spank that new years baby

[moonsheen]

Ah, guess I'm a day late for the BIG UNMASKING? Oh well. HARK! TIS I who wrote yuletide story Gerda and the Snow Queen for ave_eva. Which is rough in places that still make me wince, but overall I'm pretty happy with how it turned out and glad that my recipient enjoyed. ♥

Meanwhile, because my f-list is doing it and I wanna be one of the cool kids: New Years Request Meme. Standard flavor this time. You know how this goes: name a fandom/pairing/characters and I write you a story of dubious drabble status to the best of my ability provided said request does not destroy my brain.

Comments

[nekokoban]

... so, how 'bout them dancing ducks and the grumpy knights who love them? :D

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

There was a man who often waited outside of the dance hall. Who he was and where he came from, none of the first year students could say. He was very tall, and often wore a long coat when it grew cold, and he must have been someone of some local importance, for none of the professors of the university ever questioned his presence. The students would leave, and he would be there, sitting under the grove of trees or sometimes standing. He listened to the music that came from within the building with eyes clear and wistful. Sometimes, he brought paper and a quill. Sometimes, he brought a book. Sometimes, he brought nothing but himself. Sometimes he came with breadcrumbs which he thumbed out to the local sparrows that had always flocked around the hall most curiously, as though they were waiting for someone as well. As such, the girls liked to make up stories about him: a wandering poet, a foreign adventurer, or perhaps (some laughed) a watchman looking out for them all. This last one had some founding, in that once he had once restrained a man who had tried to drag a girl someplace she did not wish to go. There was an arrest soon after. These were not days of fairytales, and sometimes people tried very unfortunate things.

So perhaps a knight, some considered. The first year students were all too shy to speak with him, the second years almost equally so. They did not discuss him with their instructors. It did not seem right, and they liked to keep their blushes and their fantasies to themselves, for these private stories had a value all on their own, yet too fragile to survive outside handling from the others. Had they asked, reality would’ve been answered harshly: Ack! Silly girls! Who else would it be? Herr Fakir! The writer! He lives on the university grounds, and teaches classes for the department of literature, when he is not publishing stories about birds that turn into girls, or waiting for hours on end for that wife of his, who teaches all the beginning classes in ballet…