#pinpointing the light source...and shading it...is..hard...

[stinkyoldsocks]

Colouring practice~

[readscreamrepeat]

Victory Red

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader.

Warning: I don't think this should have any?? Light Sexual Tension, Kisses. FLUFF

~

Author Notes: This turned out longer than I expected. I enjoyed writing it. :)

I did not write the AD to the lipstick, I have its source, and the lipstick that is used linked in the story below.

The necklace that is mentioned: I feel like Bucky would choose something like this because it's a bit reminiscent of his dog tags.

Please feel free to let me know your thoughts!

This Gif has nothing to do with the story, but mannnnn look at that smile.

~

Bucky had mumbled it in passing to you one morning, when you had asked him what was on his mind, 

Just wonderin’ what it would’ave been like to come home from the war a winner? Instead…

You filled the silence as he trailed off…

What would you have wanted to come home to, Buck? 

Just a thought, honest, it doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t have been there, darlin’.

Over a few weeks, his just a thought bloomed into a full-blown obsession for you. The idea was like a burning inferno in your mind; no matter how you tried to douse the flames, it only grew hotter. So much so, you found yourself combing through tons of antique shops, hunting for the perfect dress… Then one day, on your walk home, the dress was hanging off a mannequin in one of the many shops you had already browsed through. 

A perfect vintage baby blue dress, reminiscent of Buck's eyes on a clear, warm, cloudless day. The dress was the perfect size for you, it hugged your hips nicely, the skirt flared and landed a bit below the knee, a sweetheart neckline graced your collarbones…you knew it would pair perfectly with the double heart pendant necklace Bucky had gifted you for no other reason than just because I love you, doll. Also, those silver kitten heels had sat in your closet for way too long, untouched. 

~

Tapping the tip of your pen against your lips, as you browse through social media on your phone, your mind was racing; it felt like you were missing something for your outfit, but you just couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Then pausing as something catches your eye, then scrolling back…It was an ad of a woman in a dark green army uniform, her eyes raised to the sky. Your eyes glinted with glee as you read the article:

—--

Introducing 1941 Victory Red Classic Color Lipstick: 

From: Bésame Website

BEAUTY AS DUTY

The glamour of gorgeous red lips lifts the spirit. Like all expressions of glamour, a classic red lip elevates the morale of the woman wearing the lipstick, as well as all who see her.  That’s why we are proud to introduce Victory Red to the Bésame collection.

The name references the Allied Victory in World War II. We painstakingly researched our red, based upon our collection of historical samples and lots of study. Our Victory Red is an absolutely faithful color-match to the original 1941 classic shade.

 —--

It was the one touch you needed! You place the order before you can change your mind, and choose to have it delivered to your office, you can unbox and stash it away in your bag before coming home. Bucky would be none the wiser about your plans. It was hard hiding things from a super soldier.You keep the new dress and lipstick tucked away in the very back of your shared closet, in a place you are sure Bucky will not go.

Bucky had informed you with some grunts and a grimace that he was due to an event in DC this coming week, so he wouldn’t be returning till Friday afternoon. It was planned a bit last-minute, but he felt he needed to do what he could to rub elbows with “other interested parties”; he had said it with his hands in the air, doing finger quotes. You had only giggled and said. I will be here when you return. 

You mulled over the idea of saving his surprise for his birthday, but it was just now rolling into October, and March was so far away, and you were terrible at keeping surprises. You also debated about keeping it for when he won his seat in Congress, but there was always a tiny, slim chance that he might not win. It was Wednesday, and he was due home in two days. As you toyed with the pendant necklace around your throat, you were agreeing to the idea before it had fully formed in your mind. You’d do it just because you love him, and why wait? You’d do it the day he arrives home from traveling. 

~

The morning of the day he’s due home, you go out to the grocery store, purchase fresh plums, his favorite box of pancake mix, even though you swore they tasted the same, and a top-shelf bourbon to replace the last bottle he had finished before leaving. Before making it back to the small apartment you both shared, the flowers blooming in the florist shop window stopped you in your tracks. In that window sat blooming victory roses, and a grin took over your face. The roses were white bleeding into pink ends, the smell soft, delicate, and would be just strong enough to not bother Buck's enhanced smelling. You had asked the florist to put them in a crystal vase, and had bought as many as the vase would hold. The walk home left you giddy, the air crisp, cool, and comfortable.

~

Time is ticking closer to Bucky’s homecoming, and your excitement is hard to contain; it's pouring off of you, scenting the air. You were hoping the cool shower would help calm you down, but it had not. You plop down on your vanity chair, after drying your hair, your heated curling iron waiting for you. Your hair curls perfectly, in tight spirals, and you pin a small piece back and out of your eyes. As you set the curling iron down and turn it off, your phone lights up, and a message flashes onto the screen.

Be home in 30, Doll. 

Bucky was not one to text often; typically, he preferred the intimacy of a phone call, but for once, you were grateful he had decided to embrace modern technology, because you were sure if you had spoken with him, he would have been able to hear the giddiness in your voice. You decide not to respond, as you set the phone down, and apply an unscented lotion, a few swipes of deodorant, and then you work on fanning yourself down with your hands, to help everything sink and soften your body. Feeling relatively dry, you slip on simple, cheeky, white lace panties, you wiggle into the blue dress, sans a bra, since it offers enough support for your breasts, and then push your feet into your silver kitten heels. 

You peer at yourself only for a moment in the mirror, as you hook your necklace on, it dangles right above where the sweetheart neckline ends. Opening the vanity drawer, the gold lipstick case sits waiting for you. You had moved it to your vanity once Bucky left, so he would not accidentally stumble upon it. Bucky liked to restock any of your items he saw running low, and your makeup and self-care were ones he found replenishing enjoyable. He had told you it was because he loved seeing you care for yourself in whatever way felt best. Your heart warms as you think of this moment, remembering the way his eyes had crinkled with his smile when you had first caught him in the act of restocking for you. You hope you see that smile tonight.

Uncapping the lipstick, you stare a bit, mesmerized by the bright hue. The red spreads across your lips, smooth, creamy, and you grin. You look good, you feel good, and now all that's left is to set the atmosphere and welcome your soldier home. You peek at the time on your phone, and you have at least 15 minutes, unless traffic is good. Unless Bucky is driving just a tad bit too fast to get home sooner.

Deciding not to risk it, you shuffle to the living room, flip through the records sitting below the player, and your fingers find the one you want to play. You set the record down, but do not place the needle just yet. Vase, and flowers in place, check, bourbon and Bucky’s favorite cup on the coffee table, check. One more glance at the phone, you then shut it down, set it on one of your shelves out of sight, 5 minutes…or could be sooner, so you drop the needle on the record, as a gentle song begins to play, your nervous hands smooth the puffy skirt down. 

You position yourself in line with the door, and wait…

Almost as if you, yourself have super sense, and can hear his dress shoes in the hallway, see the turning of the knob, you smile as he steps into the opening door, softly a feminine voice fills the air, as he calls your name…

Well, what do you know, 

He smiled at me in my dreams last night, 

My dreams are getting better all the time.

“God, Doll” 

His long hair curling at his ears is a mess. He stands half in the door, and half in the apartment, frozen, stunned eyes roaming up and down, his pupils growing larger by the second. To your surprise he's clean shaven, his suit jacket unbuttoned to open to a white under shirt, and to your delight his suit is a deep dark green, instead of his usual black or navy blue. You want to squeal at how well the universe has aligned for this moment,  but you hold it back:

“Welcome Home, Sergeant Barnes.”

The words drop from your lips, and they snap him out of his momentary trance. His hand that had been holding the door shuts it quickly and softly, as he advances towards you, his long strides eating up the entryway. He drops his helmet, his keys, and then his duffel bag from his vibranium hand, before you can even comprehend how fast he’s moving, he has his large hands on your waist, and he’s lifting you from the floor, twirling you around, the grin on his face looks young, boyish, and for a second, you see his hair short, his eyes light, his body clad in his army dress unform, and as soon as the image appears its flees, and you see him as he is, warm blues, long hair, and a smile that could certainly power the whole city. 

“All this for me?” Bucky’s voice is damp, warm, as he lowers you down out of the spin and pulls your body flush with his; he has not lowered you far enough to touch the ground, your feet dangling above the hardwood. “Of course, Sergeant Barnes,  I've been waiting for you to come home to me.” With your hands resting on his shoulders, to give you a bit of leverage, you feel the shiver rush through him at the usage of his title. Happiness is radiating off of him, his ears burning red, as he fully slides you down his body, back to the ground, relinquishing a bit of his hold. He glides his metal hand up to the back of your head and tilts your face to look up at him. 

“I would've driven faster if I knew you were waiting like this.”

Before your lips can break into a full smile, he captures your mouth in his, pressing his fingers into your hip, pulling you right against his chest. Bucky dips your body back a bit with his, as he licks at your lower lip, and once his tongue comes into contact with the lipstick he realizes:

This is what victory tastes like.

His Victory.

[newluvrs]

Sohee ₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎  mdni!! 18+ currently listening to: ゆめうつつ - LAMP word count: 4.9k bb note: tried something a little different with this one

The first time Sohee sees you he doesn’t actually see you.  It’s the first day of his Drawing Foundations class and truly he would rather be anywhere else.  He’s so shit at drawing and art, but he needed it to fill a gen ed requirement and he’s heard that the class is an easy A.  The professor is reviewing the syllabus and everything inside him wants to drop the class.  It’s a studio art class meaning it’s 3 hours long, the class is smack in the middle of his day on a Monday of all days, and every assignment the professor reads off sounds terrifying.  What the fuck is conte anyways? Sohee’s never heard of it and he’s not sure he gives a shit about it.  Sohee wants to roll his eyes when the professor is expecting an assignment completed by the end of class because of course he would ask something like that on the first day.  He’s assigned an easel where he props up a rather large drawing pad.  Sohee dreads the thought of having to fill such a large space with artwork when he can barely draw a straight line.  Sure the class is for beginners, but Sohee feels like he is embarrassingly bad.  

He’s attempting a very poor rendition of still life comprised of his bag’s contents when he’s positive he’s made up his mind.  He needs to drop this class before he has to face this for an entire semester.  But when he contemplates ducking out of the class early so he can spend the rest of the day browsing for a different one, something in the room shifts.  It’s like something within him is screaming at him to turn around.  When he does he sees you, well he doesn’t actually see you because your hidden behind your designated easel, but it’s like he feels you.  It makes him so badly want to see who it is that is sitting behind the imposing object.  It irks him for the rest of class until the professor announces that the time is up and it’s time for everyone to show what it is that they’ve done.  Sohee lays his eyes on you when you make your way to the front of the room to display your drawing pad.  It’s like all the breath in his lungs gets knocked out of him when he sees you.  His mouth goes dry and he starts fidgeting with his hands, nerves overtaking him.  And what you’ve drawn is far too good for a class that is intended for beginners, lines clean and neat, shading added, a singular light source indicated in your piece.  If it were anyone else Sohee would scoff and call it pretentious, but you are far cry from what he would designate pretentious.  Any and all praise that gets awarded to you (and the professor is sure to give you plenty) is well deserved, and if anything Sohee thinks you deserve more.  Needless to say he changes the mind about leaving, even after presenting his poor attempt at a still life and proceeding to get picked apart.  Is he a little insane for choosing to stay in a 3-hour class for a girl who he saw for the first time that day? Maybe, but nobody could ever convince him of that.  

The second time Sohee sees you, he realizes that there’s something… off about you.  But for the life of him he cannot pinpoint what exactly it is.  As the class proceeds, he thinks he’s glanced at you about 100 times in an hour alone.  You’re frighteningly beautiful, but in a way that should never be looked at, like if you stare too long it’ll hurt you.  The longer he watches you, the harder it is for him to figure you out.  Maybe it’s your mannerisms.. the way you hold eye contact a little too long or the way you never speak.  Or maybe it’s the way you look, your lips a little too pink, eyes a little too doe eyed. He can’t pinpoint what is about you that made him so nervous.  It’s not that you looked mean, you just looked.. blank; unreadable.  Aura overpowering everyone elses, making it hard for him to just breathe next to you.  Sohee’s convinced your like an actual angel who fell to earth and doesn’t know how to act.  He finds himself wanting to do things he’s never done before.  He wants so badly to make you laugh, to change your blank expression for once into something he actually recognizes.  Something within him makes him feel like he would do anything to entertain you, and it’s a dangerous feeling.  

The first time he actually hears you speak without first being spoken to, it’s a critique day.  Your first official project is being presented for all of class to see, and Sohee is truthfully dreading it.  He feels like he has improved in his art skills absolutely none at all and he does not want to hear it from the professor.  It does not help that the professor has tasked you all with drawing the exact same thing, meaning his art skills will be put up against everyone else’s.  He tries to comfort himself by saying that at least he gets to see what you’ve done, to him it feels like a small peek into your brain.  And of course you’re critique is perfect, the professor not criticizing you in the slightest even though it’s quite literally in the name that you have to.  Sohee looks at your lines, and he can see where you intentionally smudged the graphite of the pencil to make a blurred effect.  For a moment he thinks about copying some of the techniques you use, maybe he’d actually learn a thing or two. 

The professor approaches his piece and Sohee shuts his eyes like it’ll help him get through the critique any faster.  Spoiler alert it does not and the professor hates this one just as much as he has hated every other thing Sohee has done.  If you weren’t so pretty Sohee thinks he might hate you for every glowing review you receive alone.  He nods his head to every comment the professor makes, pretending to make mental notes about what the professor is saying.  He lets out a breath he didn’t recognize he was holding when the professor finally moves past his.  He tries his best to act like he doesn’t care about whether or not his art is good, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little disappointed.  Sohee had actually put in a lot of work into this piece, making trips to the studio when it was open on the weekend.  He had even tried using charcoal in an attempt to cover up his scratchy lines, hoping that maybe that way they would at least look intentional.  When he resigns himself to the idea that he’s just not gonna be good at art, he feels that you’re standing near him.  

“it’s very tender.”

The way your voice cuts through the air is melodic, like a song made just for him, and if he wasn’t already watching you when you said it, he would think he imagined it.  He looks at your profile, and you’re not speaking to him, but speaking to yourself.  He wonders if you’re aware that he’s even there because you’re so immersed in looking at what he’s done.  The thought occurs to him again that you’re weirdly off putting.  But in a way that makes him want to be around you more.  Like he doesn’t ever want to leave your side so he can watch you a little longer.  He’s never felt such an intense urge to crawl inside someone’s mind

As the weeks pass, he starts to recognize that he’s not the only one who can tell that you’re different.  He watches how people interact with you in class, how they can’t hold eye contact with you, or how they stumble over their words when they speak to you.  He feels a little bit better to realize it’s a universal feeling and that he’s not completely insane.  Unfortunately this also means that he’s not the only one who can see that you’re beautiful.  At this point he’s seen you outside of class multiple times, always unable to take his eyes off you no matter where he is or what he’s doing.  He’s come across you in the dining hall, seen you with your friends in the student union, he’s even starting to realize that you frequent the same parties he does.  This means he’s subjected to the sight of men approaching you.  Time and time again he watches a boy approach you with the intention of making you laugh and getting your number, maybe even getting into your pants.  

The first time he sees it a fear envelops him, like he was too late to make a move and now here comes some random guy to sweep you off your feet.  Jealousy sweeping over him when he watches a boy approach you with ease at a party in a way he never could bring himself to do.  He recognizes that it’s a friend of a friend and it just makes him more annoyed. But as he continues to watch on, he feels satisfaction settling in his chest.  He sees the boy’s futile attempts to make you laugh as you just watch him with your standard expression, drink in your hand.  It’s obvious when the boy is starting to catch on that he’s not charming you like he thought.  Sohee breaks into a smile when the boy starts fidgeting, shifting from foot to foot nervously before finally retreating in defeat.  This will not be the first time Sohee watches someone approach you and honestly, he’s starting to develop a sick fascination with watching the interaction.  He likes to see the moment they realize they aren’t gonna get with you, it makes him feel better for already knowing that it’s not going to work on you.  Like he’s better for recognizing that you aren’t easy to impress.  

Sohee tries to scheme up ways to speak to you, but every time he sees you he draws a blank.  Sure he’s relatively introverted, but he knows he can at least talk to pretty girls.  He’s done it plenty times before, if anything he’s good at it; but something about you just makes him completely change.  He knows he’s obnoxious when he’s with his friends, cracking jokes and loud mouthed when with familiar company.  But if he sees you coming near or even remotely in the same space, his personality is doing a complete 180.  His friends make fun of him each time he does it, laughing at how he goes from being rambunctious to immediately on his best behavior.  And Sohee will take the jabs any day as long as it means that you don’t see him like one of the stupid boys who choose to approach you.  He just wishes one day you’ll let him close enough to even scratch the surface of your true personality.  To give him something to indicate what it is that you’re into.  

His opportunity comes extremely unexpectedly and completely on accident.  He’s late leaving class one day, too caught up in trying to perfect his midterm project to notice that it’s 15 minutes past class time being up.  He doesn’t realize it until the next professor is entering the room to set up the studio space.  He apologizes as he throws his supplies in his bag, leaving the room as quickly as he can.  He doesn’t even realize that you were late leaving too, not until he enters the elevator and you immediately follow behind him.  Sohee feels like he’s going to burn up in the small space, so he tucks himself in the back of the elevator and tries to be as still as he can, like maybe if he doesn’t move you won’t see him.  That’s when he sees it, the tiniest indication of your interests.  As the elevator starts its trek to the first floor he’s staring at your bag which for the most part is unassuming.  But the glint of a korok charm hanging from your zipper catches his eye.  Before he can stop himself he’s speaking, breaking the silence of the elevator ride.

“You like Zelda?”

As soon as he speaks he wants to slap a hand over his mouth, like he can’t believe he just spoke to you for one, and for two he can’t believe he asked it in such a bewildered tone.  He half considers getting off on the next stop and just taking the stairs the rest of the way down.  But then you do the unexpected; you turn to him.  

“I love Zelda.”

A smile graces your features, and Sohee can physically feel the way his heart cracks in two.  He realizes right then and there that he would do anything to get you to smile at him again. 

“I’m Sohee.”  

“I know.”  

You’re terrifying and Sohee can feel the way his palms are starting to sweat.  

“I’m y/n.”

“I know.” 

You smile at him wider when he says it, and he hears the way you exhale a breath through your nose.  It’s the closest thing to a laugh he’s heard from you and Sohee tries not to let it immediately go to his head.  He glances behind you and he can see the way the numbers are getting closer and closer to the bottom floor.  

“My favorite is Twilight Princess.”  

He’s shocked when you speak again and he thinks about how he wants to stand in your light for as long as you’ll let him.  

“I have an affinity for Majora’s Mask.”  

You hum to yourself in acknowledgement when he says this, and when you open your mouth to speak again the elevator doors open with a ding.  Sohee curses to himself in his head, he’s never wished for an elevator to malfunction more than now.  You smile at him one more time before you turn to leave and Sohee has to look away at how overwhelming it is.  

“See you next time Sohee.” 

And then you’re gone.  Sohee stands there so long that the elevator doors try to close on him.  He can’t believe that that just happened, and instead of scratching the itch he had to talk to you, all it does is feed into it further.  He thinks about how he needs to hear you speak to him again, how he needs to hear you say his name again.  He smiles like an idiot for the rest of the day as he schemes of something else to say to you the next time he sees you.  

In a suprising turn of events, he does not have to try hard at all.  Matter of fact he doesn’t even have to try because the next time you have class together, you choose the easel next to his.  At first Sohee thinks maybe it’s a fluke, like the universe has decided to smile kindly on him this one time.  It only dawns on him that this was intentional when you speak up next to him, clearing your throat as the both of you work on drawing the fruits displayed on the table in front of you.  

“So do you play any other Nintendo?” 

Sohee prays that you don’t see the way he nearly jumped out of his skin when you spoke.  For the rest of class that’s what the two of you talk about.  Every now and then in between you lean over to look at what it is he’s drawing and you give him a few tips.  Sohee revels in the smile you give him when you catch him utilizing your advice.  Much to Sohee’s dismay, apparently 3 hours passes by extremely quickly when you’re actually enjoying yourself.  When the time is called and everyone starts packing their belongings Sohee does his best not to be disappointed.  He’s failing terribly at it but then he notices how you linger after you’ve packed your things.  There’s no way you’re actually waiting on him.  When you follow Sohee out of the studio he still thinks it’s a coincidence.  The elevator ride this time around is silent, and when it’s almost at the bottom you speak up.

“We should play together sometime.”  

Sohee’s head snaps up at this and when he looks at you you’re already staring at him, making his heart feel like it’s in his stomach.  Sohee may be a little dense sometimes but he can at least recognize that this is a clear invitation from you, so he leaps at the chance.  

“Do you want to come over Saturday night for Mario Kart?”

The way it takes you less than a second to agree makes Sohee feel a little too cocky for someone who can’t hold eye contact with you for longer than 5 seconds.  He feels like he’s in a daze when you hand him your phone to put in his number.  He only comes to after you say goodbye and there’s a message on his phone.  It’s simple enough, all it reads is ‘y/n’, but he feels like he’s on cloud 9.  

Sohee’s excitement quickly shifts to dread when he realizes that despite the interactions he’s had with you, he still cannot read you at all.  It drives him crazy, the way that you’ve showed him nothing about you.  It’s a stark contrast to how he feels so exposed every time he speaks to you.  It’s like you can see all of him and it plagues his thoughts for the rest of the week.  In the days leading up to Saturday you don’t message him, so he doesn’t message you.  He’s not even sure what he would say, and he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself.  He spends all of Friday cleaning his apartment, making sure everything is spick and span.  He bans his roommate from spending anytime in the common living area until after Saturday.  He even goes out and buys candles for each room, just so it’ll be a little more appealing.  When Saturday comes, he finds himself paying his roommate 40 bucks to fuck off for the evening.  He thinks it’s worth it if it means he’ll have your undivided attention. 

When you’re knocking on his door, he’s a mess of excitement and nerves.  You greet him with a smile and your wide-eyed stare.  Immediately he’s stepping aside to let you in, telling you to make yourself more comfortable.  You toe off your shoes at his front door, making your way further into his living room to see his switch already set up, Mario Kart ready to go.  Sohee thought about having it in his room, but he felt like maybe it would seem a little presumptuous of him.  When you take a seat on his couch, he thinks the sight of you in his living room is something he wants to see forever.  You curl into the blankets left for you, covering your exposed legs, and to Sohee you just look like you belong.  When you catch him staring he rips his eyes away from you and all you can do is smirk to yourself.  He makes sure to leave room between you and him on the couch when he goes to sit and you make a mental note of the distance between you.  

Sohee quickly learns that you’re extremely competitive and way better at mario kart than you let on, and he makes sure you know that.  He almost feels embarrassed about how he boasted that he beats every one of his friends every time, because right now you have won every single round.  You didn’t even fall off the track a single time on rainbow road, making sure to use the drift controls to pad your turns.  When you turn to look at him mid round, you can see how he pouts his lips in concentration and it makes you want to lean over and crowd his space.  As the game proceeds, the volume and familiarity in which the two of you speaks only gets more extreme.  The two of you went from only saying a few words to each other and speaking only when needed to calling the other names and claiming the unfair use of an item.  Sohee even rolled his eyes at you after you called him a loser.  

After winning your 5th cup in a row, Sohee decides it’s time to for a break.  He throws his head back on the couch in frustration as your victory screen plays for the millionth time it feels like.  When you reach out a hand to push on his shoulder at his dramaticism, only then does he notice how close the two of you managed to get throughout the games played.  When he looks between the two of you your legs are nearly touching, with only a few inches of space between the two of you.  He does his best not to seem nervous when he subtly tries to slide away from you, but when you close the space between the two of you he feels like his heart is gonna leap from his chest.  Instead of looking at you, he turns away, avoiding your gaze and playing dumb.  When you place a hand on his knee he feels heat make its way up his spine.  Your delicate fingers glide to the inside of his knee as you open your mouth to speak.  

“You’re really cute Sohee.”  

Finally he’s turning to look at you, and the heaviness in your gaze is enough to floor him.  For once, you are easy to read, the lust obvious in your eyes and in the way your fingers are inching closer to his thigh.  He leans in before you have time to react and kisses you.  It’s brief, just a quick peck and he mostly did it on instinct.  When he sees that he caught you off guard, he feels cockiness starting to set in.  He knows that you’re having fun toying with him at this point, so to be able to catch you off guard even for a moment makes him satisfied.  Your eyes flicker down to his lips and he’s leaning in again, with conviction this time, plush lips slotting against yours.  It takes you no time before your kissing him back, moving your mouth in tandem with his.  He brings a hand to cup your jaw as the kiss intensifies, both of you breathing heavily through your nose.  The way your lips feel against his is so soft, and he can taste the sweetness of your lip balm.  

Your hand creeps up to rest on his inner thigh and Sohee feels his cock jump in his shorts.  He presses his hips forward to indicate that its okay, not wanting to break the kiss he so badly longed for.  When he feels your hand finally touch where he needs you most he moans against your lips and the sound makes you want to devour him whole.  You press your palm against him as you break away from the kiss, trying to catch your breath while simultaneously trying to get a look at his pretty face.  He looks so dazed, his lips are swollen from your kisses with his chest heaving with each breath he takes.  He grinds against your palm and the action makes you rub your thighs together, he’s just so cute.  He can tell the effect he’s having on you and all it does is stroke his ego.  

“Is this turning you on?”  

His voice is a wreck and borders on whiny, but he doesn’t care, not when your pupils look so blown.  You nod your head as you bite your lip, starting to feel restless now, the achiness beginning to be a little too much.  Sohee spreads his legs to give you more room, shamelessly pushing into your hand each time you press down.  He looks at you and he can see you’re practically panting as you watch him.  You pull your hand away, ceasing your movements, obsessed with the way you can see him twitch in his pants.  Sohee realizes then that you’re just as fascinated with him as he is with you.  He guides your hand back down to grip him, but this time he holds it against him.  He looks you in the eyes as he grinds his hips up into your combined hands, moaning into the air as he does so.  He watches the way you cross your legs a little tighter, trying to give yourself something.

He pulls you in for another kiss with his unoccupied hand on the back of your neck.  It’s sloppy and uncoordinated but Sohee doesn’t care, he just needs to be pressed against you.  When you start to whine into his mouth he breaks away to see the reason you sound that way, coming face to face with the sight of you sticking your own hand in your shorts.  He swears he could cum right then and there.  His view is obstructed, and he hates it, he wants to see the exact way you like your clit played with.  The angle is the awkward with how your kneeled next to him on the couch and Sohee gets an idea.  When he pulls your hand away from him, the distressed look on your face makes him want to let you keep going.  Wordlessly, he moves to one end of the couch, sitting so his back is against the arm rest, legs resting on the cushions.  

“Come sit on my lap.”

You think that you would do anything he asked when he sounds that pretty saying it.  Reluctantly, you pull your fingers off your clit and crawl towards him on the couch until your resting against his thighs.  Sohee sees the wet patch against your shorts and lets out a groan, reaching a hand into his own.  He pulls his waistband down just enough to be able to wrap his hand fully around his cock.  You follow his lead, reaching your hand back into your pants to resume your earlier movement, but now you can see all of him.  The room is so hot Sohee thinks he may burn alive, but it would be a good way to go.  Especially when you’re moaning so prettily for him on his lap, touching yourself to him.  

“You’re so pretty y/n”

He means it.  Everything about you draws him in, consuming him with the need to be around you and hear your every thought.  His hand not being used to touch himself rests on your inner thigh, stroking up and down, resisting the urge to touch you exactly where he wants to.  When you start to hump your own hand, Sohee begins to stroke himself faster, matching your movements.  He sees the wet patch on your shorts getting darker and he thinks about how bad he wants to taste you.  When he realizes he can hear how wet you sound even with your shorts still covering you, Sohee thinks he might combust.  Your movements are starting to get jerky, hips kicking involuntarily as you rub yourself faster.

“Sohee ’m gonna cum.”

Your voice is still as sweet and melodic as ever, whines making it sound severely more erotic.  He hears the way you moan his name and thinks that’s the only sound he wants to hear for the rest of his life.  He watches on with boyish fascination as you grind against your hand a few more times, body shaking as you cum.  He takes in how your thighs try and close, your fingers working you through your orgasm, body letting out twitches from above him as you gasp.   You have to put a hand on Sohee’s shoulder to stop yourself from collapsing completely against him.  Hand still once you’re too sensitive.  

Sohee is almost there, he can feel it, his lower stomach tensing as his movements grow faster.  You pull the hand that’s from your pants and swat his hand away, replacing it with your own.  Sohee groans at how warm and wet your hand is, thinking about how you were just using that same hand to play with your pussy.  You flick your wrist quickly, trying to get him there as he whines, squirming from the friction of your hand.  When he finally comes it’s intense and overwhelming, your thumb brushing over the head as he spills all over your hand, his body shuddering as he cries out your name.  You watch on as his whole body shakes and twitches until he's finally had enough, pushing at your hand to stop.  

You both can’t stop staring at each other as you sit there and catch your breath.  Absentmindedly he reaches his clean hand out to trace the features of your face.  You mirror him, starting at his eyebrows and ending at his lips.  You start to giggle and Sohee thinks about how terribly he wanted to hear that sound a few weeks ago and how gratifying it is to hear it now.  He wishes you would let him record it so he could hear it whenever he wanted to.  He looks at you with a smile of his own, letting out a ‘hm?’ Your answer being something he never expected to hear.  

“I think I’m a little obsessed with you.”

The irony is not lost on him.  

[notedchampagne]

honestly i wish there was tutorials on shading, not exactly on how to shade (light,midtone, dark, etc) but how to CONCEPTUALIZE shading? understand how to structure it? like demonstrating on a complex object where and why you would place the shadows there that is a bit more than "the light source is up here". does that make sense? like the shadow shapes on a fabric fold, and why they must be placed there and no where else. perhaps im asking for a tutorial on observation..

i can relate to this! i know in theory how to shade but i struggle with identifying and breaking down values from irl references and translating that into art. a lot of artistic rules are often pinpointed from observation but its hard to define why so... if it helps any i like to try noticing smaller details from irl and trying to define why something looks the way it is: the contours and shapes involved in different clothing materials, why flowers have certain folds and similarities, etc. it wont make you draw from memory but it will help in translation of references

[chicken-tea-party]

{ flesh }

"You can only love with your flesh." In that place, not a single sound surrounded him: no rustling of leaves, no whispering of the wind -- all the clamour of life seemed to have lost the chords of its melody, causing the spoken phrase to hang in the air too sharply, like a shot that forced the rest of the sounds to fall silent. The words reached him, though he wasn't sure where they came from -- it felt like they were both far away and all around him -- so it took a few moments for him to even comprehend them. With each passing second, as his head gradually cleared, those words began to take on a more stable, meaningful form in his consciousness, and at the same time, at some point -- like a sudden flash of light on a foggy night -- he felt them sharply scratch something inside his chest. "What.." he muttered, barely able to open his lips. With great effort, as if it were a lump of rock, he squeezed a broken sound out of his throat, enough to be counted as an attempt, and yet -- too foreign to his own ears. With a blurred gaze, he looked around in confusion, trying to pinpoint the source of the stirring in the air, before settling on.. the shadow of a person, he assumed, which stood directly in front of him. He was sure he knew this person, and even more than just casually, but as soon as his eyes drifted away even for a moment, the whole focus faded away, like a puff, all thoughts slipped through his fingers, and before him was once again only an achingly familiar mirage. He had no desire to ask who it was -- that was the least of his concerns at the moment, and it was unlikely that this information would be of any significance when he might well lose it in the next blink of an eye amid the flood of other uncontrollable thoughts. No, what he wanted to know was why, for what merits, had they so arbitrarily thrown these.. these.. With a sharp rustle of fabric, his arm rose into the air, his index finger trembling, as did his voice, no matter how hard he tried to hide this manifestation of unwanted weakness behind shades of irritation and furrowed brows. "Take back those words.." he croaked at the silhouette, not really bothering to think about whether he could be heard or not. As expected, there was no response from the shadowy figure. The indifference of the reaction gave Goffredo a slight boost of confidence, and he took a sudden step forward, which from the side resembled more of a convulsive jerk. "Take them back.. riprendile, in questo istante!" And again, silence, which, like pure kerosene, saturated and incited rage. "You-.. Whoever you are, e non me ne può fregare di meno, take your words back!" With each passing second, which flowed in silence and a complete lack of verbal response from the silhouette-interlocutor, his voice began to gain strength -- like a bonfire that was constantly fed with pinches of apathy; his tone sounded more confident with each phrase, and in particularly emotional moments, like a raging river, it changed to more passionate, more colourful expressions. "What do you possibly know about me, huh? What do you know- what, I ask you?!" Goffredo’s hands flew through the air, his abrupt, lively gestures forming patterns with a clear accusatory undertone. "Carne.. I love with my flesh, what does that even mean?! Completa assurdità, ti dico- idiocy in its purest form, that’s what your words are!" In a burst of emotion, he took a few more steps closer, jabbing his finger straight into the person’s chest; a slight tingling sensation ran along his fingertip, as if he had touched something icy, something so distant -- like a faraway star -- but he was now too caught up in more tumultuous feelings to indulge in sentimental thoughts and comparisons. "Because, e te lo dico io, because there is no such thing! There isn't, and it's not even worth delving into! And I- io amo normalmente, come tutti gli altri, okay? Like all other men, I love, do you hear me?! Mi senti o no, disgraziato mentecatto?! Or are you- oh, no, of course, you're tired of listening to me, aren't you? Aren't you?!"

From the depths of the cardinal's throat came a short, barking laugh, in which there was not an ounce of genuine satisfaction, but rather pure mockery and sarcastic ridicule, and even.. some slight notes of offence.

"Once again, I’m talking too much, too much of me! Go ahead, complain about it, about how much you’re fed up with it, how much you’re fed up with me- A questo punto, onestamente, non so nemmeno se sono ancora importante per te, o se mi stai solo sopportando!" He felt, in some distant and insignificant part of his consciousness, that he was beginning to cross the line, but this flow was unlikely to be stopped by anything. "Go on, go on, play the scene out -- say that it’s not true. Mentite, mentite, mentite a me, perché è tutto quello che mi merito, è tutto quello che siete disposti a fare per me -- shower me with filth like the l'ultima feccia della cucciolata!" For some reason, it felt as if his words were familiar -- as if he had already said them to someone, more than once, more than twice, more than dozens of times, to someone.. close enough, or even too close.. "Sono tutte bugie, dannazione! Your words are lies, do you hear me?! All, all of them! About your worries, about your love- about my love. You.. You know what? Know what?! Your statement that I only love with my flesh, whatever the hell that means, take them back. Ritirale in questo preciso istante! Perché anche loro sono tutte bugie! They- They're not true at all -- not true!" For whatever reason, the last word resonated too loudly, making him feel.. ill at ease. The realisation of what he had just so vehemently declared left an unpleasant residue in his chest and on his tongue, and he couldn't help but grimace slightly; Goffredo didn't even understand how it happened that everything got out of control, turning into a truly enraged conflagration, he didn't understand -- and he had no interest in trying to understand. All this time, during his tirade and afterwards, there was still no response from the mysterious person opposite him; reason enough to doubt that he would be able to get any response from them at all. And because of this, his attention shifted focus to his speech, and, truth be told, he didn't particularly like the thoughts that began to surface from the darkest reaches of his consciousness. As his ardour cooled, a weak stream of thoughts rose and sank back into the depths, hiding behind the next ones, whispers of more troubling ones coming to him from distant corners. But there was one that made itself known most noticeably, even though it remained the quietest of all: "..is that really so..?" A slight shiver ran somewhere inside him, and he hastily tried to drive it away -- in vain, however, as if someone had nailed it directly to the main screen of the broadcast, and even other thoughts were unable to overshadow it. It was nonsense, from a certain point of view, even taking into account the fact that he did not fully understand the meaning of that phrase. "To love with the flesh.." he repeated mentally, turning his head away, occasionally glancing at his interlocutor, "La carne.. that is, the body? E cosa potrebbe significare, per carità, questo?" With an irritated sound, Goffredo shook his head, causing his grey curls to bounce slightly, before barking at the silent apparition: "And what does that mean? Hm? Cosa?" The silhouette said nothing, but the voice in his head, despite numerous objections, began to ponder the answer. To say that he liked those comments would be an understatement of how much the sparks of fury still flashed in him at such wordless accusations directed at him. "You dare accuse me of my feelings for you? So that’s what this is, you.. you-..!"

And yet.. What if it's true..? Like a light slap on the cheek, he shook his head hastily, his eyebrow twitching in indignation. "No! No, io.. they're not fake, not fake, capisci? We.." The words died away, cut off as if in the middle of a thought that had suddenly lost all its value -- it became irrelevant, because he felt that they didn't believe him. The irritation that had gripped Goffredo began to take on the contours of panic, while the silhouette remained silent, as if mocking him. "No, don't even dare look at me like that. Questo non ha nulla a che fare con me, in any sense, in any way, no!" The hem of his robe whispered softly as he took a step back, his hand unconsciously reaching for the cross -- a grounding, pious gesture -- as if trying to affirm the validity of his words, to calm himself. Although subconsciously he knew, with a disgusting, repulsive thought in his mind, that he was wrong.. but he didn't want to admit it -- it wasn't true. And why should he defile himself with such.. such ridiculous slander?! Ridiculous, simply vile falsehoods! Right..? "Why are you silent?" he hissed through clenched teeth, his dark eyes staring straight into the ever-changing, blurred features of the face. "Why are you.. Please, say something -- say you don’t believe it!" Goffredo felt his chest tighten, as if someone's invisible hand had closed its icy fingers around his lungs. Together with that, small, insignificant, first glimmers of tears began to form in the corners of his eyes, and he was not sure if it was because of how intense his gaze was, or because of.. "Non tacere.. You know that’s not true, don’t you? You know, know, I’m sure you know.." It became harder to breathe, each subsequent word seemed to carry more weight, and his head was reeling from such overwhelming emotional outbursts. He tried to hide the moist veil over his eyes with a hasty movement of his hand, which was followed, in a matter of seconds, by a burst of anger: as if someone had reawakened his rage, and without thinking twice, he lunged at the silhouette, clutching it with a firm, painful grip, shaking it several times. "You think it’s so funny -- paragonarmi a una specie di sgualdrina, as if I’m incapable of deeper feelings! You believe that, huh? È in questo che credi?! That’s all I’m capable of?!" Silence; only a voice responded, so familiar, so dear.. he wasn't sure if it was a memory or a mocking product of his paranoia, but without question and without a doubt, he could say that the answer sounded like one, brief.. .."yes".. A sudden acute pain pierced his chest, mercilessly gnawing at its sting right to his very heart. The cardinal pushed the apparition away from him, staggering backwards as if struck by lightning; his eyes were wide open in shock and his lips slightly parted. "No.." he squeezed out in a weak, chocked voice, as if clinging to the last thread of hope that it wasn’t true, even though all the evidence was against him. Predictably, the blanket of silence fell on their shoulders, so unbearably heavy, and even that was enough for him, far too much. It was as if something had broken inside him -- the walls of dignity and aplomb had been destroyed, shattered into pieces, and in place of the open wounds, a wave of despair washed over him, scorching him so unbearably. His strength suddenly left him, his legs weakened, and with a quiet thud, he fell to his knees. Between convulsive breaths and gurgling sounds -- as desperate as was futile his attempt to hold back tears -- fragments of phrases and words flew chaotically from his lips. "No.. no, ti prego, ti supplico.. I- io ti voglio bene, you know that? I love you.. ti amo- ti supplico, credimi.." Goffredo clenched his eyes shut tightly, as if that would somehow save him from his predicament. For some time, the only thing he could hear was someone's distant whisper -- his own, a loved one's, or a stranger's, he couldn't tell for sure, it was difficult to distinguish in this cacophony -- accompanied by the deafening sound of his own heartbeat in his temples.

Thump Thump A sharp intake of breath Thump A sob, pitiful, miserable Thump Thump "..per favore..", trembling, barely audible Thump A sharp intake of breath- And he woke up.

So abruptly that he felt suffocated even in the well-ventilated room, so he spent the first few minutes after waking up taking deep breaths. His heart was pounding wildly against his ribs -- too loudly, even vulgarly so, in the embrace of the night's silence. Suddenly, someone stirred beside him, muttering something indistinctly in their sleep. Unconsciously holding his breath, Goffredo cautiously reached out and touched someone's body. The body he loved with his flesh. Memories of their evening were filled with contentment and bliss, even a certain pride in what they had shared. And yet, in a matter of moments, it all smoothly morphed into a oppressive sense of wrongness, tinged with shame, which squeezed the air out of him and settled heavily in his stomach. As much as he didn't want to, he couldn't help but think about the recent nightmare. How strange -- the apparition hadn't made a sound the whole time, and yet it had managed to make him feel more vulnerable than he had ever felt before. Was he really.. that callous? No matter how hard he tried to recall, he couldn't come up with a single argument against this statement, quite the contrary. "Lo amavo.. o mi godevo solo la sensazione del suo corpo?" With a slightly trembling hand, he ran his fingers through his tousled locks, which, like short serpents, twisted and curled around his fingers. With a jagged sigh, Goffredo lay back and felt a nasty sweat -- so cold, a sweat of panic and anxiety, not like the one that had glistened on his skin just a few hours ago. The echoes of a tormented dream hung over him like a heavy cloud, causing his insides to twist unpleasantly, and he, settling on his side, curled up, his shoulders hunched tensely. By the time he fell asleep, or perhaps it would be better to say -- exhausted himself with unease -- on the other side of the bed, under the blanket, the second person stirred again. He, once again sinking into the realm of murky dreams, did not feel this, nor did he feel the arms that wrapped around him, his chest and shoulders, and, with less passion but no less affection, pressed closer to Goffredo. Le braccia di colui che lo voleva bene con tutto il cuore e l'anima, che lo amava nonostante tutti i "nonostante", che lo amava per quello che era.

[duckprintspress]

Ten Things We Hate About Trad Pub

Often when I say “I’ve started a small press; we publish the works of those who have trouble breaking into traditional publishing!” what people seem to hear is “me and a bunch of sad saps couldn’t sell our books in the Real World so we’ve made our own place with lower standards.” For those with minimal understanding of traditional publishing (trad pub), this reaction is perhaps understandable? But, truly, there are many things to hate about traditional publishing (and, don’t get me wrong - there are things to love about trad pub, too, but that’s not what this list is about) and it’s entirely reasonable for even highly accomplished authors to have no interest in running the gauntlet of genre restrictions, editorial control, hazing, long waits, and more, that make trad pub at best, um, challenging, and at worst, utterly inaccessible to many authors - even excellent ones.

Written in collaboration with @jhoomwrites, with input from @ramblingandpie, here is a list of ten things that we at Duck Prints Press detest about trad pub, why we hate it, and why/how we think things should be different!

(Needless to say, part of why we created Duck Prints Press was to...not do any of these things... so if you’re a writer looking for a publishing home, and you hate these things, too, and want to write with a Press that doesn’t do them...maybe come say hi?)

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1. Work lengths dictated by genre and/or author experience.

Romance novels can’t be longer than 90,000 words or they won’t sell! New authors shouldn’t try to market a novel longer than 100,000 words!

A good story is a good story is a good story. Longer genre works give authors the chance to explore their themes and develop their plots. How often an author has been published shouldn’t put a cap on the length of their work.

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2. Editors assert control of story events...except when they don’t.

If you don’t change this plot point, the book won’t market well. Oh, you’re a ten-time bestseller? Write whatever you want, even if it doesn’t make sense we know people will buy it.

Sometimes, a beta or an editor will point out that an aspect of a story doesn’t work - because it’s nonsensical, illogical, Deus ex Machina, etc. - and in those cases it’s of course reasonable for an editor to say, “This doesn’t work and we recommend changing it, for these reasons…” However, when that list of reasons begins and ends with, “...because it won’t sell…” that’s a problem, especially because this is so often applied as a double standard. We’ve all read bestsellers with major plot issues, but those authors get a “bye” because editors don’t want to exert to heavy a hand and risk a proven seller, but with a new, less experienced, or worse-selling author, the gloves come off (even though evidence suggests time and again that publishers’ ability to predict what will sell well is at best low and at worst nonexistent.)

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3. A billion rejection letters as a required rite of passage (especially when the letters aren't helpful in pinpointing why a work has been rejected or how the author can improve).

Well, my first book was rejected by a hundred Presses before it was accepted! How many rejection letters did you get before you got a bite? What, only one or two? Oh…

How often one succeeds or fails to get published shouldn’t be treated as a form of hazing, and we all know that how often someone gets rejected or accepted has essentially no bearing on how good a writer they are. Plenty of schlock goes out into the world after being accepted on the first or second try...and so does plenty of good stuff! Likewise, plenty of schlock will get rejected 100 times but due to persistence, luck, circumstances, whatever, finally find a home, and plenty of good stuff will also get rejected 100 times before being publishing. Rejections (or lack there of) as a point of pride or as a means of judging others needs to die as a rite of passage among authors.

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4. Query letters, for so many reasons.

Summarize all your hard work in a single page! Tell us who you’re like as an author and what books your story is like, so we can gauge how well it’ll sell based on two sentences about it! Format it exactly the way we say or we won’t even consider you!

For publishers, agents, and editors who have slush piles as tall as Mount Everest...we get it. There has to be a way to differentiate. We don’t blame you. Every creative writing class, NaNoWriMo pep talk, and college lit department combine to send out hundreds of thousands of people who think all they need to do to become the next Ernest Hemingway is string a sentence together. There has to be some way to sort through that pile...but God, can’t there be a better way than query letters? Especially since even with query letters being used it often takes months or years to hear back, and...

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5. "Simultaneous submissions prohibited.”

No, we don’t know when we’ll get to your query, but we’ll throw it out instantly if you have the audacity to shop around while you wait for us.

The combination of “no simultaneous submissions” with the query letter bottleneck makes success slow and arduous. It disadvantages everyone who aims to write full-time but doesn’t have another income source (their own, or a parents’, or a spouse’s, or, or or). The result is that entire classes of people are edged out of publishing solely because the process, especially for writers early in their career, moves so glacially that people have to earn a living while they wait, and it’s so hard to, for example, work two jobs and raise a family and also somehow find the time to write. Especially considering that the standard advice for dealing with “no simultaneous submissions” is “just write something else while you wait!” ...the whole system screams privilege.

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6. Genres are boxes that must be fit into and adhered to.

Your protagonist is 18? Then obviously your book is Young Adult. It doesn’t matter how smutty your book is, erotica books must have sex within the first three chapters, ideally in the first chapter. Sorry, we’re a fantasy publisher, if you have a technological element you don’t belong here…

While some genre boxes have been becoming more like mesh cages of late, with some flow of content allowed in and out, many remain stiff prisons that constrict the kinds of stories people can tell. Even basic cross-genre works often struggle to find a place, and there’s no reason for it beyond “if we can’t pigeon-hole a story, it’s harder to sell.” This edges out many innovative, creative works. It also disadvantages people who aren’t as familiar with genre rules. And don’t get me wrong - this isn’t an argument that, for example, the romance genre would be improved by opening up to stories that don’t have “happily ever afters.” Instead, it’s pointing out - there should also be a home for, say, a space opera with a side romance, an erotica scene, and a happily-for-now ending. Occasionally, works breakthrough, but for the most part stories that don’t conform never see the light of day (or, they do, but only after Point 2 - trad pub editors insist that the elements most “outside” the box be removed or revised).

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7. The lines between romance and erotica are arbitrary, random, and hetero- and cis-normative.

This modern romance novel won’t sell if it doesn’t have an explicit sex scene, but God forbid you call a penis a penis. Oh, no, this is far too explicit, even though the book only has one mlm sex scene, this is erotica.

The difference between “romance” and “erotica” might not matter so much if not for the stigmas attached to erotica and the huge difference in marketability and audience. The difference between “romance” and “erotica” also might not matter so much if not for the fact that, so often, even incredibly raunchy stories that feature cis straight male/cis straight female sex scenes are shelved as romance, but the moment the sex is between people of the same gender, and/or a trans or genderqueer person is involved, and/or the relationship is polyamorous, and/or the characters involved are literally anything other than a cis straight male pleasuring a cis straight female in a “standard” way (cunnilingus welcome, pegging need not apply)...then the story is erotica. Two identical stories will get assigned different genres based on who the people having sex are, and also based on the “skill” of the author to use ludicrous euphemisms (instead of just...calling body parts what they’re called…), and it’s insane. Non-con can be a “romance” novel, even if it’s graphically described. “50 Shades of Gray” can sell millions of copies, even containing BDSM. But the word “vagina” gets used once...bam, erotica. (Seriously, the only standard that should matter is the Envelope Analogy).

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8. Authors are expected to do a lot of their own legwork (eg advertising) but then don't reap the benefits.

Okay, so, you’re going to get an advance of $2,500 on this, your first novel, and a royalty rate of 5% if and only if your advance sells out...so you’d better get out there and market! Wait, what do you mean you don’t have a following? Guess you’re never selling out your advance…

Trad pub can generally be relied on to do some marketing - so this item is perhaps better seen as an indictment of more mid-sized Presses - but, basically, if an author has to do the majority of the work themselves, then why aren’t they getting paid more? What’s the actual benefit to going the large press/trad pub route if it’s not going to get the book into more hands? It’s especially strange that this continues to be a major issue when self-publishing (which also requires doing one’s own marketing) garners 60%+ royalty rates. Yes, the author doesn’t get an advance, and they don’t get the cache of ~well I was published by…~, but considering some Presses require parts of advances to get paid back if the initial run doesn’t sell out, and cache doesn’t put food on the table...pay models have really, really got to change.

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9. Fanfiction writing doesn't count as writing experience

Hey there Basic White Dude, we see you’ve graduated summa cum laude from A Big Fancy Expensive School. Of course we’ll set you up to publish your first novel you haven’t actually quite finished writing yet. Oh, Fanperson, you’ve written 15 novels for your favorite fandom in the last 4 years? Get to the back of the line!

Do I really need to explain this? The only way to get better at writing is to write. Placing fanfiction on official trad pub “do not interact” lists is idiotic, especially considering many of the other items on this list. (They know how to engage readers! They have existing followings! They understand genre and tropes!) Being a fanfiction writer should absolutely be a marketable “I am a writer” skill. Nuff said. (To be clear, I’m not saying publishers should publish fanfiction, I’m saying that being a fanfiction writer is relevant and important experience that should be given weight when considering an author’s qualifications, similar to, say, publishing in a university’s quarterly.)

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10. Tagging conventions (read: lack thereof).

Oh, did I trigger you? Hahahaha. Good luck with that.

We rate movies so that people can avoid content they don’t like. Same with TV shows and video games. Increasingly, those ratings aren’t just “R - adult audiences,” either; they contain information about the nature of the story elements that have led to the rating (“blood and gore,” “alcohol reference,” “cartoon violence,” “drug reference,” “sexual violence,” “use of tobacco,” and many, many more). So why is it that I can read a book and, without warning, be surprised by incest, rape, graphic violence, explicit language, glorification of drug and alcohol use, and so so much more? That it’s left to readers to look up spoilers to ensure that they’re not exposed to content that could be upsetting or inappropriate for their children or, or, or, is insane. So often, too, authors cling to “but we don’t want to give away our story,” as if video game makes and other media makers do want to give away their stories. This shouldn’t be about author egos or ~originality~ (as if that’s even a thing)...it should be about helping readers make informed purchasing decisions. It’s way, way past time that major market books include content warnings.

Thank you for joining us, this has been our extended rant about how frustrated we are with traditional publishing. Helpful? No. Cathartic? Most definitely yes. 🤣

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[n1kk1note]

i'll find you (across five hundred lifetimes)

He remembers her smile, her laughter, and the indescribable feeling of being loved and loving in return.

"Ha! You can’t get rid of me in any lifetime, scumbag!"

(A multiple reincarnations AU wherein Scaramouche takes a glimpse of his many lifetimes, and finds out how fate makes it extremely hard for him just to be with some girl.)

Read on: AO3

When he comes to, he’s in a strange dark room. All around him there’s nothingness. No objects, no shadows, no walls nor any surface. The only thing that catches his attention is a door, illuminated in the dark by the light coming from the other side.

This must be the afterlife. He thinks. Or a very weird dream. Although for some reason, he’s sure the latter option is just not true. He has a vague recollection of the feeling of dying, although he can’t seem to recall any details.

He opens the door and enters a large dark room. At the center of it was a wall of pictures, or rather a collection of moving images. When he moves closer to inspect them, he sees that they display snippets of him doing things he can't seem to remember doing.

“These are all your past lives.” A voice behind him says, startling him out of his inspection. He turns to look at the source, his eyes meeting those of a young man with blond hair tied in a braid, with eyes the same shade as his hair. For some reason, the man seems really familiar to him, but he can’t quite pinpoint his name.

“Five hundred iterations. This one’s your previous life.” The blond man gestures to the lower right corner.

 Ah, I know that. That’s what he thinks as a reflex, however he can’t seem to put into words exactly what he’s seeing. He tries to reach into his mind for bits and pieces of his memory. He was the number 6th of something, he served a queen, or rather two queens, and he was able to wield the power of what seems to be lightning through a small object. His brows furrow in confusion. He thinks he can recognize the images that flash from the frame, but he can’t seem to describe whatever he was doing. It’s as if he knew everything he was seeing, but he conveniently forgets the information the moment he tries to think about it.

He moves his gaze away from the image, instead looking at the other frames one by one starting from the top. One of the images catches his attention. For some reason, even through his hazy mind, through his memory that seemed like it’s failing him more and more through the minute, he recognizes her. 

Mona.  

So he knows her name. That was interesting. Come to think of it, what even was his name?

Only then does he recognize that the other frames show her too, in what seems to be different ages, settings, situations. Without meaning to, his hand reaches out to touch her image.

And suddenly everything flashes white.

---

He’s lying on the ground, coughing blood out of his mouth. Beside him, Mona’s sobbing, trying uselessly to stop his blood from flowing out of his wound.

He raises a shaky hand to her cheek. “Idiot witch...don’t be so surprised…”

“Scaramouche!” She wails, eyes red with panicked tears, her cheeks stained red by the blood from his hand. “Stop talking!”

He chuckles at her sadly. He swallows, though it was unpleasant with all the blood in his mouth. “You told me before…that my existence was an anomaly in fate…” He watches as she nods shakily. “I kept telling you how stupid you were for believing in fate, but all of that was just me trying to selfishly hang on...” Mona’s lip quivers, shaking her head. “You were right. My fate was forfeit a long, long time ago…”

She’d told him about what she saw in her readings, about his fate having met its end 500 years ago, but he’d been living as an anomaly. He proudly called it as him breaking the rules of fate.

Well, he did indeed. And now he got his punishment for it.

“It’s not so bad, considering I got this far…” To meet you. Goes unsaid. He tries to laugh again, but all that comes out is a choked gurgle. Damn, that Traveler really didn’t hesitate to stab him where it hurt.

His eyes began to dim, the vision of her slowly blurring. Along with it did Mona’s crying grew in intensity.

“Don’t cry, Mona. I’m not someone you should cry over.” For I was never worth anything.  

“Next time...don’t fall for such a mean guy like me.” He tells her with a final smile, before closing his eyes.

---

Perhaps he should’ve thought twice before saying that.  

He jumps to the next timeline. This time he’s in a church full of smiling people in suits and dresses. The grand double doors open, the sound alerting everyone to look at the entrance. Everyone turns to stare at the woman in a long white gown, wearing huge smiles on their faces as they marvel at her beauty.

Scaramouche stares at her, transfixed, just like every single time.

She walks slowly, a bouquet of cecilia in her hand, dressed in a long mermaid style dress. Even through the veil, he could see her grey eyes sparkling with joy.

She raises her gaze and their eyes meet, and he can’t breathe as he stays rooted on the spot, unable to react.

It was only a few seconds, but he swears he sees different emotions just from her gaze.

Shock, longing, sadness.

And then the moment breaks as she passes him, eyes moving forward to meet misty blue-green eyes belonging to a sandy-haired man.

Albedo reaches to hold her hand, and that’s when Scaramouche decides he’s had enough, quickly leaving his seat and fleeing from the church doors before anyone could take a glimpse of the angry, hot tears falling over his cheeks because damn it, damn it, the taste of regret is so strong and palpable it’s physically painful.

In the next lifetime, he swears, he’ll make it right.

---

The clock reads 12:48 AM, yet he’s wide awake as he stares down at the beauty beside him.

She’s asleep, one arm propped on his chest as she snuggles her face on the crook of his neck. He has his arm around her waist, his thumb drawing circles on her lower back.

They may have overindulged on each other, he reflects, as he eyes the clothes thrown around the floor. This may not have been the best idea considering it’s only Wednesday and they both have to be up early tomorrow, and he still needs to drive Mona back to her house in the morning.

He makes a mental note to try to convince her to live with him already, to hell with what their coworkers think about them arriving together.

Am I really so bad that she won’t agree to publicizing our relationship? Yes, I am. He answers himself with a chuckle. The nerve of this woman. If everyone knew they were together then that creep Arnold would stop bothering her already during her lunch break. His blood always boils whenever he sees that man approach Mona to ask her personal questions, even going as far as to ask her for a date. That loser? On a date with Mona? Preposterous! Next time I see him, I swear I'm going to kiss Mona in front of the whole-

She stirs beside him, mumbling something in her sleep.

“Must rid material desires…clutter…true world..” She mumbles incomprehensibly. He had a brief moment of temptation of recording the funny scene before him, but ultimately caves in to just staying put instead of getting up and looking for his phone. He’d rather not leave the warmth of her side.

He knows in the morning they’ll go back to their previous routine. Wake up early to drive her to her house and then back to his, get changed fast, and arrive to work with her following a few minutes behind. Her taking the public commute always makes her a little late. "Why can’t you just join me as I drive to work?" "Idiot, I don’t want other people to talk behind our back."  

He presses a kiss to her hair, and closes his eyes with a relaxed sigh.

He'll wait. As long as it takes. Maybe even one day they'll have kids...

    ---

“You are so mean, you know that?”

A strong breeze blows around him, swaying the trees and the flowers that surround him. Behind him, a little girl runs around with a doll in her hand.

“You could’ve waited just for a bit more.” He mumbles softly, hands in his pockets. He looks upwards, noticing how the clouds have turned into dark grey.

“Tsuki says you talk to her often. I have no idea what that means, Mona.”

There’s no reply. Apart from the silence, the only sounds around him are from the breeze and the occasional giggles from the little girl.

There’s no reply because he’s talking to a slab of stone with Mona's name on it.

“Talk to me too, please. Just once.” He says softly, his voice breaking at the end. Above him, the sound of thunder cracks through the dimming sky. His eyes start to water, but he quickly wipes them away with the back of his hand.

He feels small hands grab his pant legs. Familiar grey eyes stare up at him, unshed tears threatening to fall any minute. He crouches down immediately to look at his daughter with a comforting smile.

 "Yes, baby?"

 “Papa. I’m scared.”

He sighs before gathering her in his arm, and presses a soothing kiss on her cheek. “I told you before, remember? Thunder won't hurt you.” His daughter nods with a pout as she leans to rest on his chest.

 Nothing can hurt you. As long as I’m here.  

 But I wish you were here too.    

---

They complete their wedding vows under the sakura tree.

He holds her in his arms as they both take in the scenery around him, watching pink petals float about in the air. Both of them were wearing kimonos, his in a deep indigo while hers in light blues and deep purples. The guest list was incredibly short with only a few mutual friends.

He presses a kiss to her forehead, inhaling her scent with a content sigh. Mona cranes her neck to give him a peck on the cheek, one hand carding through his indigo hair.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get my mother’s blessing.” He murmurs softly to her ear. He feels her disentangle herself from his arms, reaching up to cup his face with both hands.

“Listen, Kuni. It’s fine. I don’t care about what she thinks.”

It had been a pretty unpleasant ordeal. He already knew it was a bad idea the moment he thought about it, but not letting his mother know about their plan to marry, as well as never introducing the love of his life felt unfair. Not to his mother, but to Mona. He thought she at least deserved to know the true nature of his family. She had also insisted on meeting her, even after he’d warned her many times about their terrible relationship.

You are my greatest regret. I see no need to give you any blessing.  

The anger he felt for her had dulled throughout the years. He’d taken the admonition with a simple nod and took it in stride as they left. He’d grown long past the need to gain her love, respect, anything to gain her attention. This last time does nothing to faze him, not anymore.

It was to his surprise however, to see Mona crying angrily as he drove away from the mansion.

“I love you. I need you. That’s all that matters.” She says with a gentle smile, her pale gray eyes holding his indigo gaze. He mirrors her smile, turning one of her hands in his palm to press a kiss on the center.

   ---

He comes back to the room after what seemed like an eternity. Beside him, the blond man is staring at him passively, arms crossed.

He clutched his head, mind still spinning from the barrage of five hundred lifetimes worth of memories.

He had two names. Scaramouche and Raiden Kunikuzushi.

Her name was Mona Megistus, and in each lifetime she was the best thing that ever happened to him.

“So how was it? Did you learn anything useful?”

Scaramouche laughs darkly, shaking his head. He runs an agitated hand through his hair.

Five hundred lifetimes. And only in six of them did he spend the end of his lifespan with Mona. Only six times did he get to see her grow ugly and wrinkly and full of happiness and contentment.  Most of the time either he or Mona died, although the former was almost always guaranteed. If neither of them died, he loses her to someone else while he lives on in misery until he withers away pathetically.

The man behind him moves, gesturing at him to come follow him with a flick of his head. He follows wordlessly, because he had nothing else to do in the afterlife.

They stop in front of two closed doors. The blond man moves to stand in the middle.

“These doors will lead you to your next life.” He says, always speaking in that bored tone of his. He points to the left. “If you choose this path, you will probably gain the respect of many people, including your family, and you won’t get involved in some wayward business like you always do.” Scaramouche raises an eyebrow at the last statement.

“And this one?” He points to the right.

“The opposite. You’ll most probably get involved with some shady people, fail to gain the respect of your family, earn the scorn of many people, so on and so forth.” The man tells him, sounding like he had been reciting the same thing over and over again.

Scaramouche’s brows furrow even more in confusion. “So? Why would this be an option in the first place?” He asks, as if stating the obvious. He shouldn’t have to think about the choices if that’s how much worse the path on the right is.

The other man lets out a sigh before replying. “Well, because only in this lifetime, you will cross paths with the one you love the most. You know who I mean.”

Scaramouche freezes, unable to reply as he stares at the other with wide eyes. A million thoughts race to his head, ranging from disbelief at this fucked up reincarnation rules, anger at his fate, and despair at the thought of having to fight the uphill battle just to be with some girl.

He remembers her smile, and her laughter, and the indescribable feeling of being loved and loving in return.

Ha! You can’t get rid of me in any lifetime, scumbag!  

He clicks his tongue in annoyance and yanks open the door to the right, stepping over to the other side before turning around and pointing at the blond man with a glare.

“I don’t know your name right now but I swear if you’re the one running this shit, I will kill you once I find you in this life.” He says menacingly before slamming the door closed.

Aether sighs with a roll of his eyes, muttering to himself about why he even bothers to mention the obviously better option. He should just shove him out the door next time.

Author’s Note:

Wow so you made it to the end :) Confession: actually this fic has been sitting around since July but I only finished this now LOL but hey it's finally here

The idea of Scara being so head over heels for Mona that he would go as far as to challenge fate…* clenches fist * it hits different because he’s a nasty mean asshole. Also this is my first Scaramona fic, and I'm so elated to have finally contributed something to this fandom.  

Comments are greatly appreciated <3 gimme them word vomit pls

[legolaslovely]

A Dwarf and His Fairy

A/N: Here it is! The Fíli x Fairy piece I've been working on! This piece taught me a LOT! About editing, plotting, character work, etc., and though it's not perfect, I'm still really proud of it and happy with it. Thanks to all who supported me with this one. I hope you enjoy it :)

Pairing: Fíli x Ivy (my fairy OC)

Word Count: 3,780

Warnings: None!

Summary: Even Fíli needs someone to remind him that self-care is a requirement, and not a reward. Good thing he has a somewhat relentless, but very loving fairy friend to remind him.

Fíli slid the book away in defeat. It was as heavy as stone and full of numbers and dates and plans and problems. Even as the wicked pages turned by, they let out a nasty hiss and the scratchy old leather cover whipped around with a solid, successful splat, fighting Fíli until it’s last breath.

Once it was done, his surrender official, Fíli’s head fell into his hands and he groaned, making one of the last candles in his chambers flicker in his breath. Truthfully, the nub of wax, short wick, and tiny flame was barely a candle at all. It hardly resembled the tall, radiant torch it had previously been. But it wasn’t alone. Similarly, as the night went on, Fíli’s resolve had melted away and his shoulders warped and rounded like hot wax until there was very little light to give.

All because of that damned book.

       “I need a break,” he said to no one but the silver platter of untouched goodies sitting on the corner of his desk. There was a small, shining jug of sweet milk, a tiny jar of honey with a miniscule spoon to match and a delicate bowl of crumbling honey cakes. It was all left waiting, as was Fíli.

He stared at the treats and swore he saw them move. But he dismissed it, ascribing it to fatigue, and closed his eyes, leaning his heavy chin on his wrist.

Then something struck him.

It was a scent he’d long been familiar with. Despite its peculiarity, he could always pinpoint its source from the first time he witnessed it and matched it with its meaning. This was the smell of magic- frozen as fresh winter frost and balmy as sun bathed flower petals- and it effortlessly roused him from his near nap and provoked him to sit up straight and search the room.

At first, he saw nothing, though he did recognize the swishing sound of her clothes rushing through the air. Every spent candle in his chambers now roared to life with new flame and an endless wick. The room glowed as if it was midday, not only with candlelight, but with the hope and warmth of company.

       “Oh, my friend,” Fíli said. “Make yourself known to me. I’ve longed to see you again.”

She stopped, showing herself just below the ceiling in front of the desk. With a smile, she gracefully and silently descended, relaxing her wings and letting them sway through the air rather than furiously flap. When she found her place before Fíli’s eyes, however, the four little wings revolved again in a blur of speed in her otherwise still, hovering flight.

       “Hello, my dear,” he said, holding out a horizontal finger for her to perch on if by chance she was tired from her journey, or simply wanted to be near him.

She only smiled and took his hospitality. Even when her bare feet landed on his knuckle, Fíli barely felt her touch. Though he hadn’t seen her in some weeks and though they’d met decades ago, she still looked the same to him, as if time would never disturb her.

His fairy’s name was Ivy. She was almost as tall as his hand from wrist to fingertip, and she had long waving hair as dark as a winter night’s sky. The dress she wore was sturdy despite its fabric of light leaves and soft petals. Fíli had no doubt her clothing was made of the same flower whence she came. It was the legend, after all, though she herself never told him so. Instead, it was his fascination and, one could even say infatuation, that spurred on his research.

No matter where she was or what she was doing, his little fairy friend always appeared to glow. Fíli didn’t believe it to be magic or the pollen on her dress or the shine on her wings. He thought it was simply her essence that glowed and shone like a piece of a star drifting from its flight for his own sake and pleasure.

She was a pleasure. And she had been missed.

       “Where have you been?” Fíli asked. It wasn’t accusatory or disappointed or cruel. He just wondered. “Tell me of your travels.”

She sat down on him and squeezed his finger with hers, like tangled blades of grass, as if she knew how much he missed traveling himself. Like she knew of that feeling deep down in his bones that defied his kind and his duties, begging and pulling at him to wander and explore.

Still, the bundle of joy that she was, she didn’t dwell or dawdle, but showed him where she’d been, using pictures in lieu of words so he could see these places himself.

The visions flew up behind her head and revealed scenes that were so clear, it was as if Fíli was simply looking through a window and out into the most mystifying bits of the world. He could smell the warm wind that blew through tall grass on the hills and could hear the gurgling of stream water. He recognized the soft, wet, moss-ridden floor of Fangorn Forest and when he asked his fairy what she’d been doing there, she showed him the fresh green leaves of saplings. Her memories unveiled the fairies’ gifts of hardy seeds and fresh water, along with magic, but not artificial sunlight.

       “You helped them grow,” Fíli said, astonished at the ability and yet, not surprised at his friend’s generous deeds.

Ivy smiled and another scene flashed above her head. This one sent real spray into Fíli’s face that knocked him back into his chair with an indignant cry.

Her feet kicked through the air as she laid back and laughed, making the sound of a small bell ringing in the distance. It was the only sound Fíli ever heard from her and upon hearing it, he instantly forgave her antics.

       “What was that?” he asked, voice left high from his surprised yelp.

It only made her giggle more and even louder, like the bell was soaring closer to Fíli’s ears. With a hand over her belly, she leaned back again and in her entertainment, slid right off Fíli’s finger.

       “Hey there, careful!” Fíli chided, grinning all the way. He caught her, sitting her in his palm to avoid another slip. When she calmed and settled in the cushiony pillow of his hand, he said, “I should have let you tumble for that trick!” He winked. “But then again, you would have flapped your wings before you hit the ground, hm?” She narrowed her eyes at him, but it was fruitless. She giggled again and pointed at him with a shaking finger.

       “You’re right,” he said. “I would never let you fall.”

At that, she turned fully pink. Not just the round of her cheeks or the tips of her pointed ears, but completely pink- wings and all. Fíli loved it when she did that, especially when he was the reason for it.

The bright shade only lasted for a moment, however, and she quickly brushed her hair off her shoulder, pushing the locks down her back, and brought Fíli’s attention back to the scene that had splashed him. With a flick of her finger, she showed him more, uncovering a waterfall that was so tall, it could have reached the parapets of the mountain of Erebor. The water that flowed off the cliff and into the serene lake was as blue as the summer sky and framed with the deep green clouds of the hanging trees and stout bushes near its edges. The bright sunlight left specks of glitter in the fall’s foam and a radiant ribbon through the water’s center that was so blinding, Fíli had to squint hard until the vision moved and gave him a new, less glaring view.

       “It’s so beautiful,” he said.

She let him admire the scene for a long, generous moment before taking him along the trails hidden in the connecting forest to show him its exact location. The exploration was all done through the window of the vision.

       “I know where that is,” he said. “It’s not too far from here, close enough where you and I could sneak away. It seems I’m not the only one who could use a break from my duties.”

The fairy smiled and nodded, hair waving against Fíli’s palm and tickling him. In her eagerness, the shining curtain parted and one stubborn lock fell in her eyes. That rogue twist of hair was something that teased her often, but if it was an imperfection, it was one that only endeared her to Fíli all the more.

Before she could right the tendril herself, Fíli lifted his hand, brushing his fingertip very carefully over her small cheek and pushing her feather soft hair over her shoulder. He let his finger settle against her neck, but she grabbed him in a hurry, pulling him off of her skin, yet still keeping him close to her.

Before he could answer, her entire body shivered and shook and she pouted at him. Then she turned away. As if shaking water from her fingers, her hand flicked to the dark fireplace in the corner of Fíli’s chambers and she built him a fire flame by flame.

She felt that he was cold.

He laughed, immeasurably relieved that was all. He immediately stopped her waving arm.

       “I’ll make a fire. Don’t tire yourself over me, I’ll do it myself.”

She frowned at him, gravely shaking her head as he crossed the room.

       “Don’t give me that look! You know dwarves don’t feel the cold as you do. It’s not like I would let myself freeze over.”

She flew around him, waving over the stone cold bricks to warm them. Then she stopped in front of his eyes with a very unimpressed glare.

       “All right, all right. Thank you for the reminder.”

Then she smiled, wriggled, and flew back to where he’d been sitting.

As he took the firewood from its rack and stacked the logs just so, he checked over his shoulder to assure himself that she hadn’t left in a flurry. But there she was, legs dangling and swinging from her spot on the right arm of his chair.

After singeing a part of his sleeve on the flame she’d ignited for him, he turned back to his work and said, “I’ve missed you, you know,” throwing out the confession before he lost his nerve. “But I knew you must have been busy. Fairies never seem to stop and rest, especially you. Not even for the honey cakes I’ve set out for you every night for the past weeks.”

He finally peeked over his shoulder and chuckled at her wide eyes.

She pointed to herself in question.

       “Yes, they’re for you! I don’t know anyone else who garnishes their honey cakes with even more honey and then finishes them off with sweet milk. Do you?”

He expected a funny little glare from her, but didn’t receive any such thing. She was too grateful, too excited about her treats. She flew around them, as if deciding which one she wanted to indulge in first.

Once the fire was crackling, Fíli returned to his desk chair. He poured the small jug of milk into an even tinier cup for her- one that he’d had made special by the potter at the market. He’d felt the looks burning his back when he purchased it at the stall, but those and the extra work had all been worth it when his fairy first saw it. Specially made for her. And her sweet milk.

       “There’s more where those came from so go ahead and enjoy,” Fíli said.

With two straining hands and trembling arms, she held out an entire honey cake and offered it to him. Only to save her strength, Fíli took it with thanks, and so as not to offend her, he took a bite when she did. As her small piece left her eyes rolling closed as only a delicious delicacy would, the other half of Fíli’s cake crumbled in his fingers as the sweetness dissolved on his tongue.

       “Do you like them?” Fíli asked after a gulp.

In answer, Ivy burst into the air, twirling and spinning, sparkles and glowing fragments of pure joy following her flight. She flew in front of him and nodded.

Then suddenly, she laughed at him.

Before Fíli could lift a finger, she came close to him and her cool hands, like little raindrops, cleaned the mess of cake crumbles from his chin. He was amazed, she didn’t seem to mind the coarse hair of his beard on her delicate fingers. Not at all. In fact, if he could hazard a guess, he would have thought she lingered closeby, touching him, for longer than necessary. Unfortunately, she caught herself. Giving a funny salute, she flew back to her spot on the edge of the silver treat tray. Even when she dipped the next small chunk of cake into the jar of honey, her bite stayed intact all the way from the platter to her mouth. It must have been magic, Fíli thought.

       “I think these are extra tasty tonight,” he said, popping the rest of his piece past his lips. Then he leaned down to her. “But very short. Care to help me with these crumbs?” he asked, wriggling his scrunched mouth.

In a blink, she flushed pink from her tiny toes to her forehead. But she laughed and tugged on the braided mustache that swung closest to her.

       “Fine! I’ll do it myself,” he joked, enjoying her ringing giggle.

After a neat little swig of sweet milk, Ivy rose from her seat, holding her belly.

       “All finished?”

She shook her head violently.

       “Just a break then? Good. They’d call for a medic if we sent even a crumb back down to the kitchens. They all know no tray of sweets has ever survived the two of us.”

She glowed and left her spot next to the cakes. As always, she effortlessly identified the most recent bane of Fíli’s existence. It made him wonder if it was Ivy’s magic that helped her do it, or if it was simply a freakish skill. Either way, the moment she left the platter, she headed for the leather bound book Fíli had discarded before her arrival. She tapped the binding with her toe, questioning. But Fíli knew she’d seen it before and the little thing was fishing for a confession.

He also knew he’d been caught.

       “I was just putting it away for the night.”

She sent a glare his way whose meaning was as clear as if the letters were written across her round little nose: Liar.

In truth, Fíli had forgotten all about the book and its contents the moment his fairy made her presence known. It was mystical how quickly his mind moved from hopelessness and exhaustion to joy and wonder whenever Ivy was near. He often asked himself if he had the same effect on her, but had yet to gather the courage to ask.

Her peculiar movement pulled him from his thoughts. She’d squatted down like a dwarf about to lift a cart brimming with stone and with all her might, lifted the book’s heavy leather cover. Then with silent, bare feet, she walked over the title page until she’d flipped the book open.

       “Excuse me,” Fíli said with mock offense. “There are trade secrets in this book, you know. For no one’s view but my own.”

She rolled her eyes at him and lifted her finger, pointing to the end of the ribbon bookmark. She twirled her wrist and the light shooting out from under her tidy fingernails sent the pages whipping by as if caught in a windstorm. A moment later, the pages fell flat.

The place left open was riddled with smear marks and ink blotches, scrawled notes and words that had been crossed out with enough force to scratch the next few pages.

Her eyebrow crooked like the roof of a village house, accusing Fíli of the mess.

       “Ruling a kingdom isn’t easy,” he explained with a shrug. “Things get a little… untidy.”

Ivy’s lip quirked and she leaned down to skim her hand across the page under her feet. A rippling wave of fresh magic traveled across the paper from Ivy’s toes out to the corner edges, continuing through the air until it hit Fíli’s nose- that light, unique scent he’d always associated with his fairy. It immediately relaxed him, giving him peace wherever the information hidden in that book stole it away.

When the wave cleared, Fíli saw that his entries were organized anew. The spills and blots had vanished, leaving only what he’d intended in their place. Even his notes were left in the margins, now neat and crisp, with not a thought lost. But Ivy’s work hadn’t stopped at one page. Every section was free of crimps or bends, the cover was dusted and the binding was flawlessly refinished all in one singular moment.

It was astonishing.

       “Oh, Ive,” Fíli said, sighing out the rarely used nickname he had for her. From where he stood, he could see the pages were now smooth and soft as silk and he couldn’t help but touch them, running his comparatively rough fingertips over the center of the open book where the pages met. He took a corner and flipped through the last sheets, listening to the soft flaps that rang through the room- a noise that reminded him of the sound of Ivy’s rustling wings flying toward him. This torturous book was now bright and clean with a fairy’s mark.

The best part, however, was the scent left behind, pooling in its pores- that of magic, of his friend, of her belief in him.

Fíli held out his hand and Ivy flew to it.

       “I don’t think I’ll mind this work as much anymore. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

She bowed, flashing her petal skirt with a flourish.

Just as Fíli reached for the neatened pages again, Ivy snapped the book closed with a turn of her wrist, almost trapping his hand inside.

       “Hey!” he laughed, startled from his daze. “I wanted to admire your handiwork!”

Once over her giggles, she planted her fists on her hips and with a demanding stare, pointed to the empty spot in the shelf where the hardcover belonged overnight. A stomp of her foot practically shouted: NOW.

       “All right! I’m putting it away.” He let Ivy dismount onto the silver cake platter and did as he was told, with a dwarfling’s grin wide on his lips. When he’d tucked the book into place, Fíli ran a finger down the soft, faultless binding with a whistle.

       “A craft any dwarf would be proud of.”

When he looked over his shoulder Ivy was watching him- carefully and contently admiring him. Even romantically, if Fíli was brave enough to use the word.

While he had her undivided attention, he winked at her, just as a tease to make her flood that pretty shade of pink. As a retort, she stole a sweet cake from his side of the platter and took a violent bite.

With a chuckle, Fíli plopped into his chair and watched her as he felt the exhaustion sneak into his stubborn muscles and his overstretched mind. He still had a sliver of energy, however, to wonder if his fairy’s glow had grown more intense after this time spent together. He could see it in her eyes. Though they were as dark as fertile soil, they were round and shining in the tireless candlelight she brought to the chambers. And now as she watched him, they were fearless in their gaze and brimming with affection in their softness.

Yet, despite it all, Fíli knew they were both aware that their visit couldn’t last much longer.

She rose and brushed the non existent crumbs from the purple petals of her dress, letting her wings flutter to life.

Fíli straightened in a rush at her movement, saying exactly what had been on his mind in a soft, sleepy voice. “I will never know how you always find a way to comfort me. Somehow, you’ve done it again, my friend. Thank you.”

She beamed, her smile like a crescent moon flipped on its side in the night.

       “Will you visit me again?” Fíli asked.

She nodded.

He leaned to her, taking her tiny hand between his thumb and forefinger. “Please don’t let too much time pass before you do.”

Her beating wings stuttered for a moment and her luminous aureola dimmed. Her twinge of sadness squeezed Fíli’s heart, strangling it like a thirsty vine, and he wished he’d never spoken so selfishly. But before he could take his words back, she fluttered up to his face and placed a feather light kiss on his cheek as her goodbye. Then she smiled, eyes brimming with clear sparkle and so many words unspoken.

With a wave of her hand, she beckoned him to follow her lead across the room. As she did at the end of every visit, she flew in neat ringlets through the air above his bed, dropping warmth, rest, and peace into the furs in the form of glistening sparkles like fresh pollen from her own flora. This ritual of theirs left magic on Fíli’s pillow for days to come. It would give him restful sleep, even with the weight of his kingdom on his shoulders. Her magic even seemed to quell the loneliness that often pulled at his heart. She always left a piece of herself with him.

       “You are far too kind to me, Ive,” Fíli said to her, standing next to the bed, close to her one last time before her departure. “Too generous-”

The blankets below him flew up and covered his head in a magical swoop. A fairy’s doing.

       “Fine! No more compliments!” Fíli cried, untangling himself. “But how am I not to, when you-”

With the covers back where they belonged, he was free to look around the room. The empty room. She’d gone.

In his defeated search for her, he found a gift left for him on his bedside table. A billowing purple flower with feather-like petals reminiscent of her dress sat in the now dim candle light. Curled around the deep green stem was a note that he fumbled to open with his round fingertips. When he pulled it flat, that same scent- the scent of magic, of his fairy- flew to his nose in a flurry and a message was illuminated.

Soon.

***

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