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

[motorbike.livejournal.com]

BONUS POINTS FOR MENTIONING ANTICS IN OLD ARCHADES

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

I am sorry! Failure at mention of antics in Old Archades! But have some Ominous Forshadowing Of Things To Come instead.

Jules stuffed the cards back down his shirtfront with all the sickening pleasantness that Ffamran had grown to really hate about him since the age of twelve. It was a wonder, he thought uncharitably, that that article of clothing hadn’t yet been sold for its silks. With the House Bunansa colors there would certainly have been many a buyer eager for the privileges it afforded; even those of a mere servant. This particular mere servant gave him a wide, practiced smile and an equally practiced bow. It was the one that went down a little too low to be truly respectful, accompanied by a one-eyed squint that somehow turned it into a motion of utter superiority.

“Master Ffamran!” Jules gushed, copiously. “How early to return we are! Has your day run its course so soon?”

Ffamran ignored this, crossing the grand expanse of his room. Unbuttoning his school coat, he threw it in Jules’ general direction. He smoothed out his sleeves, scowling at the rumpled edges and the oil stains at the cuff. They would need to be washed and pressed. How boring. He pulled it over his head and tossed that too, throwing open the doors of his wardrobe. “Has my father returned?” He picked out a replacement immediately, one considerably less plain and with a better cut than those issued by the schools.

“Nay, Master Ffamran,” said Jules, easily, folding the discarded articles over one arm.

“Has there been a dispatch, at least?”

“None since the last, seven days past.” Jules cocked his head to one side. He put little too much effort into that blink, which likely meant there was a monetary concern in this for him in asking: “Are you worried?”

“Bah,” Ffamran wrinkled his nose. He’d gotten the sense that the expedition must have been going very poorly, for he had over the past few weeks amassed a thick collection of letters, some sent less than two days apart and all at least five pages in length, written his father’s tiny script. The usual fare: endless digressions, some sketches, the occasional scrap of rare metal. “Old man got himself dazzled by some glittery thing, I’d wager. He’ll come back with new blueprints to wallpaper the reading room, and I will be expected to ensure that they all remain in order while he keeps ripping them down and pinning them up again.” He shoved his arm into the fresh shirt. “That hard to send a message from Jagd, I wonder?”

“Jagd?” asked Jules, interest less disguised.

“Never mind,” said Ffamran, rolling his collar up his shoulder. This seemed to serve as some reminder to the matter of their current posts, for Jules snapped up and bustled forward, hands all out and open.

“Ah! You should let me help you with that--”

Ffamran stepped smoothly out of his range, “No. I think I have my fastenings in order, Jules. My apologies to your wandering hands--” he nodded significantly, buttoning himself up, “But I do not think I trust their slipperiness on my new threads. Those cards wouldn’t happen to have had anything to do with the engagement between House Lirschall and House Braskis, would they?”

Jules smiled, pulling back. “I do not understand this question. I know not of what you speak.”

“No? So I suppose a little extra favor from your lord’s son wouldn’t widen your comprehension of the question?”

“I am but your man, most simple. It would depend on what form this favor takes.”

“The kind that clinks,” said Ffamran, “For your guess as to who’s more likely to get strung up by their heels.”

[motorbike.livejournal.com]

GUH THE LETTERS FROM DAD, WHO DRAWS HIM PICTURES

GUH THE LAST EXCHANGE. Yeah I'd slash them too, I DON'T KNOW WHY. Either way it's a neat dynamic. Jules with the sneakiness and the jokes in poor taste, and Ffamran trying to keep up, but always with the knowledge that his is the aristocratic trump card.

I could read a lot more about them, you know. If you ever, you know.