting to keep the shakiness to a minimum. She knows that there is no good answer and there is no time to make anything up not like there is with anything else. Even if she could come up with a sufficient lie on the spot, her delivery is never quite impeccable when it comes to speaking with father. Or maybe it is. Maybe he just knows her well enough to see through even her finest performances. “I don’t know. It just did.” She takes a breath and repeats herself louder with more bravado. The kind that could possibly salvage her dignity.

She tries to stand tall. Tries to pretend like she is having a discussion with Zuko or Iroh.

Ozai inhales deeply and the next time he speaks, it is much quieter. The quality of his voice is almost soothing but the content rattles her to the core, “you do realize that this is embarrassing.”

“Yes, father.” And, truly, it is. It settles upon her that this pregnancy isn’t just going to reap her energy and mood but her aesthetics and confidence. There will come a point when the weight gain headline isn’t just the product of a paparazzi making exaggerations for an income boost. It is going to take everything from her.

“You know that I only want what is best for you? I want a healthy daughter.” His voice is so soft now. He reaches a hand out and strokes her cheek. “Unfortunately, this industry puts a lot of investment into looks. An ugly face doesn’t sell records. An unhealthy body doesn’t get views on music videos.”

“I know.” He has told her this before. Has made a point of beckoning to sultry photoshoots with low cut tops and poses to emphasize with a reminder not to reveal too much. There is, apparently, a fine line between sex appeal and whoring herself out. A fine line between glamor and beauty and crass poor taste.

She can’t rely on sex appeal, but she must use it as a tool.

She likes to think that she has mastered the art. She is almost sure that she has. Sure until today with her father staring at her as though she is the most disgusting sight that he has laid his eyes upon--but his hand is still on her cheek, he is still being tender--and her pregnancy isn’t even that obvious yet. The cravings and the ravenous appetite have not even set in yet. She finds herself wrapping her arms around her middle and dreading the day that they do.

“Do you?” He withdraws his touch.

“Yes.” She insists. She yearns to tell him the truth. To tell him that she has been as careful and cautious as ever. That she can take care of herself just fine. But she isn’t sure that she believes it. If she had been taking care of herself she wouldn’t have crawled in bed with Chan.

He takes another sharp inhale. “You are going to remedy this before Audio of Agni, yes?”

“Yes, father.”

“Am I going to need to get you a personal trainer?” The question isn’t for her. And he answers it immediately. “I am going to get you a personal trainer and a dietician. I will contact Mai’s mother and see who has been coaching her.”

“Don’t call Michi.” Her face is burning. Spirits, the last thing she needs is for Mai to hear about this. If Mai hears about this, so will Zuko. Spirits, they have probably already read the headlines. “You don’t need to, I can manage my own diet. I’ve been doing it for…”

“You can’t even tell me how this happened and you expect me to believe that you can fix your poor eating habits on your own?” His voice comes somewhere between that cool, suave drawl and a shout. And he says it with such conviction that she almost takes it for the truth.

He has thrown her own words back at her, she can’t exactly dispute herself. She sighs, resignation begins to settle in, in the form of a endless, expansive numbness. It creeps from her mind to every inch of her body. She is so tired. So, so terribly drained.

“Whatever you think is best, father.”

He pulls out his phone. He doesn’t bother to spare her a look, “you’re dismissed.”

Dejection. It is the only thing that cuts through the numbness. And it is so woefully heavy and she doesn’t have the strength to carry it. She has never learned how. She loathes that she has a reason to try to figure it out.

Somehow, even ascending the stairs seems like too much of a task. How the hell is she supposed to compete if the stairwell is too daunting, too draining? But he has to make it to the top of it. Has to get to her room. She knows that father doesn’t want to see her face. She doesn’t particularly want to see it either, she probably looks like hell. She sure feels like it.

She thinks that she should call Seicho or Ruon, maybe Zirin or Chan. She thinks, with the last fragments of her hope, that she could call TyLee and vent like old times. That, that could rekindle an old spark. She almost does. Her fingers hover over a contact that she could never bring herself to delete.

She puts the phone down. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone at all anymore. Instead she sits before her desktop and checks on the reception of their new album and music video. The numbers and statistics usually cheer her up.

Their music video has a record breaking viewcount. Aside from that one magazine the rest sing their praises; commend their musical capabilities and uplift their creativity. Their newest album has sold millions--it is only right for ‘the most anticipated album of the year’. There is nothing but applause and predictions of a strong future.

And it finally settles in that she is a failure.

------------

It is a shirt. Just a dumb shirt. Maybe if it were a Blue Talon shirt or a Fire’s Reign shirt it would make sense. He would be able to justify it in his mind.

But it is just a shirt. Just a dumb fucking t-shirt with bold lettering and a picture of two birds. Something about, ‘professional tit spotter’ has struck a chord with him tonight.

“Take it off!” He demands of the young man. “Take it off or we won’t start the next song!” He feels jittery, twitchy. The room is too hot. His heart is too fast. “Take it the fuck off.” He feels the roar rumbling in his chest but somehow he still doesn’t feel like he is the one speaking.

“Zuko.” Mai mutters, it is cautionary. Her teeth are gritted. Brows creased and eyes stern. And yet he can’t find it in him to take the warning.

“Tell him to take that shirt off!” TyLee is shrinking closer to the back of the stage, further from him, her arms bunched up close to her chest. Each time he speaks elicits a new flinch. Somewhere in the back of his mind he begs himself to stop. To get a grip. To let it go. But this is overpowered by a throbbing anger. A violently passionate need to get that eye-sore of a shirt out of his sight.

“Zuko, you’re scaring her.”

“He’s trying to piss me off, Mai!” Zuko throws his hands up. “He’s wearing that shirt to...to get to me!” The light is glaring in his eye. A violent red.

“He doesn’t even know you!”

The light pulses.

“Then why is he trying to make me mad?”

It flashes and blinks. His head pounds. His anger pounds harder.

“Zuko you aren’t making sense.” There is a hitch in her voice. That should have been enough. That should have snapped him out of his...whatever this is.

“Will someone turn that off!?”

“They’re trying,” and “Zuko, no!” become one and the same in his mind. He isn’t sure who said what. Even with the strobe lights stilled he is seeing red. In the very far reaches of his mind he is also screaming, ‘Zuko, no!’

But the drugs speak louder. Their haze occupies the forefront of his mind. And so he surges into the crowd with his guitar in hand. “Where is he!? Where the fuck is he!?” His breaths are ragged and the crowd parts. “I just want to know where he went!” His voice booms across the venue. The circumference grows wider around him. And so grows his frustration.

He slams his guitar against the floor. Once... Twice... Five times maybe.

He is still going. Going until a crack forms in the wood. Going until he feels arms loop around him. “Let go!” He shouts. “You can’t do this to me!” He gives a kick and a thrash. The crowd parts further. When he looks up he meets Mai’s eyes and when he looks into them he doesn’t see anything. No anger, no sadness, no distress, not even pity. She shakes her head. He thinks that TyLee is crying.

And then he is seeing red flashes again. This time there is blue in the mix. And in the wail of the sirens he hears the sound of dashed ambitions.

.oOo.

‘From Ashes To Phoenix Singer Arrested: Drugs Involvement Expected.’ She should take comfort in the headline. It means that there is less competition. But what does it matter if she is no longer in the tournament herself. Somehow it only leaves her feeling hollow...guilty. At least Zuzu can depend on Mai’s bail money.

What can she depend on? She holds her hand to her belly. She inhales deeply. There is one person that she can depend on and it is time for that person to stop feeling sorry for herself and maintain the success that she has set herself up for.

She rises to her feet and smooths the wrinkles out of her shirt. She pinns the article to the wall, a reminder of what she won’t become. She has a show to get to, a crowd to impress, an expectation to live up to. Albeit it will be a small crowd. Small yet esteemed; in her audience she will find the ladies and gentleman of Wan Shi Tong’s Wing, The Tui Las, and Chong & The Gang. If she can impress the renowned artists then she can eclipse her other failures.

.oOo.

There are no studs and leather tonight. It is a more formal occasion, she just hopes that Zirin will put aside her stubborn aversion to conformity and adhere to the dress code. If the punk rockers of Freedom Fighters can do so, she can’t imagine it will be too hard for the woman. If Jet can comb his mohawk down for a night, then surely she can remove her choker for a time. She supposes that she won’t get so see what flavors they have added to their outfits until they leave their changing rooms. She can only hope that they have chosen well, or at the very least, that their mistakes will be as simple as scolding them to remove a mismatched accessory.

Azula holds her own dress up to her body, trying it in for size before actually dressing herself in it at all. The confetti dot sequined fabric is somewhat scratchy on her arms, she hopes that the inside is lined with a gentler fabric. Something less itchy.

Regardless, she is certain that she won’t find any comfort in the dress, just holding it up against her figure, it looks tight. She isn’t sure who she has to sternly lecture but she knows damn well that she had been adamant about getting something loose fitting for a change.

Her cheeks color at the private realization that it very well might have been loose fitting when her measurements had been taken and the order had been placed. She swallows, she is in for another stern lecture herself. It is just one more thing to fret over. One more thing that will make this a nerve wracking night.

She inhales deeply and pulls the dress over her head, praying that the zipper won’t catch. She doesn’t bother with the mirror once she does manage to zip it all the way up, she doesn’t have time to scrutinize herself tonight, can’t afford to study the changes and the way they make her hate herself . Instead she slips on her heels and calls for her makeup team to enter.

Azula tries to relax while the artists begin applying gold tinted mascara and a shimmery layer of red eye shadow. But she can’t seem to get comfortable in her chair, not with the dress feeling as tight as it does. Not with such a forceful reminder of the life swelling within her. She grits her teeth, she can’t think about that right now.

She isn’t sure when she can think about it. There never seems to be a good time. And perhaps that is why she is no closer to formulating a plan.

Himari, the sweet and quiet woman, running a brush through her hair speaks up for the first time in a long time, “are you doing alright, Azula?”

“Just fine, Himari.” She thinks to elaborate, to make some excuse for her constant shift in her chair and tugging at her dress. “I’m just fine.”

She can insist it all she’d like, no matter what sort of bravado she puts on, she is anxious. And it goes beyond the baby bump; it is harder than she anticipated to push back scenarios that her mind conjures up for her; scenarios in which her voice cracks in front of the most acclaimed rock artists. Scenarios where she slips up and makes an absolute fool of herself before the pioneers of the genre and her father. And spirits, she can’t control her bandmates and what they do. If they flounder it is a reflection of her and her inability to manage her own band.

One of the artists takes her hand and begins applying polish, a bright red to match her dress with tiny gold pearl accents along the top. After several more minutes they withdraw their hands and makeup wands. Himari holds up a mirror; her hair is pulled into a loose topknot with elegantly curled bangs to frame her face. They have so gracefully winged her eyeliner and with a touch of makeup glue, her lashes sparkle with faux rubies and topaz. They have carefully painted her lips a glimmering red and outlined it in a glistening gold. She looks pretty and yet she doesn’t feel beautiful.

“Will this do?”

“Just fine, yes. Thank you.” Even if it weren’t to her liking she isn’t sure that she would be able to sit there with her discomforts for much longer. With a good twenty minutes to spare, she wanders out into the hallway where Seicho waits for her.

She clears her throat, “good evening Seicho. I trust that Zhao hasn’t been too much of a pest. He ‘doesn’t appreciate’ when I ‘invite guests backstage unannounced.’”

Seicho chuckles. “He’s been ignoring me for his sudoku puzzles.” She pulls Azula into a small hug. She steps back and seems to look her up and down. Azula finds herself absently biting the inside of her cheek while the girl makes her observations. “You look really beautiful tonight.” She finally remarks, brushing a sweep of curls behind Azula’s ear.

Her cheeks color softly and she clears her throat and holds her head high, “naturally.”

Seicho chuckles again, “you can say, ‘thanks, you too’ you know.”

Azula’s face flushes again.

“I’m teasing.” She gives her a nudge. “You earned that compliment.”

This time she does manage to muster a thank you. She thinks that she owes Seicho a second mention of gratitude for bothering to show up despite being sidelined for these very events. She clears her throat again, “thank you for being here, I’m not sure if father is…” pleased enough with her “...able to be in the audience tonight. He’s a very busy man. It’s nice to have someone.” Even still it is going to sting to pick out the familiar faces of Zirin, Chan, and Ruon’s families while viewing the empty seats reserved for her own family. Not that she expects Zuzu or Iroh to care.

“Of course!” Seicho grins. “I’ve been meaning to come see you play live again.”

Azula quirks a brow. “Are you sure that you didn’t come by just so you could meet Chong? Remind me, how many posters do you have of Chong & The Gang?”

“You’re right! What am I doing here? I gotta get by Chong!” Seicho declares. She slings her arm over Azula’s shoulder. “I can meet them later, I’m here for you.”

Azula’s heart flutters. Someone is here for her. Someone supports her. And that someone sneaks a little peck on her ear.

.oOo.

That kiss, however subtle, carries her to the stage. Within the dizzying kaleidoscope of her emotions, it brings her a more pleasant fluttering. And yet the dreamy haze that comes with it is dangerous. It is a distraction she can afford just as little as the insecurities that the kiss has momentarily driven out.

The stage is dark when she steps out onto it. She makes her way to the microphone and wraps one hand around the stand while the other holds the microphone in place. She fixes her eyes on the crowd. She can’t yet see them well and they can’t yet see her. She can’t see them and even if she could, she wouldn’t see her father’s face, the table reserved for her company is occupied only by Seicho.

Zirin taps out her first cymbal beats and Chan follows with his acoustic guitar before the stage lights come on. There is no frenzied applause, no whooping and hollering. The stage lights don’t pulse and flicker, don’t change colors. It is a steady stream of yellow-white and a silence with weight. This crowd requires delivery before revel. She intends to coax the claps out of them, intends to leave them begging for the encore, for the music that they should be excited for now.

It is a ballroom event, sure, a regal affair, but a light and leisurely clap couldn’t hurt. They are a tough crowd. It is just as well. It is a reason to do better. To be better. Her voice slips into the mix like windchimes amid a rustle of leaves. Soft, gentle, like a carasess. It is a very different style than she is used to, strange on her tongue despite having reversed these acoustic versions many times over. She can’t say that it is a bad kind of strange. In fact, it feels rather nice. Somehow the quality feels richer and unstrained. She doesn’t feel like she is tearing her throat apart note by note, doesn’t feel like she will need to down a cup of slippery elm tea post performance. But for all of the comforts smooth vocals come with, they are missing the raw power. The raw power that she needs to feel more fully confident. She wears metal music like armor and this acoustic performance is stripping her naked.

The first few songs are fine, they are older, impersonal. It is the new ones. They are the ones that pick her apart lyric by lyric. She hadn’t imagined that it would be this hard to work her way through them.Spirits, she can’t choke up now. But with a slower sound and a tweaking to minor key the song is sadder. It hits more intensely. Her own voice stabs into her hurt, her own message leaves her crumbling.

She thinks that her cheeks are growing wet. She isn’t sure why she is slipping now, it hadn’t been so unbearable during practice. She hadn’t been this weak.

She had anticipated a cracking of her voice, a snapping of a guitar string, a splintering of a drumstick, or a migraine inducing microphone feedback. Possibly even a stumbling over lyrics. She didn’t think that she would cry. She thought that she had desensitized herself thoroughly.

She isn’t sure when her father had slipped into the venue but by the time she notices him it is too late to toughen up, too late to conceal the tears that glisten in the spotlight, brighter than the sequins on her dress. She breaks a little more on the inside. She keeps singing. She always keeps singing. And without a hitch in her voice. Her perfect, silken voice.

Chan moves closer to her. His last note fades out with the bass and the drumbeats, leaving her to finish her final acapella. Hands now free, he takes to rubbing her back in small soothing circles. She wishes that he didn’t. She wishes that he would be as stoic and uncaring as her father. Somehow his touch drives it home, whatever this thing is that she is feeling. She thinks that his touch specifically is just what she didn’t need. The ending of her final song isn’t powerful in the slightest. It isn’t even graceful. Her last note ends in a choke. The spotlights cut and the stage goes dark, receding back into that heavy silence. Silent except for that last choked note reverberating through the ballroom.

And then they finally clap. She thinks that this is what the industry is; a celebration of her distress.

----------

They do her the kindness of closing the curtain before she drops to her knees. Her hair falls into her face, she stifles the more intense of her cries with her hands. “Come on.” Ruon says softly as he extends his hand. Chan helps her to her feet and Zirin helps keep her on them.

She can still hear the clapping. Apparently she has impressed the masters and yet it feels somehow hopeless, that is, if there is any emotion at all.

There has to be emotion if she is still weeping this much. Her makeup artists have only been able to cleans the makeup that had been running down her cheeks. Agni, she hopes that it is the hormones. She thinks that, that is part of pregnancy--becoming an unstable, emotional mess. Spirits, she needs to do more research. The thought of it makes her sob harder.

“Should we let them in?” Himari asks. She hadn’t even heard the knocking.

“Depends.” She manages. “Who’s on the other side?” Agni forbid it’s her father.

Himiari peers through the peephole. “It’s a girl with lots of tattoos and a plastic cup necklace.”

“Let her in.”

Seicho practically shoves poor Himari out of the way to get to Azula. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and pulls her into a hug. A rather tight one. Azula swallows and tries to put her emotions back in check. “That’s enough Seicho…” she mutters.

“Why are you upset?”

Azula shakes her head and shrugs.

“Those songs are personal, aren’t they.”

“They might be.” She folds her arms across her chest.

One of the makeup artists coughs, “excuse us, we need to get Azula ready for tonight’s dinner party.”

“Right, I’ll let you get to that.” She jabs her thumb at the couch on the other side of the room. She rummages through her backpack and pulls out a decently worn tattoo magazine and begins flipping through the pages.

Azula leans back and lets them re-apply her makeup. They work in double to cover the tear tracks that run down her cheeks. How undignified it is to have to have her team redo everything because she can’t keep her emotions in check.

.oOo.

She thinks that Seicho is the only thing keeping her from falling apart a second time. She hasn’t felt this way since she had been pulled out of Caldera High. Since the day she had tried, painfully unsuccessfully, to flirt with Jet. Walking back into those hallways after such a showy rejection had been its own kind of hell. Making her way back into the ballroom puts the same queasy flutters into her stomach. She rolls her shoulders and holds her head high as she finds the seat reserved for her. She offers Chan a wave as she passes his table by.

She notes that he is speaking with Chong. At her own table, her father is already deep into some discussion with Wan Shi Tong. She pulls out her chair and quietly slips into it.

Wan Shi Tong smiles and gives a small bow, “it is a pleasure, Azula.”

“Thank you.” Azula replies. “It’s...quite starstriking to have the opportunity to speak to such a eulogized musician.”

His smile doubles in size. “I must admit that, after hearing your songs, I hadn’t expected such polite mannerisms.”

She clears her throat gently. “I suppose that music is a way to explore...less savory sides of yourself.”

This earns her a chuckle. “You should hear Raava, charming woman, but some of the things she writes for The Tui La’s...the woman has a wild side.”

Azula nods and shifts in her chair. “I would love to meet her tonight.”

“Then lets get the two of you introduced.” He waves the woman and her husband over and Azula’s stomach squirms again.

Raava is beautiful; a sweep of long and flowing white hair, shot with vivid blue highlights and an even longer white dress. It glitters in a way that makes the chandeliers hanging overhead look dull and cheap. Her elegance is such a stark contrast to the black-red of her husband. His hair is also admirably long. Long and slicked back. His suit, also a satin black, shimmers with red thread. By the spirits, they are more stunning in person.

She bows to them and they return the gesture. “Good evening. I trust that my performance was enjoyable.”

“It was exquisite, dear.” Vaatu

“A voice like yours is a gift, truly.” Raava adds. “Not many people can go so flawlessly from smooth vocals to those rougher ones. And with such emotion. Your performance was refreshingly genuine.”

“You have a talent.” Vaatu takes a drink. “Though I’d wager you are well aware.”

Azula grins. For the first time that night she feels truly confident. Truly pleased with herself. She feels Seicho squeeze her hand under the table. For the first time in two months or so, she thinks that thing might work out just fine.

She hears her father laugh and she wonders what Wan Shi Tong had said. Regardless, her father is in a good mood tonight--she holds her free hand to her belly--maybe she can tell him. Maybe he won’t hate her if she can keep him in good spirits. If she can keep him from emptying the wind bottle sitting on the table. “Would you like a drink?” She offers to Raava and Vaatu. She eyes Vaatu’s glass, “a refill, rather.”

“I would appreciate that very much.” Vaatu replies.

“So, who is this?” Raava gestures to Seicho.

“This is Seicho, she’s my…” She is once again aware of the warmth of the girl’s hand on hers. “My friend.”

“I’m also her tattoo artist.” She adds helpfully.

Raava and Vaatu both study her arm for a moment. “It’s brilliant work.” Vaatu says at last.

“Very good attention to detail.” Raava sets her glass aside.

Azula traces her fingers over the ink. “I’ve been wanting to get a tattoo since I saw yours.” She gestures to the teal diamond on the woman’s chest. The white dot at its center seems to glow in the dark.

Raava smiles, “it is said that art births new art. Wonderful concept, don’t you think.”

“Very.” Azula agrees. She wonders if her child will be a musician too.

.oOo.

“She’s precious, Ozai.” Raava remarks. “I’d take her as my own daughter if she weren’t already yours.”

“I wouldn’t give her away.” Ozai chuckles. “A man only gets a daughter like mine every once in a while.”

“It has been a pleasure, Ozai.” Vaatu remarks. “Perhaps one day we can do a collaboration, for old time’s sake.”

“Perhaps we can.”

The door closes behind him. Azula hopes that Seicho can put off her squealing for just a little longer. At least until after her father leaves. So far things are going smoothly, she hopes that Chan, Ruon, and Zirin have managed to impress their respective idols as well. It will be a mighty good look if they had.

Ozai puts a hand on her back, a smile brings a slight curve to his lips. “You did wonderful tonight. I admit, I was getting worried, all things considered, but you have done extraordinary well tonight.”

He is so, so proud of her. Absently, her hand makes its way to her belly again. It is such a good night. She can’t ruin the mood.

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #Azula/Background Character #Zuko #Mai #Maiko #TyLee #Fanfiction

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watusichris · 4 years ago

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A Mile or Two in Joe South’s Shoes

My 2016 Joe South career retrospective, restored from Internet Purgatory.

**********

If you know anything about the true breadth of Joe South’s talents, it’s remarkable to consider that if he is known for anything at all today, it’s for just two songs.

For a hot minute in 1969-70, South looked like he was on the way to a major career. “Games People Play,” the tune that introduced him to the public at large, rose to No. 12 on the national singles chart; a radio ubiquity, it captured two Grammy Awards in 1970, as song of the year and best contemporary song. A year after that breakout hit, he rose to the same chart slot with the stomping, soulful “Walk a Mile in My Shoes,” a number that would be covered in short order by Elvis Presley.

After those two signature songs, Joe South pretty much disappeared off the American pop landscape. It was an astonishing vanishing act, for, in terms of sheer reach and ability, he came as close to genius as a musician can get. He was one of those cats who could do it all.

He wrote almost all of his own material; before his late-‘60s emergence, he had already made his mark writing for others – most notably fellow Georgian Billy Joe Royal – and one of his songs, “Rose Garden,” became one of the biggest country hits of 1970-71 in Lynn Anderson’s hands.

South had all the chops to put across his material. He was a terrific, expressive baritone vocalist. Perhaps more importantly, he was a dynamite guitar player who had honed his craft as an A-list session man in New York and Nashville. And he knew his way around the studio booth, too. He produced nearly all of his own records, and they were big, opulent sides, dressed with strings, horns, and chorales (in the manner of Chet Atkins’ countrypolitan sessions, Atlantic Records’ castanet-snapping R&B outings, and Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound). Yet at the core of South’s early records was the gutbucket sound produced by his family band, the Believers.

Though you could broadly categorize South’s music as “pop,” there was nothing weak or watered-down about his stuff. Like any musician who grew up in the South, he was reared on country music, and all his singing and picking reflected those roots. His style also had a strong R&B backbone and backbeat – not surprising, since one of his early hits as a songwriter, “Untie Me,” was for the Atlanta beach music act the Tams. And he could rock hard, and was unafraid to use the studio tools at his disposal for up-to-the-minute effects: Many of South’s most interesting tracks are overtly psychedelic.

Joe South was primed to go places – almost anywhere he wanted to go, really – but a predisposed dislike for the necessities of the music business, the usual rock ‘n’ roll pitfalls of drugs and alcohol, and, most critically, a devastating family tragedy knocked him out of the game when a brilliant career appeared his for the taking.

He was born Joseph Souter in Atlanta in 1940. His family was attuned to music and the arts: His father played guitar and mandolin, and his mother wrote poetry. He began playing guitar at an early age, while his younger brother Tommy took up the drums. Like many Southern households, the Souters tuned in to the Grand Ole Opry on Nashville’s WSM, as well as the popular local DJ Uncle Eb Brown on WGST.

“Brown” was the air name of Bill Lowery, who had been a mover and shaker in Atlanta’s music community since the early ‘50s as a broadcaster, station executive, and music publisher. It’s said that in an attempt to advance his musical aspirations, young Joe Souter boldly went to visit Lowery during his radio shift. No doubt impressed by his spunk, Lowery took the wannabe performer under his wing. One of his first pieces of advice was that Souter should change his name to the regionally reflective Joe South.

Beginning a professional and personal relationship that would survive for nearly five decades, Lowery brought 18-year-old college dropout South on board at his new independent record label, National Recording Corporation. The young picker was at first employed as a member of NRC’s house band, which also included the future recording stars Jerry Reed and Ray Stevens.

South began cutting singles in his own right for NRC, in varying pop, rock ‘n’ roll, and rockabilly settings. His lone chart record for the company came in 1958: “The Purple People Eater Meets the Witch Doctor,” a sort-of-sequel to two recent novelty smashes, Sheb Wooley’s “Purple People Eater” and David Seville’s “Witch Doctor.” Bouncing onto the chart briefly at No. 47, it was the only bright spot during his time on the label, which went bankrupt in 1961.

He continued to work as a performer, cutting singles unprofitably for the indies Fairlane and AllWood and for MGM, the former home of Hank Williams. But he began to hone his chops as a behind-the scenes player with his writing, playing, and production. He made his first mark with “Untie Me,” which became a No. 12 entry on the U.S. R&B charts in 1962.

He made his biggest impact in 1965-67 as writer and producer of Marietta, Georgia-born Billy Joe Royal’s hits on Columbia Records. Their partnership was announced with the propulsive poor-boy-loves-rich-girl saga “Down in the Boondocks,” which climbed to No. 9 in 1965. Royal road-tested such other South compositions as “Leanin’ On You,” “Rose Garden,” “Yo-Yo,” and “Hush.” The latter track reached No. 52 on the Hot 100 in 1967, but became better known in a 1968 cover by British hard rockers Deep Purple.

South also left his imprint via several noteworthy sessions. He played guitar on Simon & Garfunkel’s first bona fide electric sessions, which became the bestselling 1966 folk-rock album Sounds of Silence. He contributed guitar and bass during the Nashville recording dates for Bob Dylan’s groundbreaking two-LP 1966 set Blonde On Blonde. And in 1967, in the company of FAME Studio’s crack Alabama rhythm section, he laid down the signature guitar licks on Aretha Franklin’s hit “Chain of Fools.”

By 1968, Joe South had little left to prove, and Bill Lowery helped midwife a deal for his protégé at Capitol Records, already the home of such progressive pop-country talent as Glen Campbell and Bobbie Gentry. South was given extraordinary latitude for his first album: He produced the collection, wrote all of the material, and played lead guitar, backed by the Believers, a group that included his brother Tommy on drums and his wife, Barbara, on keyboards.

The resultant LP, Introspect, is an impressive piece of work that didn’t sound quite like anything else on the market. It was a widescreen sound, immense and layered, but at bottom down-home and funky. It drew from several stylistic tributaries. Its lead-off track “All My Hard Times” was an updated rewrite of the old spiritual “All My Trials.” The mocking “Redneck” was a loping countrified lampoon that can be seen as an early anthem of the New South; “These Are Not My People” was an alienated piece of similarly styled, Dylanesque social commentary. The strikingly trippy “Mirror of Your Mind” bore a startling out-of-time passage in its middle, while the equally expansive “Gabriel” was a psychedelic parable cut straight out of the Old Testament.

As great and unique as it was, Introspect was a marketplace failure, and Capitol’s accountants yanked it off the market just as a single drawn from it was beginning to make some noise.

Sporting a unique lead guitar line -- fabricated by South on either, depending on which source you believe, a Coral electric sitar or a Gibson Bell guitar fed through an outboard Echorette echo unit -- and a lyrical hook derived from the title of Eric Berne’s 1964 pop-psychology bestseller, “Games People Play” became a slow-rolling hit. Realizing they may have deleted Introspect prematurely, Capitol decided to capitalize on the song with a hybrid new album.

The Games People Play album – essentially a second debut album for South – resuscitated the title track, “These Are Not My People,” and, in an expanded psyched-up version, the song “Birds of a Feather” (which would appear on three of South’s six Capitol collections). To these were added a couple of new originals (including “Hole in Your Soul,” a frenzied vocal version of the Believers’ two-sided psychedelic instrumental single “Soul Raga”), remakes of several early-‘60s compositions for the Tams and Royal, and a potent rendition of South’s Brill Building-styled 1963 single for MGM, “Concrete Jungle.”

This bizarrely reconfigured opus failed to make any waves, but South gained some name recognition with his “Games People Play” Grammys. Moreover, he made some longer commercial strides with 1969’s Don’t It Make You Want to Go Home? The LP, which ultimately reached No. 60, sported not one but two hit singles: the title cut, a poignant look at the toll wreaked by modern life upon the Southern landscape, and the visceral, gospel-styled “Walk a Mile in My Shoes.” It also contained the most hallucinogenic entry in the South catalog: “A Million Miles Away,” a dense instrumental overlaid with a recitation of the album’s personnel and an extract from a telephone call between South and some staffers at the Nixon White House.

These ambitious records might have suggested to some that South’s potential was unlimited. But there was a problem: He didn’t like to tour, and was at heart a studio animal. He also didn’t respond well to the intense pressure of coming up with material that wouldn’t just equal the sales of his chart records, but would better them.

Perhaps in a hope of shaking things up, the 1971 album Joe South was recorded on home turf at Atlanta’s Studio One, where the Atlanta Rhythm Section was the hot session band of the hour. But -- save for “Rose Garden” (included to cash in on Anderson’s enormous hit with the song) and the “Brown Eyed Girl”-like “Birds of a Feather” (it was the third time around for this belated single release) -- the material, a mix of tepid new tunes and recut warhorses, was scarcely South’s best. The disinterest seemed to carry over on the second LP South issued that year, So the Seeds Are Growing; only seven of the album’s 10 tracks were original compositions.

The disenchanted South’s drug use had begun to escalate, and his brother Tommy, who suffered from depression, was also self-medicating. A turning point came on Oct. 11, 1971, when the younger South took his own life.

The immediate result of this tragedy was South’s final Capitol album, A Look Inside, released in 1972. The LP jacket bore a cover photo of South with an open window in his skull, and the most confessional songs on this dark, unsettling record mirror the graphic perfectly. Its first two songs, “Coming Down All Alone” and “Imitation of Living,” are candid and frightening reflections on drug addiction, and they have lost none of their power. But the record’s true killer, which kicks off with a tart quote of the “Game People Play” melody, is the ironically titled “I’m a Star,” possibly the most blunt, world-weary, and self-reflective deflation of the music industry ever released.

It was a record made by an artist at the end of his tether. As South said frankly in the notes to what proved to be his final album, “I flipped out. I just went completely into the ether in the wake of my brother’s death. I just had to get away, so I went out to the islands, caught Polynesian paralysis and just lived in the jungles of Maui for a couple of years.”

He returned, briefly, in 1975, for his lone release for Island Records, Midnight Rainbows. Though it began promisingly with the fittingly introspective original medley of “Midnight Rainbows” and “It Got Away,” the album – again employing members of the Atlanta Rhythm Section – is disappointingly short on new original material; its strongest tracks are wrenching covers of Jerry Butler’s “For Your Precious Love” and Johnny Adams’ “You Can Make It If You Try.”

The last track on Midnight Rainbows is an instrumental titled “Cosmos,” and that’s exactly where Joe South headed. He was virtually invisible on the public stage from the release of that last LP until his death on Sept. 5, 2012, in Flowery Branch, Georgia. Before Bill Lowery’s death in 2004, he issued a couple of singles on his old sponsor’s independent labels: “Jack Daniels On the Line” for 1-2-3 Records in 1981, “Royal Blue” for Southern Tracks in 1986.

The last work he released during his lifetime arrived as a bonus track on the Australian label Raven’s 2010 repackaging of So the Seeds Are Growing and A Look Inside. Sung by South in a charred latter-day voice, “Oprah Cried” is an apparently faithful account of his appearance on Oprah Winfrey’s talk show, where his story of life’s hard knocks moves the hostess to tears. “Son, I thought I’d heard it all,” she tells him.

Considered in light of what might have been for Joe South, it’s one of the saddest damn songs ever written.

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weavingthetapestry · 4 years ago

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Epiphany 1540 - The Linlithgow ‘Interlude’ Is Performed

(John Slezer’s engraving of Linlithgow Palace, c.1693. Reproduced under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution licence, with the permission of the National Libraries of Scotland)

On Epiphany 1540, a play known only as the ‘Interlude’ was performed before King James V of Scotland in Linlithgow. This play, which at the time was perhaps little more than another festive court treat, has since been of great interest to both historians of Scottish theatre and the Protestant Reformation. The king’s alleged reaction to this performance, as reported in a letter from the English Warden of the East March to Thomas Cromwell, has fuelled speculation over his religious views. Meanwhile the description of the play itself, preserved in some ‘notes’ which accompanied the letter, has led many critics to argue that the Linlithgow Interlude was an early version of ‘Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estaitis’, the most famous work of the Scots makar and herald Sir David Lindsay of the Mount.

James and his pregnant queen Mary of Guise spent Yuletide 1539 in the lochside palace of Linlithgow, newly refurbished in the latest Renaissance style. With the Yule celebrations over and the New Year’s gifts dispersed, the festive season usually closed with the feast of Epiphany or ‘Uphalyday’ on 5th/6th January. Uphalyday itself was an important occasion, marked by solemn religious services alongside more boisterous entertainment like guising and the ‘Feast of the Bean’. This year the court tailor was especially busy making costumes of red, yellow, and purple, because a play was to be performed before the king, queen, and entire council ‘spiritual and temporal’.*

An account of the proceedings was sent by Sir William Eure, an English March Warden, to Henry VIII’s ubiquitous chief minister Thomas Cromwell on 26th January 1540. Eure had recently been at Coldstream, meeting commissioners sent by the Scottish king, and had fallen into conversation with one. This was Master Thomas Bellenden, ‘a man (…) of gentle and sage conversation, especially touching the stay of the spirituality in Scotland’. Bellenden was actually the Lord Justice Clerk, and director of the royal chancery. He also had close court connections beyond his official duties- his mother had been the king’s nurse while his younger sister Katherine worked in the royal wardrobe (and her third husband was Oliver Sinclair) and his brother John’s literary works were patronised by the king. However, Thomas Bellenden would also become known as a Protestant sympathiser and even in 1540 he was sufficiently reform-minded for Eure to describe him as ‘a man inclined to the sort used in our Sovereign’s Realm of England’…

(King James V and his second wife Mary of Guise. Source- wikimedia commons)

Taking him for a like-minded fellow, Eure discreetly questioned Bellenden about James V’s attitude towards Protestantism. Bellenden gave the rather ambiguous answer that James and his secular counsellors intended to reform the ‘misdemeanours’ committed by churchmen in Scotland. He then informed Eure about an “Interlude” performed for the king on Uphalyday, ‘the whole matter whereof concluded upon the declaration of the naughtiness in Religion, the presumption of Bishops, the collusion of the spiritual Courts, called the Consistory Court in Scotland, and misusing of priests.’ Even more interesting was the king’s alleged reaction to this reformist drama. Bellenden supposedly told Eure that, when the play finished, James turned to the bishops present and threatened to send six of them to his uncle Henry VIII if they did not reform their lives. Gavin Dunbar, archbishop of Glasgow and the king’s chancellor** answered carefully that the bishops would obey even a single word from the king, to which James angrily replied that he, ‘would gladly bestow any words of his mouth that could amend them.’ Bellenden also claimed that the king intended to remove all churchmen from government posts and that James studied every day, looking for a way to prevent clerics holding Crown offices. Bellenden then asked Eure to assist him by having a description of the acts that had been passed in England ‘touching the suppression of religion’ sent to the king of Scots.

One nineteenth century editor of Eure’s letter considered it ‘unquestionable proof’ that James V was planning a Scottish Reformation in 1540. In fact, things were rather more complicated. A full exploration of James V’s religious policies and personal beliefs would take far too long to go into here, but a couple of brief points may be made. Firstly, whether or not James actively sought to remove all churchmen from government as Bellenden is supposed to have claimed, this was never accomplished during his reign, nor did he ever make good on his alleged threat to send some bishops to England when they didn’t clean up their act. Secondly James V benefited greatly from the desire of both the papacy and the Scottish clergy to ensure that he did not break with Rome. Papal indults allowed him to wield a great deal of influence in church appointments, while the Scottish church contributed thousands of pounds to the Crown. James may have publicly flirted with the idea of a Reformation after the manner of Henry VIII but he was already doing quite well under the current system, and never made any real attempt to alter this during his personal reign. Possibly Eure’s letter should be viewed as an indication of the hopes which reformist councillors like Bellenden might have had of their king. Alternatively, perhaps it merely reflected an image which Scottish reformers or English diplomats, or indeed the king of Scots himself, wished to present to Henry VIII’s government down in Westminster. Thus although Eure’s report is intriguing, any conclusions about James V’s spiritual policy which rest solely on the authority of a secondhand report of an isolated remark made on Uphalyday, must be limited.

However the Linlithgow ‘interlude’ clearly made an impact. Eure was so impressed by its reported effect that he procured a synopsis of the play from a Scot ‘of our sort’ and attached it to his letter. The play opened with the antics of a character named Solace, ‘whose part was but to make merry, sing ballads with his fellows, and drink at the interlude of the play.’ Following this harmless comic section, the play took a more serious turn when another actor entered, dressed as a king. The role of this ‘king’ was largely confined to ratifying the other characters’ decisions, but his presence is intriguing- was he supposed to reflect the real monarch sitting in the audience?

(Bare and roofless, the Great Hall at Linlithgow Palace on a dreich day sadly doesn’t give a great impression of its former opulence. But please try to imagine a sixteenth century court celebrating Yule with a roof over their heads, hangings on the wall, and a fire in the grate).

The king was followed on stage by his flattering courtiers Placebo, Pikthanke, and Flaterye, who fawn over him at great length. Then four more characters enter. The first three are an armed man, a bishop, and a burgess, corresponding loosely to the mediaval concept of the three estates- those who fight, those who pray, and those who work. This also reflects the division of the Scottish parliament, often referred to as the “Three Estates”. But these three characters were also accompanied by a character named Experience, who was dressed like a ‘doctor’ (in the university, not the medical sense- presumably an expert in theology or law). When these characters had assembled on the dais beneath the king, the action was driven by the entry of one last character- a Poor Man, who lamented as he walked up and down between the audience and the noble characters on the raised scaffold. He complained that he was reduced to beggary by the demands of the courtiers, and could not get redress because he did not know the comptroller or the treasurer, who controlled petitioners’ access to the king.*** Asking for the king, he was pointed towards the actor dressed as the king on the dais. The Poor Man was apparently unconvinced by this figure and launched into a rant, stating that, ‘he was no King for there was but one King, which made all and governs all, who is eternal, to whom he and all earthly Kings are but officers, of the which they must make reckoning.’

Although this speech seems very bold for an actor to deliver in front of the real king, its sentiment was by no means without precedent in the court literature of James V’s reign. But the Poor Man did at least rein in his dismissal of all earthly kings. Taking another careful look at the king in the play he concluded that the actor could not be the king of Scots, ‘for there was another King in Scotland that hanged John Armstrong with his fellows, and Sym the laird, and many other more, which had staunched theft’. This (somewhat simplistic) account of James V’s attempts to restore justice allowed the Poor Man to segue into a lament for the one thing which this true king of Scotland had not achieved- the reform of abuses committed by the Church. The Poor Man claimed that these included the harrying of the poor through the Consistory Courts; the theft of men’s wives and daughters; maintaining their illegitimate children whom they married to the sons of the nobility; the levying of high rents on the secular lands which had been granted to the Church; and the sexual immorality of cloistered monks and nuns. Early in his speech the character of the bishop tried to shout him down, but the Man of Arms rose to defend the Poor Man and told him to carry on. The Poor Man’s argument was then ‘proved’ by the character of Experience. Their evidence convinced the Man of Arms and the Burgess, who decided that it should be also approved by parliament. When the Bishop attempted to protest, the other two told him bluntly that, ‘they were two and he but one, wherefore their voice should have most effect.’ The play then ended with the king approving and ratifying all the foregoing arguments.

It is a bit difficult to gain a real sense of the dramatic effect of this play from such an abbreviated description of its plot. However it is immediately obvious why Eure was so interested in the Linlithgow Interlude’s content, since it seems to have espoused a blatantly reformist programme, if not necessarily ‘Protestant’, in the modern sense. But the ‘notes’ describing the play are of interest to historians for another reason, since they also reveal close similarities between the Interlude, and one of the most famous early examples of Scottish drama- David Lindsay’s ‘Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estaitis’.

(The fountain in the courtyard of Linlithgow Palace was constructed in 1538 on the orders of James V)

Sir David Lindsay of the Mount was a prominent figure at James V’s court. He had been close to the king since James’ infancy, beginning as an usher in the royal household. Although he was removed from the king’s household during the ascendancy of the Earl of Angus, he was restored to favour when James began his personal rule. The king later appointed him Snowdon herald and then Lyon King of Arms, a position he held until his death in 1555. Aside from his heraldic duties, he was a poet of great skill and several of his works demonstrate his close, quasi-paternal relationship with the king. Indeed, this may have allowed him to carefully criticise the king, exhorting James to amend both his personal life and the abuses in his kingdom. Lindsay was also claimed as a proto-Protestant by some following the Reformation but it is debatable how far he was sympathetic to what we would now call Protestantism. However his views on the state of the realm are most famously addressed in his play ‘Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estaitis’, probably his best-known work. This chiefly survives in two versions: an abbreviated text in the Bannatyne MS, and a more complete version printed in 1602. It was staged at least twice during Lindsay’s lifetime- once in 1552, on the playfield of Cupar in the author’s home county of Fife, and then in 1554 in Edinburgh, when it was again attended by Mary of Guise, now ruling in Scotland as queen regent for her daughter Mary I. The play has also been performed several times in the modern era, since its revival for the second Edinburgh Fringe in 1948.

The early performances of the ‘Satyre’ took place in a very different context to that of the Linlithgow ‘Interlude’. There was no king in the audience and, despite the queen regent’s best efforts, religious discontent was growing in the 1550s (especially in Fife). Meanwhile the open-air playfields of Cupar and Edinburgh, with their audiences of burgesses, local lairds, craftsmen, farmers, and others further down the social scale, were very different to the intimate and elite surroundings of Linlithgow Palace. But the framework of the Interlude does seem to resemble that of the Satyre very closely. The ‘Satyre’ opens with a short speech by a character named Diligence before a king (‘Rex Humanitas’) enters in the company of his flattering courtiers Wantonness and Placebo. These last two are more overtly malevolent than the courtiers described in Eure’s ‘notes’ and they are hanged at the end of the play, which is not a feature of the Interlude. Although flattering courtiers were a common target in sixteenth century literature, their behaviour in both plays is otherwise very similar. Rex Humanitas and his courtiers are joined by a character named Solace, a drunk who is also capable of singing ballads. His appearance coincides with the first jokes about the sexual immorality of the clergy, and this is a major theme throughout the ‘Satyre’, couched in very similar terms to those of the ‘Interlude’.

An eighteenth century depiction of Sir David Lindsay of the Mount. Reproduced under the Creative Commons Attribution licence by permission of the British Museum)

As in the ‘Interlude’, much of the action in the ‘Satyre’ is also driven by the complaint of a Poor Man (accompanied by another character named John Commonweal) who bemoans the abuses of the clergy and the nobility. There is no learned doctor named Experience to support the Poor Man’s argument in the Satyre, but there are characters such as Good Counsall and Correction, the latter of whom convinces Rex Humanitas to call a parliament. The second half of the play therefore deals with the meeting of the ‘Thrie Estaitis’ who are explicitly identified as ‘Temporalitie’ (the nobility or the equivalent of the Armed Man in the ‘Interlude’, though less explicitly warlike), ‘Merchant’ (equivalent to the Burgess in the ‘Interlude’) and ‘Spiritualitie’ (the clergy). Temporalitie and Spiritualitie are harangued for their sins, the latter getting the worst of it, and although Spiritualitie attempts to argue, he is eventually forced to accept correction. The play ends with the execution of the king’s evil counsellors.

The similarities between the overall structures of the ‘Satyre’ and the ‘Interlude’ is clear, and there are numerous minor details which both plays share. Little wonder then that the 1540 ‘Interlude’ has also been attributed to Lindsay and viewed as an early version of the ‘Satyre’. However, it must be acknowledged that there is no explicit evidence which confirms Lindsay as the earlier play’s author. Many of the themes shared by the ‘Interlude’ and the ‘Satyre’ are also found in other Scots literature of the period, and there are important elements of the ‘Satyre’ which are never mentioned in the ‘notes’ about the ‘Interlude’. For example, there are no female characters mentioned in the description of the ‘Interlude’, whereas in the ‘Satyre’ characters such as ‘Chastity’ and ‘Lady Sensualitie’ play important roles. It must be remembered though that Eure’s contact may not have recorded every detail of the Linlithgow ‘Interlude’, especially if they weren’t relevant to his religious and political aims.**** And overall, despite some academics rightly urging caution, there does appear to be a general consensus that the ‘Interlude’ and the ‘Satyre’ were in some way connected. The survival of an account of the Linlithgow ‘Interlude’ is thus of great significance for the study of Scots literature and sixteenth century court culture.

The Yuletide festivities drew to a close and by early February the court had moved to Edinburgh in advance of the queen’s coronation. The long-term impact of the little interlude at Linlithgow on James V and his council cannot be ascertained, if indeed it had any real impact at all, beyond its entertainment value. Nonetheless, the frustrations and ideals which informed the play would fester for the next twenty years or more and, eventually, a reformation would indeed be effected in Scotland, though it was destined to take a very different form to anything James V, Henry VIII, or even David Lindsay might have imagined. And in any case, even if areas such as James V’s religious policy and the play’s authorship must remain something of a mystery, the survival of a description of the performance at Linlithgow offers a rare insight into court entertainments in sixteenth century Scotland.

Notes:

*’The whole council spiritual and temporal’ is a bit of a vague phrase but presumably included at least to the king’s closest, privy councillors, who might be loosely associated with the small group who witnessed most royal charters at this time. Two of these men- the chancellor Gavin Dunbar and the justice clerk Thomas Bellenden- we already know were in attendance. It is perhaps not too much of a stretch to guess that some of the others were in the audience- men like the bishop of Whithorn, the earl of Moray (the king’s older half-brother), the earl of Argyll, the chamberlain Lord Fleming, the secretary Thomas Erskine of Brechin and the clerk register James Foulis of Colinton. Perhaps some of the queen’s ladies were also in attendance, or even some of his illegitimate children who were likely at Linlithgow at the time, but this must remain speculative.

** Gavin Dunbar had also been one of the king’s tutors and, known for his ‘cursing’, he was not usually at a loss for words.

*** Interestingly the treasurer of the day was James Kirkcaldy of Grange, who might have been in the audience. Kirkcaldy obtained a reputation in later literature for his defence of persecuted Protestants.

**** And in the case of ‘Lady Sensualitie’ in particular, I do have to wonder how popular an account of how consorting with concubines allegedly impeded the cause of reform would have been with an English ambassador during the reign of Henry VIII.

Selected Bibliography:

- Printed copy of Sir William Eure’s original letter can be found in Sir Henry Ellis’ “Original Letters Illustrative of English History”, series 3 vol. 3 and is also calendared in the Letters and Papers of Henry VIII here.

- “Accounts of the Lord High Treasurer”, vol. 7, ed. Sir James Balfour Paul

- “Ane Plesand Satyre of the Thrie Estaitis”, by Sir David Lindsay of the Mount- I used both this printed copy of the 1602 version and the modern ‘standard’ edition by Roderick Lyall, and of course the notes associated with this (link to publisher’s website here)

- “The Linlithgow Interlude of 1540 and Lyndsay’s Satire of the Thrie Estaitis”, by Greg Walker in Medieval English Theatre vol. 37 “The Best Pairt of Our Play: Essays Presented to John J. McGavin”

- “Versions of Lindsay’s Satire of the Three Estates”, by Raymond A. Houk in PMLA vol. 55, No. 2 (June 1940).

And others.

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agoodgoddamnshot · 5 years ago

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Opulence [E] - Geralt/Jaskier

[Gif not mine]

Posted originally on my AO3 account - Rated E

Jaskier seems to follow his reputation like a shadow. More often than not, stories of the bard are already in a town or city by the time they actually arrive. For the most part, Geralt has to deal with the fallout of cuckolded men whose courtships or engagements or even marriages have been affected by the bard, in one way or another. It’s easy enough; noblemen, other bards, or even the occasional innkeeper take one look at Geralt – and Jaskier, who always seems to hide just behind the larger man – and tuck tail. On the occasion where ones may pick a fight, it’s not really fair at all. Noblemen, who’ve been taught to fight by great swordmasters, but never have seen so much as a drunken tavern brawl, often end up on the floor with little to no effort.

And while he knows that Jaskier doesn’t go cavorting with the affiances of the upper class anymore – because, for the past few months, it’s been his bed that Jaskier finds himself in – he does have to wonder just how many trysts the man had before settling firmly with Geralt.

“Oh, you don’t want to know,” Jaskier sighs into Geralt’s shoulder. The man has an arm firmly around the bard’s shoulders. His skin is speckled with sweat – a waste, after spending so long in a much-needed bath following days of travelling. But Jaskier just wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone when they were downstairs, drinking in one corner of the inn. Now, though, Geralt’s bard has a sleepy, contented smile lacing his lips.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “What if I do? I want to know how many towns and cities we probably won’t be allowed into just because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“You’re one to talk. You have people speak about you as well, Witcher.” Jaskier laughs. A light little thing, mostly into Geralt’s chest. “Between the both of us, we might as well just travel south and hope that the rumours stop at the border.”

One rumour that he is arguably grateful for, however, is how highly people thought of Jaskier’s singing at Cintra. Foreign lords and ladies had been at the banquet. Geralt had watched them; joyfully singing and clapping along with reels and polkas that Jaskier had played. He can only imagine when they travelled back to their own homesteads, rumours of the bard’s singing went with them.

An invite comes. How the message finds them, he isn’t entirely sure. All he does know is that a feast is being hosted in an affluent town almost a two-day ride from their current lodgings. “Oh, don’t be like that,” Jaskier all but pouts as Geralt fetches Roach’s saddle. The mare regards both men for a moment, before going back to her hay. With Geralt’s back to them, Jaskier fishes a small sugar cube out of his pocket and holds it out for the mare. Her ears twitch, and she knickers softly at the treat, but this is still their secret. She still won’t let him on her back without Geralt, but at least Jaskier can be in the same space as the mare without fear of being kicked in the shin. Jaskier wipes the small string of horse spit from his hand and watches Geralt set about tacking her up. “I followed you half-way around the country, into all manners of situations. You can do the same for me, can’t you?”

Geralt huffs. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Setting Roach’s saddle snugly on her back, Geralt looks over at Jaskier. “Anytime you say for me, you expect me to drop everything and do what you want.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Jaskier’s lip. He pets Roach’s muzzle before walking over to Geralt. The Witcher grunts softly, making a few last adjustments to the placement of Roach’s gear, before fetching the girth underneath her stomach. He barely has a chance to attach it to the saddle before he feels Jaskier all but drape against his side. The stables of the inn are well-kept. Stalls are divided by wooden planks that run from the ground to the ceiling. In private, and sheltered from the wandering eyes of stablehands, Jaskier presses a light kiss to Geralt’s neck. “Please?” he mumbles against the skin, smirking as he trails his nose along a tendon there. “For me?”

Geralt turns, catching Jaskier’s lips in a kiss that, if he wasn’t completely aware of how discreet they have to be, would become so much more. Jaskier still doesn’t move his hands though; one on the small of Geralt’s back, and the other holding on to a forearm. When he pulls away, Jaskier tries to follow, but a barked order from one of the grooms to a nearby stableboy makes him pull away.

“Siren,” Geralt sighs. He would follow Jaskier anywhere. The bard knows that. He’s abused that fact. But the city they’re heading to has a reputation; draped in gold with springs of silver in the main square, it’s opulence at its finest. And Geralt is pretty sure that, although he’ll appreciate the comfy bed and the nice food they’ll be provided with, he’s going to fucking hate the rest of it.

Gathering Roach’s reins, Jaskier smiles brightly. “It’ll be great,” Jaskier says, as though he’s a mindreader all of a sudden. Then again, Geralt has different kinds of scowls. And Jaskier is just very good at reading them.

The city is everything he expected it to be. High, thick walls encase it, shielding it from a forest on one side and the foot of a mountain on the other. The main road into the city is packed with other travellers. Merchants with horse-drawn carriages walk alongside them, selling everything from cloth to spices and herbs to books. Sentries line the top of the walls, with their gleaming armour so polished that the sun, perched high in the air, makes them shine like beacons.

Two guards vet everyone approaching the gates. Both Geralt and Jaskier pass with little trouble. The letter that had been delivered to them has the royal sigil stamped on to one corner of the page. A guard with a battle-worn face merely waved them through.

Each person that they pass on the main road through the town seems clad in silks and cottons, with their heads adorned in shawls or headpieces or tropical flowers.

Even the gutters running along either side of the cobblestones look spotless.

Jaskier nudges Geralt’s side. “You look even more constipated than usual,” he remarks, fiddling with the letter. “Mind telling me why?”

It’s not the worst place they could be in. Nice cities mean nice inns, nice food, nice beds. But something Geralt wonders is why a city like this, pinned between a dense forest and a scaling mountain, sitting on a plateau of land with not much agriculture on it, could find its wealth. It doesn’t sit right with him. But he looks to his bard, and finds that he hasn’t given much of a verbal excuse. And Jaskier just keeps looking at him for an explanation. He sighs. “This is a city that is too nice.”

“Too nice,” Jaskier laughs. “You should hear yourself. You always complain about staying in the backrooms of people’s houses, and thin, uncomfortable mattresses. This will be the best we’ll have for a long time.”

Geralt never complains. He barely has enough wherewithal to clench his jaw shut. You’re the one who complains.

Instead, he breathes out a sharp sigh. “You’ll be singing in the king’s court, and what am I to do? Spend the night being your guard, again?”

Jaskier pets Roach’s neck. “Be my consort instead,” he looks up at Geralt with a spark in his eye.

He levels the bard with a look. “I’m not sure how people think about that sort of thing here.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Guess we’ll find out, then.”

“No, we won’t.”

“If you really do find the thought of spending the night with me appalling, then I’m sure there is something else you could be doing.” Jaskier huffs. Petting Roach’s muzzle, Jaskier then slows down slightly, walking along with Geralt. “I’m sure even a city like this has a pest problem,” Jaskier says quietly, smiling politely at a captain of a passing squad of patrolling guards. Geralt regards them. Chainmail, with heavy armour sitting on top of it. The royal crest is painted on to the breastplate. A plate, Geralt notes with a frown, with not a scratch on it.

They find themselves in a townhouse near the royal district. “We can’t just have anyone staying within the castle walls,” a spokesperson for the king smiles; one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I hope you understand.”

Jaskier nods. “Completely.” Someone comes to collect Roach and take her into the neighbouring stables. Geralt shrugs them off, leading the mare into the yard himself. Jaskier stays with the spokesperson, happy enough to talk about what etiquette is expected of him. Geralt can’t help but snort. Jaskier, for all of the rumours that would say otherwise, knows how to behave in front of dignitary.

He’ll just follow the bard’s lead.

If he’s going, that is.

Roach nudges him once he’s removed the last of her tack and strung up a net of hay for her. A knowing look sits in her eyes. “Don’t,” he points a finger, stepping out of the stall. She huffs.

A couple of hours stand between them having to leave for the banquet and now. The space is large enough for two double beds on either side of the room, and a bathtub that has already been brought up. On a nearby table, there’s a collection of salts and perfumes. Even with their caps on, the vials give off heavy aromas.

Jaskier fiddles with them, regarding each one carefully. It wasn’t a long trek from their last lodging; but muscles ache after a while, and he’s been on the road too long to ever refuse the offer of a bath.

Jaskier takes the cork off one of the vials. A pungent smell of lavender seeps into the room, and Geralt, even setting the last of his things down at the other side of the space, wrinkles his nose. “Unless you plan on falling asleep during your performance,” he says, “don’t use that.”

Jaskier closes the vial. A small frown creases his brow. “You can smell that all the way over there?”

“It’s not like I’m an entire country away, Jaskier.” Geralt slides the sheathes of both of his swords underneath one of the beds. They’ll lock the room when they leave, but he won’t be too careful. Geralt looks over his shoulder. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier hasn’t replied to a quip he’s made. Looking at the bard now, there’s a look on his face that he can’t entirely make out. “What?”

“Interesting,” Jaskier mumbles, picking up another vial.

It’s not the worst gathering he’s been to. The king – though, he finds out from a hoard of gossiping guards that he isn’t a king at all, but a man with grand notions of his place in the world – allows him to sit with the rest of them. Any friend of the bard is a friend of mine! Geralt’s eyes threaten to roll to the back of his head. But he settles for looking out on to the main hall, already packed with people who’ve had their fill of food and drink.

Long tables are laden with just about every meat Geralt can think of, with bowls packed with seasonal vegetables and spiced fruits in between each platter. Everyone seems merry; aided by the small army of servants wandering around to each table setting, filling goblets back up with ale and mead and wine just as soon as they’re empty.

When a server comes for his own goblet, Geralt covers the lid with his hand. “I’m fine,” he says gruffly. The server bows her head slightly, before going to the next person. It takes a lot of drink to even affect him, thanks to the mutations. He never quite understood it; a high metabolism, most likely. And he’s pretty sure that he would be able to get that volume of alcohol here, if he looked for it. The king seems keen for the visiting nobles to have a good time. Opinions easily bought with good food and drink.

But Geralt sits back in his chair, content to just watch his bard. A small gathering of others have joined him off to one side. The great hall is almost like a throne room; high vaulted ceilings held up by marble pillars. The space sprawls onwards, almost like fields. It would be impossible for Jaskier to play alone, and be heard by everyone. But he gives it a fair go.

Jaskier looks like he belongs there. A begrudging smile pulls at the corner of Geralt’s lip, threatening to show itself. He does his best to school his expression. Jaskier would never let him live it down if he saw that Geralt was actually enjoying himself.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He hasn’t so much as glanced at the dancing nobles in the middle of the grand hall. He’s fairly certain that a diplomat and her sister, or cousin, or daughter, have been talking to him for the past ten minutes; but he hasn’t taken in a single word.

After each song, Jaskier takes a moment to himself, looking out on to the applauding crowd. Geralt’s chest tightens. Stop, he has to keep telling himself. If he could shake the feeling away, he doesn’t know if he would. There was never any good in his life. Fleeting bed-partners came and went, as did faint flames of romances. This is different. A feeling churns his stomach and just won’t settle; simultaneously setting fire to his bones and making him shiver, as if a winter’s wind caught him off guard.

It’s frightening.

Jaskier looks at him first. After each song, he’ll seek out Geralt’s eyes from across the room, before smiling at him. Geralt can’t get over the fact that Jaskier’s eyes are so pale. Grey, with specks of blue in them. The golden lighting of the hall doesn’t do them any justice. Geralt lifts his chin in acknowledgement. Jaskier winks – a fucking wink – and moves on to the next song.

By the time the music finishes, gods’ know how many hours have passed. Geralt watches with some faint feeling of pride when those who had been dancing offer the first claps of applause, shouting for another couple of songs.

Nobles sitting alongside Geralt join in.

The most vocal of them sits in the centre. “Marvellous!” the king applauds, looking to each person beside him. “Wasn’t he just marvellous?”

There’s fevered agreement. Geralt watches it out of the corner of his eye, but ultimately settles for taking a long sip of wine. Jaskier holds his lute close to his chest, bowing his head in thanks. When he looks over to Geralt again, Geralt inclines his head. Well done. Because fuck if Jaskier is going to get a verbal praise out of him.

It’s enough for the bard. He places his hand on his heart and smiles. The minstrels that had accompanied him disperse back into the crowd, pulled into groups of chattering dignitaries. Geralt watches as Jaskier tries to navigate the room, serving between people, heading straight for the head table.

Because of where Geralt is, he’s the first person the bard seeks out. Up close, Geralt spies that the bard’s skin is speckled with sweat. And he seems slightly out of breath. Then again, Jaskier is never happy to just sing; insisting on dancing around the room whenever he can, getting a crowd going. The man is still so skinny, and Geralt has to wonder if that’s why.

Jaskier puts a hand on the back of Geralt’s chair. He tries not to shudder at the feeling of knuckles pressing into his back. The last time they had so much as brushed against each other had been before the doors to the hall opened, and they were both swept away to different sides of the room. Now, Geralt’s grip on his goblet tightens.

“Well, you big brute, did you enjoy yourself?” Jaskier leans down to Geralt. His eyes go to the man’s goblet, and must-see how white his knuckles have turned, because the grin that spreads across his face is just chaotic.

Geralt huffs. Jaskier plays his games. Geralt plays his own. “I didn’t want to throw myself off of the parapets, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The noblelady beside him balks slightly. Geralt grins. Something mirrored by the bard. “The highest of praise,” Jaskier marvels, patting Geralt’s shoulder. The touch scalds his skin, even through the layers of nice, formal clothes he had been almost-bribed to wear.

The king beckons him over. As Jaskier brushes Geralt’s back, moving towards the king, he lets his fingers trail over Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt tries his best to swallow a low growl.

A slight flourish of air signals that Jaskier has moved away. A scent follows, trailing along and skimming the bottom of Geralt’s nose. He allows himself to breathe it, for a moment. The air inside the grand hall had steadily become heavy with the scent of drink and food and sweat. Even when the tall lancet doors were open, leading out on to a large balcony looking over the city, the sea breeze wafting in couldn’t entirely chase the harsh scent away.

But what’s here now is different. All consuming.

Geralt looks over to Jaskier, sliding into a place made for him by the king’s side.

Honey. Nutmeg. A slight trace of orange blossom. It’s a scent that coils around his chest and spreads along his veins, easing his muscles. For the first time during the entire night, the world around him all fades away.

Jaskier makes idle conversation with the king. What it’s about, Geralt isn’t entirely sure. Blood rushes through his ears, sounding like the crashing ocean outside, battering the nearby cliffs as the moon churns the sea.

He catches Geralt’s gaze out of the corner of his eye. Without turning fully away from the king, a loose, content smile curls along the bard’s lips. Geralt all but balks. He knows that smile – one that’s always painted over his bard’s face after nights spent together. One that he sees either before falling into bed, shortly after, or even in the morning hours.

One that is being sent his way, in front of the lords and ladies of gods know where, in front of an elite family. In front of other people who had been drafted to come to this event, all surely looking towards their table, seeing what the king thinks of the bard who performed all night.

Geralt schools his expression; a hard thing to do, when the grip on his goblet becomes so much, he worries vaguely about distending it.

That little siren—

Geralt, in his long life, has weathered some tough situations. But the walk back from the castle’s keep to their lodgings is definitely up there.

It doesn’t help at all that Jaskier, under a guise of being merry – the King just kept offering me drink, Geralt. I can’t turn him down! – all but drapes against his side. Their fingers brushed on the walk over, knuckles skimming each other, until Geralt tried outstretching his fingers to try and catch Jaskier’s. When the bard took it upon himself to press against Geralt’s side, one arm was flung loosely around his shoulders, while a hand placed itself on Geralt’s chest. Geralt tried biting back a growl when that particularly hand slipped underneath Geralt’s shirt, fingers skimming across his chest.

The temptation is there – stalking around in his brain. All he would have to do is drag Jaskier into a nearby street; a small alleyway where the guards aren’t patrolling, and one that they won’t even glance down. But gods, Jaskier would complain. We are not doing this like back-alley whores, Geralt. He can already hear the man’s voice in his head.

But he does hear something. He’s been playing with the man since stepping into that fool’s palace, casting glances and smirks across the grand hall, turning away coyly when Geralt wants to curse him out.

The inn is quiet. Stepping inside, Geralt is slightly surprised to find only a couple of men are posted by the bar keep’s counter. Another handful are by the hearth, mugs of mead in hand, chatting quietly among themselves. It’s a change from the inns and taverns that line country roads, which never seem to sleep. They walk straight through the tavern, with Jaskier nodding what seems to be a goodnight to the woman gathering plates around the room. But no one else even lifts their head. The hearth still crackles. Men slouched in chairs in front of it still discuss what road they’re going to take in the morning to their next destination. The lady who owns the tavern finishes putting away the polished tankards.

When they reach their room – upstairs, with a lancet window looking out on to the town – Geralt barely lets the door close behind them before he has Jaskier pushed up against it. The bard laughs, almost giggles; something smothered when Geralt catches his face in between his hands, bringing them together in a heated kiss.

Nimble fingers work at the laces of Geralt’s shirt. The top of it had been undone for a few hours now. The grand hall had been warm, and Geralt was done with Jaskier’s coy games. He could play them too. Jaskier breaks from the kiss, resting his forehead against Geralt’s. “You should have just taken the fucking shirt off,” he groans. “You were already halfway there with how much of your chest was out during that feast. Honestly Geralt, you need to work on your modesty.”

Geralt tries to catch Jaskier’s lips again, but the bard pulls back, focused on getting at least one article of clothing off of the other man. Geralt could help. Of course he could. His hands aren’t doing anything; keeping hold of Jaskier’s neck and head. But there’s something thrilling about how he can feel Jaskier’s heartbeat through the hand on his neck.

“Everyone was too busy looking at you,” he replies instead, freeing one hand to momentarily skim down Jaskier’s side.

The bard scoffs. “Are you going to be pissy about it?” With the last of the shirt laces undone, Jaskier makes quick work of wrestling it up and off of the man. Jaskier finally kisses him again, looping his arms loosely around the span of Geralt’s shoulders. “Whenever I looked for you, you had the same sulk on your face as always. What’s wrong? Did you not like all the attention being on me for once?”

He’s playing again, Geralt thinks. He’s egging you on. “If you really want to know,” he says lowly, undoing the buttons of Jaskier’s doublet. Peeling it back and off, Geralt sets his lips and teeth against the length of the bard’s neck. He hides a smirk into the skin when Jaskier’s head tilts to one side: when his breathing starts to falter and hitch. “I’ve never been prouder.”

Suddenly, the bard’s hands are on his shoulders, and Geralt is wrenched back from Jaskier. “What?” the bard balks.

I can play your game too, you siren. Geralt sets his chin. “You were in your element. I spent the night watching people singing along with you, dance to your songs. I had to endure endless praises said by a king and his court.”

Geralt returns to Jaskier’s neck – at a slight loss, since he wants to watch the bard’s eyes go even wider at the praise. But the bard’s skin is still steeped in sweet notes of honey and nutmeg, and Geralt can’t find it in himself to part with it just yet.

Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes. For the first time in a long time, nothing actually comes out in the way of words. Instead, his breath catches when Geralt’s hands find their way underneath his shirt, tracing fingers along his bare sides. A shiver ricochets throughout Jaskier’s body. The arms around Geralt’s neck tighten, keeping him pressed firmly against the bard’s front. Truth be known, Geralt doesn’t know how long they stay there; pressed against the door, bodies moving against each other while hands wander, pulling at clothing and pawing skin. It could be a couple of seconds. It could be hours. The distant hum of people downstairs and walking in the hallway outside fade away entirely, until the only sounds that Geralt can hear are the crackling of the hearth and soft groans wrenching from Jaskier’s throat.

Wealthy towns mean wealthy inns; an ever-burning hearth with chopped wood nearby, plush beds stuffed with goose feathers, and quilted blankets and furs folded by the end. Geralt guides them across the room, until Jaskier’s knees hit the foot of the bed, and they pull each other down. The bard huffs against Geralt’s lips, pulling away for a second to press his forehead against the other man’s. He looks down as Geralt pulls at the laces of his shirt. Within seconds, because his Witcher moves fast, it’s flung across the room. Out of sight, out of mind. “Tell me this,” he says. Geralt hides a smirk into the centre of Jaskier’s chest at how breathless his bard sounds already. “Do all Witchers have a thing for smells, or is it just the one I’ve got?”

Teeth nip at Jaskier’s side.

The bard presses on. “Don’t get me wrong, I like nice smells as much as the next person,” he says, carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Recently washed, and pulled back into its normal, simple tie, he delights as it comes undone. “But you seem to really like it.”

It’s still there; honey, nutmeg, and orange blossom. Although it’s faded, in the hours since bathing, replaced with tones of wine and sweat, Geralt can still find traces of it in the pores of the bard’s skin. Geralt’s lips trail downwards. His fingers make quick work of getting Jaskier out of his breeches. Another scent seeps into the air; one he’s quite fond of. He’s grown used to the sharp smell of sex; bedrooms of taverns tended to reek of it, no matter how many times sheets were washed and mattresses are turned. But there’s something different about scenting it on Jaskier. The bard has a very particular smell, one that Geralt has come to know over their time together. With Jaskier bared in front of him, Geralt loops his arms underneath the bard’s legs, and tugs him closer. Setting his mouth into the groove of Jaskier’s hip, Geralt breathes. “I like this better.”

Jaskier gives a half-laugh. It dies completely at the familiar feel of lips against skin. “I can’t go around smelling of sex all day, Geralt. What will people think?”

Geralt hums. “Nothing they don’t already assume with the rumours they used to spread about you.”

“Geralt.”

“If anything, I think it’ll only prove them right.”

“You’re not funny.”

It should bother him: how familiar they are with each other. How well both of them can map out each other’s bodies, find where they’re most vulnerable to lips or teeth or touch. It should bother him how well Jaskier knows his mind, and how their usual banter continues into an act like this. Sex had never been like this with anyone else. Not even the more serious of his lovers in the past, the ones where he felt sparks in his veins. But Jaskier is like an inferno, setting his body on fire, and never fully being put out. It should bother him. And yet it really doesn’t.

Gentle hands running over his shoulders bring him back. “Everything alright down there?”

Geralt looks up. Pillows piled up against the headboard help the bard sit up slightly. Geralt can’t help but imagine him as some sort of regent, reclining and observing. Geralt lets his hands wander down the outside of Jaskier’s legs. He presses one last kiss to the join of the bard’s hip and leg. It’s not where Jaskier needs him. He knows that. Some part of him delights in watching the other man squirm: how he’ll try and shift his hips slightly, urging Geralt to put his mouth somewhere fucking useful—

“You’re being cruel.” Jaskier frowns down at him with all the power of a child not getting what they want.

Geralt hums. “Am I?” He moves past the man’s length, all but missing it completely, to worry skin of the other side of Jaskier’s hip.

The bard groans, letting his head fall back against the pillows. “And obtuse.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jaskier squirms. He’s strong; something not many people know about him. The bard isn’t completely helpless. But at the same time, Geralt has little to no trouble in catching writhing legs and hips, and holding them down to continue doing whatever it was he was doing not a couple of seconds before.

But Jaskier’s top half is free. Geralt looks up for a second, watching the bard reach for the bottle of oil they have on the bedside table. He frowns slightly. He doesn’t remember fishing it out of Roach’s bags, which means that Jaskier took it inside. And Jaskier left it on the bedside table, for all the world to see.

And Jaskier definitely knew that they would come back to the tavern and fall into bed together.

He flings the bottle down towards Geralt, almost knocking the Witcher’s head with it. “If you’re going to spend the rest of your days down there, could you at least do something useful?” Jaskier huffs, sitting back on his elbows.

“This is useful,” Geralt replies easily. For all their games – for all the times he prods and pokes fun at his bard, because it’s genuinely amusing – he does take pity. Searching blindly for the bottle, Geralt adds a couple of more bruises to Jaskier’s hip. “There’s no point in rushing things. We have all night. And tomorrow morning.”

Uncapping the glass bottle, the smell of oil suddenly enters the room. It’s not entirely unpleasant, but it’s not his favourite thing in the world. It’s heavy, almost smothering, as it coats the roof of Geralt’s mouth. He coats his fingers, making sure that there’s enough left behind because, for all people say about Witcher’s and their stamina, the same could be said about Jaskier. And he will want something akin to a second round in the morning hours.

Jaskier’s head falls back against the pillows as Geralt’s finger traces his hole. Geralt lifts his lips from Jaskier’s hip, watching intently as he slips one finger in; humming when there’s no resistance at all.

A groan echoes through Jaskier’s entire body. “There you go,” he sighs, “another.”

Geralt gladly obliges, after a time. He likes taunting his bard. There’s a humour shared between the two of them that he doesn’t have with anyone else. But eventually, it always leaves when they get a bit too close. When something else takes its place. They’ll still share breath when joined, and Jaskier will always loose a content little giggle into Geralt’s neck once they’ve finished. But right now, it’s not the time.

A second finger joins the first. And Jaskier’s body starts to squirm again. Geralt runs a hand over the man’s flank. Beneath his hand, gooseflesh bubbles to the surface. Geralt takes his time, coaxing muscle loose and making sure that nothing ever hurts Jaskier in any way. He returns to the bard’s neck, tracing his lips along the tendon that stands out whenever Jaskier tries to swallow back moans. The second that he runs his nose along it, though, Jaskier gasps. “I appreciate – fuck – I appreciate your attentiveness Geralt but – for fuck sake – get on with it, please.”

A third finger slips in. Geralt hums against Jaskier’s stomach, watching how his body seemingly recognises his partner’s touch, parting for him easily. Geralt turns his hand slightly, curling his fingers, searching and feeling out for something. He knows he has found it when a hand slaps against his shoulder. Geralt smirks: the bard’s fingers coil over the meat of his shoulder, nails pressing into skin. “For fuck sake,” Jaskier groans at the ceiling, “are you going to torture me all night?”

A gentle kiss is pressed to Jaskier’s stomach. “Maybe,” Geralt hums, tracing the pads of his fingers gently over the spot, relishing in how his bard both wants to squirm away from the overstimulation, and grind his hips back on to his hand. “You do look good lain out like this.”

“I’d look even better with you fucking me,” Jaskier bites, looking down at an entirely all-too-smug Witcher. His eyes narrow. “So get to it.”

“Bossy little bastard, aren’t you,” Geralt says, leaning up to catch Jaskier’s lips in his own. He has them for a brief moment, before the bard pulls away with a huff, pressing his head back into the pillow when Geralt’s fingers brush against his prostate again.

“I spent an age bathing and getting nice for you. Not to mention how much time I spent riling you up in the king’s halls,” Jaskier all but huffs. Geralt smiles, sitting back on his haunches. With the Witcher not covering him anymore, a slight chill trails over Jaskier’s bare skin. Even with the hearth blazing, he feels cold. “The least you can do is actually follow through with those bedroom eyes you were sending me all night.”

Geralt cleans his hand on the far corner of the bed. Hooded eyes watch him make quick and deft work with the laces of his breeches. His boots are lost to the room, toed off at some point on their journey from the door to the bed. Gods only know where they are. “If you had the patience to spend all that time playing coy,” Geralt smirks, slipping his breeches off and flinging them on to the floor, “then you can wait a few more minutes until we’re ready.”

Geralt returns, and Jaskier feels warm again. Kisses litter his torso: lips either barely brushing skin at all, or wet presses along the ridges of his collarbone and ribs. It’s lovely. It really is. But Geralt feels another objection from the bard coming when his shoulder is lightly smacked.

“I’ll find someone else,” Jaskier groans.

“Right.”

“I will,” he bites, “someone downstairs will take better care of my needs.”

“I’m sure they will.”

It’s always in jest. Well, it’s always in jest when it’s between them. Geralt knows that it’s his bed that Jaskier lies in, that he’ll always come back to. Jaskier knows the same. He can joke with his bard about his past affairs – since there probably isn’t a town in the continent that hasn’t been saved from Jaskier’s past romances. It’s never a joke when it’s someone else; when someone in an inn or tavern, or drunkard stumbling out of a brothel at night, seeing them walk by. It’s never a joke when those people say it.

Geralt finds his place again, Jaskier’s legs parted and framed around him. He hovers over the bard, leaning on his arms, placed on either side of Jaskier’s head. They can be close, that way. Geralt kisses him again, humming as he feels Jaskier pull his hair free of its tie, and runs his fingers through the strands. When they part, it’s only a fragment. Their lips brush and their noses are set against the other’s. Any scorn that the bard had been feeling not a couple of moments ago has seeped away. Jaskier’s fingers trail from Geralt’s hair, to his temples, down along the ridges of his cheekbones and coming to a rest along his jaw, mapping out lines. “I’m yours,”

“And you’re mine,” Geralt agrees, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

Their joining now is just as intense as it had been during their first. Many moons ago, aided by blood humming slightly with ale and a warm bed, when the first brush of naked skin set them both alight. Geralt buries his face into Jaskier’s neck, the urge to bite the skin there rising, but he thinks better against it. If his bard has been this tightly strung all night, best not to let go of the string.

Jaskier’s legs wrap around his waist, with his feet poised at the small of his back. The movement jostles Geralt slightly, wrenching a small groan from both of them. Either one of them could finish early. The night’s tension all rushes upon them now. Geralt nips at the join of Jaskier’s shoulder and neck. “Alright?”

“Very much so,” Jaskier sighs, head tilted back and eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. They roll back at the first slide of Geralt in him: a slow draw back and push forward, the tentative first movement, and a quiet question of is this okay?

Finding no reason to stop, Geralt moves faster and deeper into the body below him. Jaskier all but moulds himself to Geralt’s frame, arms draped over and crossed around his shoulders and back, keeping their chests flushed together. Even with several nights of lying together behind them – so many that Geralt has stopped keeping track – it still surprises him how quickly a coil of heat starts to wind around his core.

Jaskier turns his head, moaning into the pillow. “There,” he gasps at a well-placed thrust, “there, there, keep going.”

There are things people say about Geralt that don’t hold an ounce of truth. Usually, it’s the whole Witcher thing. People will make up all kinds of rumours and beliefs, and stand by them, to justify distrust and hate. Other things are frivolous – like how he is as a lover. Jaskier thought some of them, at one point. One of the prevailing beliefs being that Geralt was going to be rough and coarse, and the entire thing would leave him unable to walk the next day. And while some times the latter is true, Geralt has never once bore teeth and nail to Jaskier – unless he explicitly asked for it, of course. Geralt is attentive; he reaches blindly for one of Jaskier’s thighs, hoisting it higher up Geralt’s torso just so he can get deeper. It wrenches something caught between a moan and yell from the bard.

It’s always for Jaskier.

Geralt wants to watch. He wants to see the bard’s face and body, but he presses his nose against Jaskier’s skin instead, drawing in a lungful of sweet and salty scents. It sends a thrum of pleasure down his spine.

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps. His nails dig into the flesh of Geralt’s back. “Geralt, please. I’m close.”

“You can come for me without my help,” Geralt pulls away from Jaskier’s neck, but keeping his face close to the other man’s. “Can’t you, my little lark?”

Jaskier’s eyelids flicker closed. “Geralt-” The bard body tightens around him, and for a brief moment, all Geralt sees is white. Their foreheads knock gently together as Jaskier comes, holding on to Geralt for dear life as wetness shoots between them.

A choked groan wrenches out of Geralt’s throat. It’s all too much, the tight heat and the scents encircling him, and the fact that it’s Jaskier. With one last hard thrust, he stills, emptying himself into Jaskier. The bard moans, shifting his hips slightly. The legs around Geralt’s waist tighten, keeping the man pressed close.

Some sort of whine leaves Jaskier’s throat when Geralt manages to pull away from the bard. With whatever energy is left in him, Geralt uses it to avoid falling down directly on to the body beneath him. Instead, he moves on to one side of the bed, but keeping Jaskier within an arm’s reach.

Jaskier peers down at himself. They should bathe. But bathing would mean going in search of the tavernkeep and asking for hot water. It would involve them moving and putting clothes on. The idea is quickly thrown out the window. It’ll be a problem for the morning.

Both of them lie there for a time, content to catch their breaths. Sweat cools, and soon, Jaskier starts to shiver slightly. Even with the hearth, it’s not enough. Their legs are still joined, entangled, keeping them tethered to each other. The very thought of having to move away, even just for a second, makes Jaskier’s heart clench.

But they do move after a time, albeit, just shuffling around slightly to lie facing each other.

“For all the grumbling you did on our journey here,” Jaskier says, reaching out to brush some strands of white hair back from Geralt’s face, “we had a lovely time in this city, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s eyelids droop close. Jaskier moves to fetch the linen sheets, kicked down towards the foot of the bed. When he drapes them over their bodies, Geralt shuffles slightly, throwing an arm loosely around Jaskier’s waist, tugging him closer.

Jaskier pillows his head on one arm, pale blue eyes scanning over the Witcher’s face. He’s mapped every inch of it in their time together; the ridges of cheekbones, the small scars on his temple, how his eyes, although they stay that amber colour, can change to different shades depending on what mood he’s in. Jaskier smiles. “Thank you,” he says softly. “For coming here with me.”

Geralt hums. His eyes remain closed, but from his breathing alone, Jaskier knows he’s not asleep. Though, he could very well be teetering on the edge. “I was hardly going to let you go alone,” he rasps. “Gods know what kind of trouble you would have gotten yourself into.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t to watch me perform?” Jaskier smiles, something hidden into his arm. But his eyes crease with how widely the smile spreads. “Since you had such nice words for me when we got back.”

“Did I?”

“You complimented me, Geralt.”

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d do. You have me confused with someone else.”

Jaskier pokes his side. “No, I vividly remember you saying that you were proud of me. Seeing me in my element, as you put it.”

“Go to fucking sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt mumbles. The words are mostly lost into the cotton cover of the pillow, but he feels Jaskier shift slightly, finally settling after a couple of minutes.

The town outside sleeps, except for the patrols of mounted guards that pass every half an hour or so. Horses’ hooves echo along the cobbles outside. If he strains, he can hear the guards chattering amongst themselves. There are other sounds too; the crackle of burning wood in the hearth, the groaning of boards in the tavern’s walls as the night begins to cool. All sounds that Geralt tries not to listen to. He turns his head, burying his nose into Jaskier’s mop of hair.

It’s still there. Traces of it, clinging on to his skin for dear life, but Geralt fills his lungs with honey and nutmeg and orange blossom. The mattress seems to part for him as he sinks into it, holding the bard’s body close, and letting sleep wash over him.

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dboliklosers · 5 years ago

Text

My two friends who don’t know anything about Diabolik Lovers guess the Sakamaki’s personality based on their looks.

SHU

Lucky // “Oh, he looks nice! I’m sure he has good grades, he looks like he has good grades. He looks like the kind of guy everybody’s into, boys and girls alike because he’s good at reading people and whispers into their hearts, kind of like Jesus Christ. He’s Jesus Christ, alright.”

Pozzo // “This one’s gay. I’m sure he’s a momma’s boy with impeccable manners but deep down he’s fed up with the society he grew into and wants out of it. Do to what? I don’t know, whatever he likes, I guess.”

REIJI

Lucky // “He’s def a serial lover. He’s the big brother type of figure and probably the president of whatever student council this dumb anime has. I’m sure he’s the kind of bad guy who never falls in love and sees sex as a means to get what he wants. Yeah, he’s definitely a manipulator, maybe even a malignant narcissist. I’m pretty sure he treats his significant other as a child just to assert his superiority over them. He probably puts the blame on others when he doesn’t get his way.

Pozzo // “Ah, I watched enough animes to know that dark-haired boys with glasses are no good! I’m sure he’s aromantic. He’s intelligent and knows it, which is super annoying? But deep down, he’s actually a very soft boy who acts like a douchebag just to push people away.”

AYATO

Lucky // “This one lost his parents at a young age and has lived in opulence since then. Kind of like Batman? He’s either an alcoholic or a pimp. He probably swings both ways too. I’m sure that he changes his hair colour whenever he feels insecure. His shirt is open, so I guess he has bad depression? Idk.”

Pozzo // “The open shirt means his parents put pressure on him, that’s for sure. He has to be a pervert who seduces others and convinces them to do to all sort of nasty things. I’m sure he spends long nights at the bar, just waiting for someone to come and talk to him.”

KANATO

Lucky // “Oh my god, what’s wrong with this one?! Who hurt him? He looks like he was molested as a child! He’s fucking dead inside! Like I feel so bad for him, but at the same time, he’s super scary. I’m sure everything about him is cold and fake. This one has issues, that’s for sure. Maybe she’s a trans woman whose parents don’t accept the identity?”

Pozzo // “Or he could be a trans guy who feels excluded. He looks like an evil doll and I don’t want to talk about him, he’s nasty. NEXT!”

LAITO

Lucky // “Oh, he’s a magician! The fedora is such a huge fucking problem, so unless he knows magic tricks, this one is cancelled. It’d be nice if that was his flirting technique. He’s pretty sensitive but acts like a cold bitch during sex? He doesn’t want people to fall for him so he hurts them real bad. He probably owns a dog too.”

Pozzo // “He has to be a crossdresser. I agree with Lucky too, he looks like someone who treats you like shit then dumps you with an « It’s not you, it’s me » bullshit excuse. Like yeah bitch, it’s on you, 100%. I’m sure he owns an account on Second Life. The fedora is awful.”

SUBARU

Lucky // “He’s the popular boy at school? He kind of has a quarterback/surfer looks… Either way, I think he has an American vibe. I’m sure he sings well but he’s ashamed of his voice. He works out a lot to cover his inner fragility. It’s not his real hair colour, right?”

Pozzo // “Oh my god they all look the same! This one is so bland, he’s probably the kind of asshole who plays the guitar in high school and thinks he can get any girl he wants, which is probably true because high school boys are the worst. Ugh. I’m sure he has no personality because he tries way too hard to stand out in a crowd.”

#dl #dialovers #Diabolik Lovers #Sakamaki Brothers #Shu Sakamaki #Reiji Sakamaki #Ayato Sakamaki #Kanato Sakamaki #Laito Sakamaki #Subaru Sakamaki #commentary #Gem's friends #Lucky & Pozzo

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parf-fan · 5 years ago

Text

Followup: Blackfryars!

Mount Hope, I’m begging you. 👏 Hire 👏 a 👏 copy 👏 editor. 👏

As always, visit the Faire’s website for headshots

Estelle Angrist : Millicent Goodnestone – Apprentice Stone-Carver

Inside every stone is a piece of art, so says Millicent. All you need to do is listen to the rock and take away the unnecessary pieces. Now, the artistry comes in the patience with which one removes the extra bits of stone. Patience, hammer, chisel, and a light touch are all that are required. Otherwise, a good piece of stone can become a dust pile very quickly. Thank goodness today is a festival day, because Millicent has been sweeping piles of dust for a while.

Alessandra Appiotti : Bernadette Albright – Matchmaker

The shire is being visited by the World’s most famous Bachelorette: Queen Elizabeth! If Bernadette can find the one for Queen Elizabeth, she will go from rising star to full-on supernova! She’d better get started lining up eligible bachelors! Or Bachelorettes! She hasn’t met Her Majesty yet, so who is she to judge her tastes?

Andréa Barton : Lady Blanche Parry – Lady in Waiting

This devoted Lady has served the Queen from the time our monarch was in nappies! They are boon companions, sharing court life and all its intrigue and frivolity. While she may look like the marzipan on the cake, her skilled organization of the Queen’s library and fondness for a good jest keeps her wit sharp enough to cut like a knife. Just ask the fool that attempts to play with her heart strings or guitar strings!

Kristin Bauer : Frances Newton, Lady Cobham – Lady in Waiting

Lady Cobham is thrilled to be on progress with the Queen. After all, this busy mother needs some time with the Ladies. With her soft nature and quick smile, she can often times be found with the children of the Shire, telling stories, rhymes, riddles, and playing games. Her sense of mirth does not leave her without a streak of mischief, as she does love to put her finger in the pot, give it a stir, and see what happens! Naughty or Nice? You be the judge!

Lauralette Bernard : Tolly Muneford – Harbor Master

Nothing comes in or out of the shores of Mount Hope that Tolly doesn’t know about. Her web of knowledge reaches far and wide, and she does it all in the service of the Shire. If only she wasn’t so keen on sharing all this knowledge with literally everyone, she might be able to use it for personal gain.

Jennifer Blackwell-Yale : Emily O. Bales – Fire Brigade

It has been 15 years since a monarch last visited the Shire of Mount Hope. Coincidentally, it has also been 15 years since the last fire in the shire of Mount Hope. Emily is always ready for action, but no one is quite sure she would know exactly what to do should action arise. When in doubt: stop, drop, roll, and have some wine. It seemed to work out just fine for the Old Dun Cow!

Karen Rose Bitzer : Rosie DuLait – Milkmaid

This milkmaid typically spends her day milking the cows and goats on the farm; carefully churning the butter; separating the curds from the whey; making the precious cheese to sell at market; all the time, singing and talking to her fine, generous, milk-laden friends! Is it any wonder that Rosie’s dairy products are highly sought for their sweet, creamy nature? It is even said that her happy cows seem to prance in the fields, as if dancing to a jig. Is that even possible? With Rosie, one never knows! Today she was up early: the Queen is expected and she wants to offer the sweetest cream and the finest butter to lay upon the Queen’s table.

Tabitha Borges : Abigail Montgomery – Governess to the Lady Mayor

Abigail has always had a way with children, and has taken care of all the Lady Mayor’s progeny, which means she is quite resilient! Of the many duties, trials, and tribulations the Penburthys have put her through, her favorite activity is still telling stories, and she is a masterful storyteller. Now that the Penburthy children, Calvin, Penelope, and Danforth, have all grown up, she is experiencing Empty Nest Syndrome far more than Delores is!

Elizabeth Burkholder : Paraffin Dyson – Bellows-Mender

Paraffin is a fan. She is a fan of fans. Her bellows will blow you away, that’s how big of a fan she is. Sometimes she can be a bit of a blowhard, but usually she can play it cool. And yet, even the coolest of bellows-menders may have a difficult time not having a meltdown with our Queen on the Shire. Time will tell if Paraffin maintains her composure or has a blowout, but one thing is for sure; she will certainly enjoy this festival day!

Jasmine Crist : Mary Robin Richland – Shire Ne'er-Do-Well

Every shire has one, ours is Mary Robin! While good-natured and always seen with a smile, it is known that one must keep a hand on your purse and an eye on your goods, for you may come up short when the back side of Mary Robin you see! Slight of hand, quick of feet, and always with a jest to share, it is her good nature and sharp wit that keeps her just on this side of the law, for now! It has been heard that she has high aspirations, but for what? Ask her, she may or may not share!

Ashley Crowther : Ira Roth – Actuary

Everyone’s heard of mad scientists, but a mad actuary? That’s much rarer. If you stare at numbers all day long, apparently they start staring back. Eventually, everything starts to look like a ledger, and you can see the numbers everywhere. Sure... that adds up...

Josh Dorsheimer : Jakob Werner – Landsknecht

Professional mercenaries fight the wars of the Kings of Europe. Professionals like Jakob. He does his level best to never think about any of that, though! He would rather spend his time gallivanting around town, spending his hard-won gold on drink, friends, and frivolity. The oldest of the family, Jakob is sometimes mistaken as the decision-maker of the clan. While he won’t outright deny this, the three siblings all know who really calls the shots: their baby sister!

Elisia Freeman : Agnes Lambourne – Apple-Monger

Apple cider, apple butter, apple sausage, apple crisp, apple cake.... Just ask this happy-go-lucky lady what you can do with all those apples, and she will tell you! Be prepared, her list is LONG! Apple juggling, apple carving, apple tossing, apple dicing, apple bocci. Do not be fooled, she knows that man does not live by apples alone; everyone knows you need a little cinnamon and a lot of laughter!

Corey Graff : Wagner Werner – Landsknecht

Wagner travels all over Europe fighting battles with his brother and sister for one reason: he loves them both dearly. Honestly though, he would much rather be laying down in a meadow watching butterflies. Sometimes suffering from middle child syndrome, Wagner’s gadabout ways certainly make life interesting for all the Werner siblings.

Steve Hager : Rip Skeleton – Gravedigger

There are two things certain in this world: Death, and Taxes – and Rip ain’t no accountant. Its always nice to have a friendly face build your final resting place.

Jeremiah Halteman : Ronald P. Eversmeyer – Yeoman Guard

They say history is written by the victors. Ronald has every intention of ensuring that our good Queen’s name goes down in the history of the world as the greatest victor of them all! He is always prepared to put himself between Her Majesty and danger, wherever it comes from, in whatever form it takes, and at any personal sacrifice! His extensive training in the art of personal security has rendered him one of the elite of the yeoman guard; as long as Her Majesty is not attacked from the air. Unfortunately, Ronald has a fear of butterflies. Something about the wings just throw off his rhythm, but no worries....butterflies in Mount Hope? Never!!

Jonathan Heise : Sir John Giffard of Chillington, Minister of Parliament, Knight – Nobleman

This Minister of Parliament felt it his duty to be present during the Queen’s progress at Mount Hope. Concerned that perhaps this tiny village would not be up to the task of hosting our Queen, he would be quick to move the festivities to Chillington. Upon arrival he realized his foolish mistake; never had he seen such a shire, and thought perhaps ‘twas time to move Chillington to Mount Hope! However, for now, why not enjoy the festivities?

Brianna E. Holmes : Mary Hill, Lady Cheke – Lady in Waiting

This gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber is well loved by all. Her husband, John Cheke, a gentleman of the court, encourages her in her service of the Queen. The Queen has blessed them often with gifts, grants, and an estate or two. Even at this show of opulence, Lady Cheke takes it all in stride. She finds joy in the simple things in life; her children, her rose garden, and her love of arachnids. Their homes, their legs, and loving little eyes; can you ever have enough? I think NOT says Lady Cheke.

Anastasia Keno : Louise Weaver – Shepherdess

A diligent if mischievous shepherdess, Louise has a passion for all things fluffy! Why should sheep be the only animals allowed to graze free? Let the cats graze free! Let the puppies graze free! Let the mice graze free! Free the animals! Sorry... she can be very passionate.

Jennifer Litzinger : Cherie Piquant – Spice Merchant

If the first pinch of salt is free, be prepared to pay dearly for everything else. A shrewd business woman, do not let Cherie’s smile fool you. She was born to barter, and barter she will! Well-known on the shire as the woman who can get what you need, do not be afraid to ask; as long as its cinnamon, cloves, turmeric, or cardamom, by day’s end, it will be in your kitchen. Ask for a song, and you could be in for a treat.

Dana Micciché : Katherine Champernowne, Lady Kat Ashley – Lady in Waiting

Appointed governess, tutor, friend, and confidante, Lady Kat Ashley ensured that her Queen had all the necessary tools to rule England. Well versed in astronomy, geography, history, Latin, Spanish, Italian, and Flemish, this unassuming woman is also trained in the art of swordsmanship, axe-throwing, archery, and caber tossing! Think you know a little about a lot? Lady Kat knew it first!

Traci Mohl : Olivia Charnwood – Huntress

The family tradition of hunting and tracking lives on in the guise of Olivia. Like her mother and grandmother before her, ear to ground, sniffing the air; hunting prey is in her blood. Mount Hope’s finest archer, Olivia never fails to bring home the meat – just don’t ask her to cook it!! On this festival day, she plans on showing off her tracking skills by sniffing out a merry time!

Beverly Newton : Charlotte Seaswift – Shipwright

This buoyant aquatic engineer helps keep the Harbor of Mount Hope afloat. An eye for design and a passion for innovation drive Charlotte. She knows that the fine line between sink and swim is just a patch away, and she is always ready to keep things floating on.

Jared Nocella : Miles I. Gore – Professional Henchman

Some people are natural born leaders. Miles is not one of those people. Miles is a natural born lackey, and he’s the best there is at being second fiddle. Always down for doing the dirty work, and he does it dirt cheap! Miles is a sidekick with a smile and has a flare for following.

Alexandra Pentz : Dorte Werner – Kampfrau

The youngest of the Werner siblings, but make no mistake: she is the one that keeps the family together. From designing the boys’ clothes, managing the family finances, and fighting her share of battles, she is as clever as she is dangerous. And after all that, she still has the ability to be the most mischievous of the three!

Lianna Pike : Rosalind Anne Uxbridge – Gardener

Rosalind has had her hands deep in dirt, up to her elbows, preparing for the Royal visit. The gardens must be perfect! Simple details like stone placement can be so critical, yet every time she plants, those chipmunks and rabbits have a feast . That is why Rosalind has a bed in all of her garden plots. She sleeps in a different flower bed each night. Thank goodness the festival is finally here, she can finally get out of the beds and enjoy the beauty of her work with the rest of the shirefolk.

Nicolas Rainville : Grayson Thomas Hemplewhite – Squire to the Master of Horse, Sir Robert Dudley

What an honor to serve the horse that carries the saddle that seats the man who serves the Queen so closely! To say that Hemplewhite is a hard worker is putting it mildly. His work is never done. Clean the tack, muck the stall, check the hooves; not to mention ensuring that Tinker, the horse, is always sweet-smelling for his Master to ride. But today is a festival day. Tinker smells sweet, now its time for Hemplewhite to have a bit of merriment.

Jessica Reesor : Holly Teacake – Baker

Everyone likes sweets at a festival, and Holly has made sure the shire is stocked with confections to please any palate. Fruity, chocolatey, savory – whatever your taste, Holly has you covered! An obsessive planner, Holly loves the order of a recipe. It is a mathematical equation for pleasing people. If only everything else was that simple!

Laura Reesor : Pearl Topstitch – Tailor

A visionary designer with an eye for style. Never satisfied with the same-old same-old; when something works once, she’s done with it! Her appetite for new and exotic is matched only by her skill. She can look at a piece of fabric and see the hidden...pearl...of genius within. Now it is time to show off her skills to the Queen.

James Riley : Adam Cringer – Yeoman Guard

A newly-minted member of the Yeoman Guard following in the footsteps of his grandfather and father before him. Legend of Adam’s monster-hunting exploits have already preceded him. Now it is time to see if the man can match the Legend.

Victoria Sangston : Dorothea Anne Heartley – Etiquette Mistress

Today is a big day for the shire of Mount Hope, and the Lady Mayor has tasked Mistress Heartley with making sure everyone puts their best foot forward. Of course, is that the right foot or the other right foot? Joyfully surveying the shirefolk, she knows everyone will be on their best, smiling, bowing, hat tipping, formal greeting behavior – or else!

Michael Sheffield : John Dee – Royal Astrologer

A good ruler has good advisors. Time will tell what kind of advisor John Dee will be. He says he talks to angels. Perhaps he does. Perhaps he’s just a brilliant con man. One thing is for sure – eccentric only scratches the surface of describing this stargazing man.

Jessie Smith : Polly Lynne Pickering – Apprentice Rag-picker

Polly Lynne has been following in her mum’s footsteps for as long as she can remember. Mum does have a keen eye for bits and pieces, but Polly Lynne is impatient! When she is THE Rag-Picker, she will be much more efficient! Would anyone REALLY notice if a bit was snipped off a gown here and there? Bushes and scissors are a picker’s best friend. She has heard of the fine fabrics worn by the Nobles of the court and is hoping to snip.... errrr....snag a piece or two of those fabrics for herself!

Mary Smith : Penelope Ann Pickering – Rag-picker

Some call it rag-picking, but Penelope prefers to call it fabric repurposing opportunities. Opportunities abound in the shire of Mount Hope, all you have to do is look around! And look she does!! With a keen eye for bits of fabric, lace, gossip, and good will, she has a kind word for everyone and perhaps a bit of scrap for those in need; and, really, who doesn’t need a bit of scrap now and then? And now, with the training up of Polly Lynne, she’s busy busy busy! Thank goodness for the Festival. Mirth, merriment, and fabric scraps!

Evelin Stayner : Buttercup M. Rosehips – Scullery Wench

This young lady is happy when surrounded by a pile of dirty anything. Beginning, middle, end! That is where she finds her joy. Every day has its adventures, and they all start when the sun comes up and last throughout the day. You may find her dancing, singing, or generally making herself an asset to the Shire of Mount. Hope. Some might even call her a fledgling pillar of society; probably more like a fence post. But everybody has to start somewhere!

Katrin Stayner : Eva Froman – Sausage Queen of the Shire

Blessed with infinite patience, and a lithe mind to keep up with her husband. The Fromans are nouveau riche, and happy to flaunt it. Eva is the true brains of the operation. Her wurst is the best, and her husband is the best at being the worst. [the Sausage King is being played by one of the improv directors who doubles as an independent act.]

Jordan Taft : Dorothy "Dottie" Brooke – Lady in Waiting

This Maid of Honor is a seasoned Lady of the court. Certainly Lady Dorothy has done it all, seen it all, and has the bodice to prove it. However, Mount Hope intrigues her. After all, it is time for her to settle down and have a family of her own, and the matchmaker of the Shire is famous throughout the land. She may leave here betrothed, or at least,with several good prospects. Love is in the air, or, is that TURKEY???

Robyn Thompson : Fiona Erin O'Donald – Personal Foot Post of the Lady Mayor

When Fiona came to Mount Hope, the first person she met was the Lady Mayor, who had just lost her third foot post in six months. Fiona needed a job; she had no idea what a foot post was, but she knew she could do it! She is Irish after all! As it turns out, she is the best foot post the Mayor has ever had!! Messenger, she’s the Lady Mayor’s personal messenger!

Sandi Trait : Becky Billingsly – Town Crier and Lady Mayor’s Official Letter-Opener

Becky Billingsly, the voice of the shire, knows full well the weight her proclamations carry. As Official Letter Opener for the Lady Mayor, she is at the forefront of all the news that is news in the shire. Of course, nothing beats today’s happenings! The young Queen makes her way to the gates of Mount Hope. How thrilling to share her news and tidings with the court of her Majesty!

Ariel E. Urich : Kathryn Bridges – Lady in Waiting

This Maid of Honor is on her first progress with the Queen. She has lived her entire life in training for this very time and now that it is here, she realizes that something is missing. She knows how to carry the cup with grace and style; the basket is a simple matter; smiling at the proper time, sitting, standing. So, what is the problem? She has this deep desire to make people laugh! So far, she has shared a bit of her talent with the Ladies of the Court, but perhaps this small shire is where she can be a bit more free with her jests and merriment. Oh, the festival day could not get here soon enough!

Brianna Yale : Lydia der Schlachter – Butcher

Leaving home to work for the Fromans was a tough decision but one she is happy she made. Butchering brings her such delight. From the time she begins to sharpen her blade to the beauty of well-cut chop, this butcher knows her way around a slab of beef, pork, and lamb. However, never ask her for a capon! She has been squeamish since the capon incident of 1552. Enough of that! This is a festival day, and she plans on celebrating with the shire folk and perhaps even catching a glimpse of the new Queen.

Darrell E. Yoder : Sylvan Farelight – Tinker

If it needs mending, this is the man to do it. If it needs replacing, step right up, he has it. If you need a bit of magic in your life, having Sylvan on the streets ensures that your needs will be met! Always popular when he arrives on shire; Sylvan can be counted on to share a bit of news from afar; a bit of wisdom from within; and a bit of magic from, well, from where magic comes from!

To the newcomers, welcome! To those returning, welcome back!

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ganymedesclock · 6 years ago

Note

If you could create animals based off of the paladins' personalities, what would they be? What would they look like? Where would they live? What weird traits would they have?

So I guess think of these things as the hypothetical companion animals the paladins would have if they didn’t have the Lions? Along with the Lions? Who knows. I sure had fun.

Lance: Lesser Vaukeeil, AKA River Vaukeeil

Serpentine body about eight feet long and four feet high at the shoulder, eight pairs of short legs. Surprisingly graceful, covered mostly in smooth scales with a short mane and sensitive whiskers. Outer lip features a ‘beak’ intended for grooming but also posses teeth. Prized for the beautiful color of its scales, which can be ground into an expensive blue pigment.

Lives in temperate wetlands, forests and rivers. Unexpectedly good at climbing, strong swimmer, lurks beneath the water’s surface or up in the trees. Omnivorous, primarily eats fish, water plants, rarely will attack and eat something as large as a deer when they’re drawn to its watering-hole hunting grounds. Hunts with sudden lunging movements, striking like a snake and using wolf-like jaws and strong body to drag prey into the water or onto land, whichever is least advantageous to the prey.

Clever, expresses emotions largely through multiple fins nested in its features. Able to learn, understand, and mimic speech and other noises in its environment. Natural sounds are lots of chirps, warbles, clicks, hisses, and screeches. Very vocal. Inquisitive and playful, its inclinations as an ambush predator can easily draw it towards something it’s fascinated by.

A social animal that hunts in solitude but lives communally in packs of its kind, becomes despondent easily if isolated. If its own species is unavailable, will bond readily with people. A fastidious groomer which is only happy when clean, very touch-motivated. If upset for any reason (usually alone, dirty, scared or hungry), quick to turn destructive and dig/scratch at its environment.

Hunk: Kalskapferi, AKA the Common Miner Turtle

Quadrupedal animal about one-and-a-half times the size of a jeep. Boxy head, lacks teeth but crushes or scissors food with a sharp heavy beak. Able to store reserves of food and water inside of its body, a gluttonous creature in times of plenty and thus able to withstand prolonged drought and famine with little difficulty. If its reserves run low, hibernates inside of caves.

Lives in a mountainous, arid, and desert climate, crossing an enormous territory in an attempt to follow habitable regions. Diet is primarily vegetation such as cacti, but has been known to use its beak to crack open rocks for minerals or salt. (Absolutely loves salt. Will go to ridiculous extremes to get at it)

Possesses a long, strong, dark tongue that it uses to manipulate objects. Hardy, has a long history as being domesticated as a beast of burden and transport. Mineral-eating behavior is primarily to maintain an especially durable hide of ‘living rock’ that weighs it down but renders it virtually unstoppable. Tail is crowned with a heavy biological cudgel.

If threatened by predators or frightened, will charge with its heavy, spiked brow. This is dangerous particularly as it has a behavior of planting its feet and the tip of its wedge-shaped snout underneath an obstruction and using powerful neck muscles to fling the intrusion out of its way. Trampling, kicking, biting, or lashing with its tail mace all carry weight to punch through spacefaring steels.

An anxious creature who relies on maintaining a large array of vision, with six eyes. The protective plating on its head gives it a disadvantage, leaving a blind spot directly in front of it. A bit fussy, especially skittish around potential predators. Only when feeling totally relaxed and content will it roll over and allow people to touch its vulnerable underbelly. Communicates in a vocabulary of grunts, whines, snorts, and squeals, similar to a rhinoceros or a boar, becomes very loud if startled or upset. Lives and travels in large herds. Pairs mate for life.

A superb sense of smell, able to track down water or valuable minerals over long distances and is even sometimes used to track down people lost in the vast deserts of its home, which it can do even with a scent several days old. With the short, broad claws on all four limbs, it’s an excellent burrower.

Shiro: Highlands Dragon Shriek

Solitary animal, six feet tall at the shoulder. Dwells in the ‘super-mountains’ of its home planet that protrude to the edge of the planet’s atmosphere, at altitudes that harbor almost no other life. Enormous wingspan, clawed, feathered wings built for soaring. Covered in a dense, luxurious coat of fur and feathers in numerous understated shades of black, gray, and white to insulate it from the bitter cold. Quadrupedal stance balancing on its wings and hind legs.

Thick, translucent horizontal eyelids that serve as ‘goggles’ during dives. A predator that primarily feeds on goat-like mountain animals, also scavenges from corpses. The species is named for the distinctive, high-pitched whistle they produce in a dive. Capable of hunting and killing much larger prey than itself by latching onto the back of the neck and kicking furiously with its hind legs. Cracks bones with its strong beak to eat the marrow.

Vocalizes comparatively little, occasionally witters, chirps, or croons, usually to its offspring or mates exclusively. Mated pairs can be observed to remember each other year after year and return, but offspring are raised solitary by a single parent, and leave the nest as soon as they are fully fledged. Prone to drawing into isolation and hiding if injured or in pain. Have shown the capacity to recognize the bones of their mates or children, even after years of separation.

Highly aggressive in defense of their nests, but anecdotal accounts and folk legends tell of them rescuing frozen travelers lost in the mountains. Considered holy by local peoples. Threatened by heavy poaching that has decimated the species, leaving them incredibly rare and most surviving specimens bearing scars from hunters’ traps.

Slow to trust and equally slow to bond, taking both a very patient and a very stubborn hand to establish any sort of rapport with. Seeks physical contact and affection fairly rarely. Needs regular dust baths to stay healthy and in top condition.

Allura: Vaulleverian Heron

Survived thanks to captive specimens after the collapse of its home planet and were since successfully reintroduced to the wild in several sanctuary planets. Ancient species once revered as a divine messenger. Two legs, four wings, elaborate plumed crest on the head. Piscivore species that dwelt in saltwater marshes and hunted with its needle-like beak. Stands as tall as an average adult human’s shoulder.

Noteworthy for migrating seasonally across a vast ocean. Feathers glow in the darkness, and have an opalescent quality in the light. Lays only one clutch of eggs its entire life, but families live together until death. Its haunting, melodious cry is said to be one of the most beautiful things in the known universe.

Social animal that lives in flocks. Sings to find others of its kind when isolated. Largest members of any given flock fight viciously to defend it from predators, lashing with the spurs on its feet.

Especially fond of eating a particular shellfish that give its feathers that pearly hue, prying the shell open with its feet. During courtship, construct elaborate bowers using colorful objects taken from their environment, causing a bit of a fraught relationship with tourists who come to see them, as they are not remotely afraid of people, or robbing them.

Drawn to unusual sounds and colors. Often regarded as a symbol of opulence and kept by some aristocrats as pets, though its intelligence, dexterity, natural weapons and high energy levels often make it poorly suited for such arrangements.

Pidge: Gray-Spectacled Kottokh

Medium dog-sized animal native to a broad range of climates. Long, strong, prehensile tail, six limbs, small dexterous paws. Omnivorous to an incredibly impressive degree, able to digest even plastic. Lives in many urban areas. Crepuscular, lives in small communal warrens. Loves sweet tasting foods and fatty, savory foods.

Marsupial that has large litters, does not vocalize outside of high-pitched click-chirp noises. Uses thin, sharp claws to dig for insects or other foods. Highly acclimatized to people, this can make it both easily social and rather dangerous as it is utterly unafraid of them. Possesses a venomous bite.

Body is covered in long, silky fur that, when threatened, it is able to puff up to make itself appear larger. Grows a creamy winter coat, but is reddish brown in summer, with gray speckles, some of which are around its eyes, hence the name of the species.

Uses short whiskers, echolocation, hearing and impressive night vision to navigate its environments. Its venom, rambunctious inclinations, insatiable curiosity, and ability to figure out how to open doors, not to mention its reputation as an invasive urban pest, have prevented people from considering it as a pet.

Keith: Kirriwulv

Horse-sized eight-legged animal that dwells in a volcanic moonscape inhabited only by hardy creatures. Live and hunt exclusively in packs, and sleep in communal caves with one member of the pack consistently sitting outside to keep watch. Highly social, communicates with others of its kind by howling across distances, and vocalizing and bioluminescent posturing in closer quarters.

Black scaled body with a long snout, shaggy mane running the length of the body and plumed tail. Two sets of eyes, needle-like teeth and blunt claws. Can run tirelessly over incredibly long distances. In antiquated times, were used as war steeds by several cultures.

Underside of the ribcage features three sets of “blast gills” used to draw air into the body and fill a special superheating organ, allowing it to exhale clouds of burning ash, used both offensively, defensively, and as a social display for many reasons.

Becomes agitated and restless if separated from others of its kind. Slow to bond, but once imprinted, ferociously loyal. Legends abound during the time they were used as steeds of specimens that perished by refusing to leave the body of their dead rider.

#voltron legendary defender #vld #Lance #Hunk #Shiro #Allura #Pidge #Keith #readmore #Anonymous

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quote-bomber · 6 years ago

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"Genius"

by Mark Twain

Genius, like gold and precious stones,

is chiefly prized because of its rarity.

Geniuses are people who dash of weird, wild,

incomprehensible poems with astonishing facility,

and get booming drunk and sleep in the gutter.

Genius elevates its possessor to ineffable spheres

far above the vulgar world and fills his soul

with regal contempt for the gross and sordid things of earth.

It is probably on account of this

that people who have genius

do not pay their board, as a general thing.

Geniuses are very singular.

If you see a young man who has frowsy hair

and distraught look, and affects eccentricity in dress,

you may set him down for a genius.

If he sings about the degeneracy of a world

which courts vulgar opulence

and neglects brains,

he is undoubtedly a genius.

If he is too proud to accept assistance,

and spurns it with a lordly air

at the very same time

that he knows he can't make a living to save his life,

he is most certainly a genius.

If he hangs on and sticks to poetry,

notwithstanding sawing wood comes handier to him,

he is a true genius.

If he throws away every opportunity in life

and crushes the affection and the patience of his friends

and then protests in sickly rhymes of his hard lot,

and finally persists,

in spite of the sound advice of persons who have got sense

but not any genius,

persists in going up some infamous back alley

dying in rags and dirt,

he is beyond all question a genius.

But above all things,

to deftly throw the incoherent ravings of insanity into verse

and then rush off and get booming drunk,

is the surest of all the different signs

of genius.

#poem #humility #pride #poetry #silly #genius #mark twain #classic

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theliterateape · 4 years ago

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The Art of Having a Job and Making a Life at the Same Time

by Don Hall

The idea of the side hustle is not part of the new normal we've been predicting at the tail of this bizarre yet completely expected pandemic. The side hustle has always been with us. For all the hand-wringing about the evils of capitalism and greed and discriminating practices in the workplace, none of it is new.

Yes, there are some elements of post-COVID society that will seem new. The remote workplace ascendance (long overdue) will stick in the long term. Cities, however, will not die nor will the onsite workplace. The hospitality industry will rebound as it has for centuries following global calamity. The people in control of government are largely the same people who have always been in charge. Nothing new there.

There were always side hustles and ever it shall continue to be.

The desire to make a living with a sense of daily fulfillment and creative issuance has been a clarion call for each generation. The GenZ kids wiping their tear ducts at the concept of having to work a job in order to be able to survive is not specific to them. We of the eighties coming of age wept our own version of those entitled Why can't I just do what I love and the money will come? crying jags. Hell, GenXers still get pantie-twisted over being overlooked as the latchkey kids of the twentieth century.

I've done the starving artist thing. After years grinding away at my art, I realized that my talents and perspective were not up to the meritocracy of popularity. I simply am not skilled enough nor interested in creating the kind of thing that makes a lot of money so I had to work for a living in order to survive.

I did the Work a job and create art in my off-time thing for decades off and on. That path certainly fueled my Art for Art's Sake DNA and helped feed my self-delusion of being an outsider artist while still being able to afford an apartment and a decent pair of shoes. The price of those Sketchers was paid by teaching public school, working retail at a tobacconist, construction work, managing the facilities of a Chicago massage school, directing events for public radio, and managing the largest concert venue in Chicago.

Hell, I even spent some time living in a Bronco II and playing my trumpet on the street to eat.

Here's a clue to survival as an artist in a world that only rewards art with cash when there is more cash for the world: know what your art is and, more importantly, what it is not.

Back in those days at public radio, one of my co-workers who also created amazing sketch comedy on the side, grabbed me.

"Don, you're the residence "Art for Art's Sake" asshole around here (see?) so I have a question for you. My sketch group was just offered a ton of money to create a series of shows for a major beer distributor. We were thrilled until we found out they didn't want us to actually write the stuff. They want to oversee all the content and pass us scripts that promote their stuff and call it our stuff. Then we perform it for the paycheck. Get the picture?"

"I do."

"I'm betting you'll say we're hacks if we take the money."

"What's the question?"

"Do you think we should walk away from the dough and keep our integrity?"

I sighed. "Hypothetically, let's say a guy in a $10,000 suit comes into the newsroom right now. He looks around and decides to offer me $50,000 to suck his cock in front of everyone. Well, I could use $50K. That's almost a year's salary for working here. I could use that sort of immediate cash.

You're correct. I'm am the Ars Gratia Artis fuckhole around here but I'd still grab a few mints, walk over to the guy, drop to my knees and give him a hummer that Celtic women would sing songs of legendary praise for generations to come. I'd hum a playlist of anything he wanted to hear while popping his cork. Hell, for an additional $20,000 I'd swallow.

I'd take the money. But I would not fool myself into calling it my art.

I think the question you should be asking is would I then, having taken the dirty lucre for an inappropriate sex act in the workplace, then start to seek out more cocksucking jobs instead of continuing to work here. I mean, the money was relatively easy. If I did it right, he'd nut within minutes and that makes it a lucrative gig, yes?

The answer to that question is a resounding no. Do it once, acknowledge it isn't my art, take the cash and move on and I'm fine. Start to seek it out and eventually the act becomes my art and the art I feel so passionate about has been transformed into a simple pay-for-play scheme."

If you’ve been doing Life right you’ve developed some skills. The cat who succeeds out of the gate and then fails is less wise than the one who fails five times and only then succeeds. With those failures come skills. Some of those skills (likely the less free-spirited ones) people will pay you money to use. Others (the fun ones) few will bother paying for. The balance is in figuring out how to use the boring skills to pay for the privilege (yes, it’s a fucking privilege to get to fly, my friends) of using the exciting skills for creation.

There are three perspectives one must shift in order to achieve this balance.

First, lose the need to blame others for the obstacles you face. Finding people and systems to blame for your failure takes up all the gas in your tank and prevents you from that essential learning from mistakes needed to build up skill. How can you learn from a failure if every failure is the fault of someone else? Assume responsibility for yourself and your choices (even if they’re limited, they’re still choices you made or avoided).

If your missteps are the fault of others, your successes are not yours, either.

Second, accept less. Accept enough rather than more. When your pursuit is for experience rather than wealth, you will always be living a life of opulence. Once you have experience, there is no bankruptcy that can drain that account. This is not a call to be a fucking hippie, a minimalist asshole living in a yurt in the desert, a Nomadland wannabe scavenging from the bounty of the CVS dumpster. Nothing wrong with those choices but this is not that.

Accepting less is a redefining of what success means. The richest fucker on Planet Money is no better or more fulfilled than the guy who has enough. Enough to eat every day, pay a few bills, save a little bit for later, and have time for a long walk or a stiff drink.

Third, the job that requires the boring skills? It is a means to an end. That job is not the definer of who you are or who you can be nor is it a millstone around your neck, preventing you from the fame and fortune you so richly deserve. Lose the ego, do the job, take the money, and embrace the rest of your time as an opportunity to use those unmarketable but creative skills to make things that wouldn’t exist without you. It’s just a gig.

Do it well because your ability to do solid work for legit pay reflects upon your character even if you’re wiping down toilets in a gas station. If the gig doesn’t pay you enough, find another one. If you grow to despise your boss, move on.

Just remember, that gig you do strictly for money is not your art.

Your art is the other thing.

#life lessons

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the-mythical-norm · 7 years ago

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*batteries not included

Paying for fun is stupid. But we do it because that’s the bill of goods we’ve been sold by a capitalist society. Everyone thinks “I️ need to have a lot of money or make a lot to do fun things. And I only do a thing most of the time if I’m getting paid” But making all this money is usually not fun. I️t doesn’t cost anything to sing in the rain or dance in the street. Of course a lot of fun things cost money and I️ do recognize it’s nearly impossible to live outside the marketplace. But why only do things that you get paid for? And why be imprisoned by paying for enjoyable things? We should strive to live lives where we mostly do things we aren’t paid for, rather things we love doing. Instead we spend most of it working and then doing stuff on the side that we don’t get paid for. Why do we have to work so much, are all of these things we want to buy really worth it? These bentleys, these hilltop mansions? And how the heck did we accept such a transaction? How did we get so caught up in the material world that we are forced to support it through hard work at whatever cost. I think it’s because of distraction. Our lives are largely filled with studying, test taking, being bored, working and other shit we don’t want to do, so how do we get through it? We need little pressure releases to keep us from killing ourselves. To keep us from questioning if this is all worth it. So they keep us distracted. Ultra, frat parties, video games, weekends. Just when we start to turn our heads and question our standing, ZAP!, Coachella!, oh theres a party this weekend? Ill do some drugs, blow off some steam.. life doesn’t suck that bad.

If we didn’t have these little treats, and we pondered all this work and pointlessness, we could become very dangerous to the marketplace. We might even start a revolution. They know what happened in 1968. They know about the stonewall riots, the black panther party, the civil rights movement, the counter culture, the situationist, et cetera.

If we were gonna work, they had to make the work place cool too, some businesses will have a bar in the office, or a jungle gym, a nice cafe.. At google, you don’t even have to wear shoes and you can bring your pets, I wanna work there! Why would anyone refuse to spend their 9-5 here, its so comfortable! All of these little bites of coolness, and packaged rebellion, its just enough to keep us going. Keep the hamster in its wheel. The marketplace is genius. They know we don’t want to work, and they know we don’t need all this shit we are saving our money to buy, but they found a way to dismantle the young bombs inside us and we ended up on the hamster wheel anyway. Market researchers came into to our homes and studied us, so they knew exactly what we wanted, and exactly what else we wanted too. We wanted a burger, so of course we want the fries too, and the soda, ketchup, mustard…the products never stop. So we have to work more to afford it, but the work is comfortable enough so that we don’t question it. So if the work is comfortable, the benefits are nice, eventually you’ll get to use your money on the weekends or over the summer, whats the big deal? Why is it so bad to be a sheep?

I would argue its akin to the man who can’t see color. He lives his whole life without color, he doesn’t complain because he has no idea what he’s missing out on. But we can still see the color if we really want to. Jeffrey Kaplan writes about how they’ve devised a formula to keep us wanting in his article, “The Gospel Of Consumption,”

“Business leaders were less than enthusiastic about the prospect of a society no longer centered on the production of goods. For them, the new “labor-saving” machinery presented not a vision of liberation but a threat to their position at the center of power. John E. Edgerton, president of the National Association of Manufacturers, typified their response when he declared: “I am for everything that will make work happier but against everything that will further subordinate its importance. The emphasis should be put on work — more work and better work.” “Nothing,” he claimed, “breeds radicalism more than unhappiness unless it is leisure.” By the late 1920s, America’s business and political elite had found a way to defuse the dual threat of stagnating economic growth and a radicalized working class in what one industrial consultant called “the gospel of consumption” — the notion that people could be convinced that however much they have, it isn’t enough. President Herbert Hoover’s 1929 Committee on Recent Economic Changes observed in glowing terms the results: “By advertising and other promotional devices . . . a measurable pull on production has been created which releases capital otherwise tied up.” They celebrated the conceptual breakthrough: “Economically we have a boundless field before us; that there are new wants which will make way endlessly for newer wants, as fast as they are satisfied.”

No wonder we want to make so much money, we have too many things we want to buy, and its all part of their plan. The market is even smarter than that. They hijacked cool culture too.

“Nike shoes are sold to the accompaniment of words delivered by William S. Burroughs and songs by The Beatles, Iggy Pop, and Gil Scott Heron ("the revolution will not be televised"); peace symbols decorate a line of cigarettes manufactured by R. J. Reynolds and the walls and windows of Starbucks coffee shops nationwide; the products of Apple, IBM, and Microsoft are touted as devices of liberation; and advertising across the product category sprectrum calls upon consumers to break rules and find themselves.” -The Conquest of Cool

It doesn’t stop there. Anything new, revolutionary, bold, exciting, cool, everything will be packaged and sold to the masses, by the market. Everything and anything cool you do will be quickly be co-opted and marketed. So then we gotta find something else thats cool, but thats exactly what they want. It’s the perfect equation, we rebel, they sell it, we quit that and find something else, then they just go and sell that too. We’re just rotating the crops. But they got tired of chasing the cool, now they just tell us what to want. Cool still existed and it still rocked. True rebellion existed too, the dadaists, the renaissance, counter culture, LGBT, the beats, the hippies, the black panther party, the list goes on. But it’s sort of diluted, it’s hard to tell if an act is authentic rebellion or just something to sell. I️ know Marcel Duchamp was really rebelling when he submitted his urinal to the exhibition of the Society of Independent Artists, in 1917, but is Marlon Brando really rebelling? When he struts into town with his formidable stature, and wandering gaze. With his blue jeans and leather jacket, or is I️t just a big commercial for Levi Strauss? Buy this new look if you wanna be cool like Brando. All this rebellion was real, but the market eventually saw this and did something about I️t. They sold our little rebellions to us with Dr Martins, hot topic, urban outfitters, etc. These companies have packaged and sold our oppositional energies. The words rebellion and revolution are so watered down, they were even able to make us feel rebellious by our decision to wear vans instead of converse! They are fueling our rebellions so that we feel satisfied. So we don’t freakout!

So now they tell us what we want. Oh you need this new iPhone, this outfit, these shoes, blah blah I️t never stops. How many times did Wozniak say that this new iPhone will revolutionize everything. We are literally put on this earth to buy and sell.

Can we really live authentically? And how can we exist outside the market place? Or at least try? Advertisements for these ivory towers to live in, for these vehicles of mass opulence, for these clothes knitted in gold… its been shoved down our gullet and posted on every wall we pass. In class we talked about how we don’t need all this shit, but they’ve made us want it so bad, that we are basically imprisoned by material. Because we are imprisoned, we must fund our material obsessions, by studying business and accounting, getting internships that put your foot in the door, then a cushy job after college. They’ll tell you, college is for making connections.. you don’t actually learn shit. Nobody uses their major anymore, its just a stamp of approval. I think thats why some people hate college, why doesn’t anyone study art history, or the apartheid in Africa, or the renaissance, music history…why doesn’t anyone want us to know these things? Everyone you meet is just seen as a stepping stone that leads to your palace someday. Oh I gotta be friends with this guy, he can cut me a deal on a nice house later on, and this guy will get me a free car..etc. I got a photographer friend, a banker friend, a chef friend, man I’m set! I mean so many of our relationships are just like empty calories. When you say ‘have a nice day’ as you pass the hostess on the way out of a nice dinner, do you really mean it? Do you want to help her actually have a nice day? Do you care if she does or not? The answer is probably not. But what are we supposed to do just walk out and say no words? I think this is tunnel vision at its finest. We think that this is the only way to live so we do it without question because the unknown is too scary. So then we do things like joining a fraternity because theres nothing else to do in this town. We don’t want to be lonely. We don’t want to venture into the unknown. Joining a fraternity as an antidote for loneliness is gasoline to put out a fire, man. We study to get degrees that will get us great jobs so we can drive to work faster in our Ferraris, to make more money…just running faster and faster on that hamster wheel. Why are we so obsessed with being successful? That equation is why most people live lives of quite desperation. “Well, theres nothing else to do, theres no other life to live….If I didn’t do this with my life, what else would I do with my time?” So who’s to blame for this plutocracy, this capitalist society? Is it our fault? Is it the markets fault? The market research teams, our parents, society…who’s responsible for this! A world of mooks and midriffs! I don’t know, and at this point I don’t think it matters.

Maybe We Just have to Go. Go outside, go for a walk. Life’s joy doesn’t only come from personal relationships and material posessions, but experiences with nature too. Christopher McCandless knew that when he set out for Alaska.

I️ have found great joy in riding my bike on a breezy day, through the falling leaves that shed from the trees above, or sitting out on a doc at some marina underneath the moonlight, playing my harmonica as the boats sway. Hell, I’ve had times far more mysterious and enjoyable then any trip abroad, just looking at the Lake or the beach for a while. Its true we all need a tonic of wildness, but its closer than you think and a lot cheaper too. These things are basically free, and I️m not getting paid to do them. Granted there was a transaction to get the bike.. but these are ways I️ try existing outside the marketplace. Of course brands like REI, Patagonia, Vissla, etc, they try to sell me things I’ll need when I️m off exploring, and I️ buy them because I️m a hedonist too. I just try my best to only take what ill need. And most the things I do buy, I won’t actually need. I️ met a kid the other day while biking. Brandon Stephan Davis. He stood tall and radiated this strange cloud of wisdom around him. His hair was wild and dreaded, clothes withered and faded. He’s a kid about our age, from the big Apple. Hitchhiked all the way to the 305 with nothing but a backpack, an instrument he invented, and his poetry journal. Thats pretty cool. Brandon did that entire journey with basically no money, and not a lick of REI or Patagonia apparel on him. Man, did he have a lot to say! He wrote poetry in a small journal that he kept in his fanny pack, I had the pleasure of hearing one on black oppression. I️ asked him where he was headed, he pulled out a neatly folded map that looked like it had been around. He pointed to this small river and said, “I️m just gonna sit there and watch the water, then I’ll figure out what next. I️ got no where to be.” I can bet he didn’t have a lot of money, but I’d say he’s one the most successful people I’ve met in a while.

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