Abigail Barnette's Blog, page 5

Let’s explore Sarah J. Maas’s trademark applications

The Trout Nation Discord has been positively aflame discussing the recent trademark applications filed by author Sarah J. Maas’s company, Fireheart, inc. (“There’s a Trout Nation Discord?!” you may be asking yourself. Yes, there is, and no, you don’t have to be a Patreon patron to join it).

What is Maas trademarking?

Ever since Cockygate, authors have been pretty suspicious of trademarks. Sarah J. Maas’s popularity has, inexplicably, grown into such an unstoppable juggernaut that trademarking some of her IP is a necessary step, and in some of these cases, not an overreach. As members of my Discord are currently discussing, there’s a real problem with conventions and events that freely market to fans of Maas’s books, even going so far as using imagery and names from her books to sell high-priced tickets.

An Australian company, Celestial Events, offers “unique events taking inspiration from some of our favourite authors.” But these “authors” seem to be pretty solidly just Sarah J. Maas (with the exception of the “Celestial Riders Gathering” that is clearly seeking to cash in on Fourth Wing‘s fandom). While these aren’t named quite so brazenly as the “Velaris Starfall Ball” in the US, a peek at the Eventbrite pages for these events feature photos of cosplayers in recognizable “Bat Boy” get-ups and references to “Under the Mountain” and an invitation to “meet up together and make the historic journey to Mass-Verse [sic]”.

You can really feel the dedication to fandom when they can’t bother to get the author’s name right. Totally not a cynical money grab. Definitely just a celebration of a cherished and beloved author.

These events usually feature professional cosplayers interacting with the guests, and as the Discord discussed…that’s not always a great thing. I know from my experiences at the now-defunct Romantic Times convention, things go bad when a very attractive man, who gets paid to be attractive, is introduced to an environment where he expects that every single woman in attendance will welcome his sexual advances. Because of incidents that took place at past romance conferences, an event organizer I know refuses to allow cover models to attend her events, even as a guest. It doesn’t take a huge leap of logic to imagine that dropping a Rhysand or a Tamlin into one of these unlicensed book parties could be monumentally unsafe.

The exorbitant ticket prices for these rip-off “bookish festivals” (The already sold-out Valeris Starfall Ball, which doesn’t even bother to be coy about the IP they’re infringing on, charged over $400 USD a head, while $366 USD will get you into any of the Celestial Events parties) demand protection of the author’s brand. While the fine print on these unlicensed conventions admit that there is no affiliation with the author, it’s impossible to overestimate just how much that doesn’t matter to the average fan. If someone pays $400 to go to an event branded as an ACOTAR ball and it turns out to be (please, please forgive me for the pun I’m about to make) a Feyre Fest debacle, that could reflect badly on Maas. Think of the recent “Willy’s Chocolate Experience” in Glasgow; while they didn’t expressly use Wonka trademarks, the books and movies are now inescapably tied to memes and jokes that tarnish the brand. This won’t sink a beloved children’s classic, but Maas’s success is still very new. While she’s teflon in bookish spaces (where readers simply don’t care about things like, for example, using Breonna Taylor’s death as a marketing gimmick), she hasn’t quite reached household name status yet. Outside her too-forgiving, ever-excuse-manufacturing fandom, if her books were linked to a scam, or a high profile sex crimes case involving a hired Rhysand hit the press, she could face even more backlash than her own shitty antics have earned her already.

Fan created merchandise has also been a long-running, unofficial arm of the Maas brand. If you own a Cricut, you can cash in mightily on Etsy by applying your fanworks to everything from journals to glassware, and market these specifically as ACOTAR products. This is something Maas has been open to in the past, but these filings seem poised to put a swift end to unlicensed fan merch. Which makes sense when we take into account the heat she got over a subscription box including unlicensed soap designed and molded to represent, I shit you not, Rhysand’s erect penis. The viral scandal can be credited with relaunching the “is it YA?” debate and reinforcing the reductive “fairy porn” label that has bafflingly attached itself to these incredibly tame fantasy romances.

While these are all very real concerns and a great reason to file for trademarks, when I investigated these trademark claims…some of them are absurd overreaches designed to grant Maas legal rights to things that don’t belong to her. Much like Cockygate, we’re seeing an author seeking trademarks to things she’s simply an asshole to try to claim.

Let’s look at them one at a time, from a layman’s perspective. I’m doing research here, including consulting people who are definitely more knowledgeable in this than I am, but corrections, especially from people with degrees and who specialize in Trademark and IP law, are so, so welcome in the comments. However, keep in mind that some of these remarks are just opinions on whether or not it’s ethical or even just rude to trademark some of these things, a la the Cockygate debacle (for example…should Maas really have the balls to trademark Bob Marley’s middle frickin’ name?). I don’t conflate morality with legality, so if I say, “It’s shitty of her to do this,” that’s not me claiming it’s not legal. Just shitty.

VELARIS
This solves the issue of something like the unlicensed Velaris Starfall Ball, since it’s filed under class 41, which specifically covers “organization of balls, party planning” But they didn’t include that in their uses, and I’ve found conflicting answers regarding whether or not statement of intended use is more legally binding than a complaint that use of the mark will cause unreasonable confusion. But it will shut down the ability of that event to put its name on swag bags and other merchandise related to these events, as well as preventing unlicensed jewelry, candles, blankets, t-shirts, basically anything that could be fan made.

Feyre
Thank god there’s only one Feyre. Maas’s trademarking of this name shouldn’t be a problem for anyone but the babies named Feyre, . I would be interested to know why they didn’t include actual paint in their uses, though. They claimed class 2, but didn’t include paint under uses. If I want to go out right now and create a Feyre branded watercolor palette, Could I? I mean, if I could even paint with it. And I know I never could paint it.

Throne of Glass
This one is another no-brainer. If granted, one of the uses is simply “books.” You could not title your book Throne of Glass. And while you might be thinking, “It would be pretty silly to give your book a title that could be confused with a much, much more popular book and potentially risk the ire of ultra-protective fans, you’d be shocked at how many people would do just that. Titles aren’t protected by copyright, so this is a necessary step.

Illyrian
Absolutely not. She was not responsible for the creation of Illyria or Illyrians, as the Illyrians were an actual civilization written about in history books long before Maas could even read. It’s pretty fucking bold to want to claim that you’re the only one who can use that word ever again in a book or on physical products.

Nesta
Maas’s claim on this is absurd and insulting. It’s Bob Marley’s middle name. Bold of Maas to assume that it’s hers for the taking, especially in books. However, the trademark on the word Nesta was granted in other categories for other uses, so if anyone wanted to make a “Nesta’s Ball” event, they’d be violating someone else’s trademark, and that trademark holder would have to pursue them accordingly.

Suriel
Suriel is literally an archangel that has been written about for centuries in mythology and folklore. This is another one where claiming the word can only be used in her books is beyond the pale.

Bryce
What the entire fuck. If this is granted, woe unto thee who might have a personalized necklace made, or who wants their name embroidered on a bag.

Umbra Mortis
Considering the number of perfumes and candles with this name, themed specifically to Maas’s work, this makes sense. But it’s pretty shitty to claim it for video games, when there’s already a video game titled Umbra Mortis.

Fireheart
Another wordmark claimed for use in books that is predated by other media. This is getting tiring, honestly. Is it fair, if other authors have used “Fireheart” as character names or titles, for Maas to claim it as her sole property? As stated above “fair” and “legal” aren’t in the same ballpark, but god damn, is this disrespectful.

Rhysand
I was expecting to find out that this was some kind of common Welsh name, but it does appear to be of Maas’s own invention. Knock yourself out, Sarah. I wish you well.

Hunt Athalar
This is really the name of a character in one of Maas’s series. That’s a choice she made. But she does seem like the first and only person to use it, so trademarking it, in my mind, seems fine. In fact, it protects other authors from using that name, a move I fully support. Because what in the 1990s paranormal romance fuck?

Aelin
Another case of a name Maas seems to have thought up. Trademarking it seems reasonable and fair.

SJM
Bill Compton, she’s coming for your monogram. One expert I consulted described this application as “a waste of money and time,” as they believe the trademark office will reject it on the basis that… it’s just a bunch of letters and the application for the wordmark in any possible font or text is too broad. If it were more narrow, like a specific logo, the trademark would more than likely be granted. So, this is an interesting one to watch.

Lunathion
This one makes sense. She made it up, but unlicensed merchandise bearing the name is everywhere. If I were in her shoes, I’d trademark it, too; imagine a Lunathion make-up palette that blinded its users, or a Lunathion candle with too high an oil content that’s responsible for burning someone’s house down. Though Maas wouldn’t be legally liable, having her IP connected to unregulated products would still link her and her books to these events in the public mind.

ACOTAR
I’m of two minds about this. ACOTAR is an abbreviation that was first thought up by fandom. Is this something that anyone could hold a trademark for? Or is it in such wide use already that it would be the same as trying to trademark “omegaverse”? Speaking of which, do not use “Alpha’s Claim” as a title; while searching “Omegaverse,” I found it as a registered trademark. But I’m also aware that ACOTAR is synonymous with Maas’s brand. If you’re heavily involved in any kind of fandom (because I’m not sure any ACOTAR fans hang out here), I’d love to know your take in the comments.

Sarah J. Maas
I think you know exactly what my opinion on this one is. If possible, trademark your author names. Trademarks are prohibitively expensive for most authors, but protect your name at all costs. If Sarah A. Maas rises from the depths, could Maas sue them if she’s granted this trademark? I hope so. I hope that’s how it works. Because people who use similar names for grasping, career-building purposes are more disgusting than the expired Walmart meat Joe Exotic fed his employees. They are the hair clogging your drain after you wash your dog, who rolled in something rotten and messy. They are the human equivalent of accidentally touching used gum under a table at a Panera Bread. Get ’em, Sarah. It will be the only time I root for you.

While I loathe Sarah J. Maas as a person and as the author of misogynistic, racist, homophobic bullshit novels built almost entirely out of other people’s IP, I’m interested to watch where this goes, what the reactions will be outside of fandom, and how this affects the industry. What do you all think?

Noel Fielding makes me want to be a better person.

If you haven’t been watching The Completely Made-Up Adventures of Dick Turpin, it’s either because you don’t have Apple TV or because you don’t like joy. There, I said it. While I’ve seen numerous people online refer to the show as the spiritual successor to the sadly (and ridiculously) canceled Our Flag Means Death, fans of The Mighty Boosh will recognize it as an extended high-concept episode of that series, minus the unfortunate Blackface.

I became a fan of The Mighty Boosh in the ’00s, when it was shown during Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim block of programming. The show is “of its time,” with some cringe-worthy transphobia and the aforementioned unfortunate Blackface that plagued British comedy for far too long. But it was also enchanting and whimsical and outrageously bizarre. I’ve recommended it as “Monty Python if those guys had done less coke and more acid,” but it’s truly its own thing and needs to be experienced as such (though, like most shows, it didn’t find its groove until season two). The entire cast is incredible, but there’s one breakout star character: Vince Noir, a stylish, confident, utterly chaotic leprechaun of a manchild whose good nature and positivity seem to be the only qualities that keep his roommates from punting him onto the street.

Vince loves himself unconditionally, often praising himself for his great cheekbones and truly unique fashion sense. He’s utterly baffled when his own behavior results in any consequence at all, like when his habit of piling garbage in the alley attracts a menacing, drug-addicted urban fox, or when an unsolicited nighttime haircut gets him and his always-suffering companion, Howard, kicked off a cruise and marooned on a deserted island.

These themes continue in Noel’s portrayal of Turpin. Fielding’s highwayman is loathe to commit brutality (and does so only by accident), wants to assure that the targets of his robberies are satisfied with their experience, and outwits an enemy gang leader by knitting comfy mittens. He blunders through the criminal underworld with confidence, assuming that his unorthodox approach is simply ahead of its time instead of extremely reckless, foolish, and dangerous.

If these types of characters appear to be Fielding’s wheelhouse, his hosting job on The Great British Bake Off sheds some light as to why. The positivity and confidence of his outlandish characters shine through in interactions with the contestants as he bops playfully from one station to another, coaxing smiles from otherwise stressed-out contestants. It’s easy to imagine that the Fielding you see frollicking around the fabled tent is who he truly is, and even easier to see the parallels between that seemingly real-life persona and the characters he plays. Eventually, you begin to question how much of it is acting and how much of it is just showing up and letting his own character shine through.

In a 2015 interview with The Independent, he insists “‘I’m not Mr Weird,'” only to later confess, “”I don’t know what’s wrong with me. There is something wrong with me […] You know in Asterix when Obelix fell into the magic potion? I think I fell into a pot of LSD. I’ve always had a good imagination.'” Despite not believing he’s “Mr Weird,” he certainly comes across that way, and that’s what’s always drawn me in (a sentiment shared by most fans, I assume). But lately, I’ve come to appreciate him and his fictional characters in a new way. Beyond their weirdness, I’ve noticed the kindness. The positivity. Qualities that I admire, but which I find lacking in myself. I’m quick to anger. I’m hypercritical. I’m abrasive.

Recently, I got on Threads and almost accidentally replied to someone who had unfollowed me some time ago on Twitter. On that platform, she’d soft-blocked me, but I’d seen a tweet in which she’d described me as “so annoying” and lamented, “I wish Romancelandia would just shun her already.”

This person was one of my earliest supporters. She’d often commented on this blog and we were mutuals on Twitter. I saw this post two years ago, at least, but it still sticks in my mind. Somehow, I’d gone from someone this person liked to someone she wished ill. She didn’t just want to no longer follow me on social media or consume my content. She wanted me to be shunned by my professional peers, to lose my entire career. I’ve wondered ever since, with each installment of a Jealous Haters post, each grumpy sentiment expressed on social media, whether that’s what I deserve. Maybe I am just an unpleasant person who should be shut out from the world (although, I would argue that I turned my back on the “Romancelandia” clique long before they ever got a chance to discard me). Maybe I’m not experiencing the inevitable slow down after years of success, but I’m reaping the harvest of the ill will that I’ve sowed.

But watching an episode of The Completely Made-Up Adventures of Dick Turpin the other night, I had a revelation. Despite allegations otherwise, I truly am more positive and supportive than I am jaded and critical. But it’s the jaded and critical part of me that became my brand. And as it became my brand, it mingled with the personal resentment I felt toward others in my industry. Instead of embracing my weirdness and my kindness (which does exist, despite popular opinion), I decided that I would weather the storms visited upon me by others in my profession by hardening myself, becoming immoveable and never wrong, and focusing constantly on the unfairness of the industry I began to feel trapped by.

There are, obviously, grudges that I will never let go of, that I feel I’ve earned the right to keep. But I want to keep them to myself, now. I want to focus more on being me than begging for understanding from people who, frankly, cannot understand anything but their bank statements. I don’t want to be Jenny Trout, Jealous Hater anymore. I want to be “Mr Weird” (minus the dedication to wild fashion and thick eyeliner). I want to be publically the person I am in my real life, the person who dedicates most of their free time to teaching children to be confident in their skills on stage. The person who serves as chair of the Inclusion and Diversity committee for a local theater that welcomes everyone into every production, regardless of ability or disability, race, religion, gender identity, or sexual orientation. The person who, after returning home last night from a high school production of Shrek the Musical that starred two kids I’ve previously directed, received a private message on Facebook saying that their child’s theater journey began and continues because of me. Because I’m a positive influence in the lives of others.

Noel Fielding’s comedy, the way he builds his characters, the way he presents Bake-off, is vulnerable. It’s authentic. He is “Mr Weird,” and despite his protestations, he seems to know it. But that weirdness is packaged with kindness. And that’s something I’ve been shamefully lacking in, in my public life. Maybe I’m afraid to let the kindness and caring I exhibit in my private life show through my “I don’t give a fuck” public persona, specifically because kindness is impossible without vulnerability and fear. Vulnerability to being labeled a hypocrite for spending a decade in a prickly funk if I try to seek out less judgemental pastures. Fear that if I stop strongly condemning the right people, I’ll be canceled (in fact, I’m worried about this post, knowing that someone will absolutely brand me a pedophile apologist owing to the fact that, during his hard-partying ’00s, Fielding was photographed kissing a then sixteen-year-old Pixie Geldof). Vulnerability towards allegations that I’ve joined the mindset I dubbed “The Sunshine Sisterhood” if I express any understanding for high-profile author slip-ups. Fear that the people who appreciate my sarcasm will lose interest, fear that those who hate me for it will cynically assume I’m “rebranding” after some imagined disaster.

I’ve built a platform out of anger and pessimism, imagining myself as a bold outsider who’s unafraid to say “fuck you” to the establishment and blaze my own trail. I realize now that I don’t have to blaze that trail through a briar patch. Trails can go through meadows, too, and enchanted woods, and fields of wildflowers.

And yeah, it’s weird that it took a fictional highwayman (and non-fictional baking show host) to make me see that.

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp chapter 14

Need to catch up?

What is The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp? The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: PrologueThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter OneThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter TwoThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter ThreeThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter FourThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Five The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Six The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter SevenThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Eight The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter NineNSFW! The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter TenThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Eleven The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter TwelveThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Thirteen

“Hold on,” Marcaeus warned before he launched into a gallop. She lurched on his back, already in danger of falling, and threw her arms around him as they sped across the waving purple grasses of Elyssia.

A sight few living mortals had ever seen. Now, she’d walked in the astral twice.

Chiron’s villa gleamed in the twilight just ahead of them. She tucked her face against Marcaeus’s back to shield herself from the wind.

“There’s a storm coming,” Marcaeus said. “We’ll stay here for the night.”

Stay the night? In the Astral? Where her brother couldn’t reach her? Where the demon couldn’t?

She almost asked if they could stay forever, then remembered the trouble she’d already caused everyone she’d met there. How presumptuous it would be to ask them to protect her again. How human.

But it was human to panic in the face of mortality and pain, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of her bone crackling, the marrow sizzling under Scratch’s hand.

“Chiron!” Marcaeus shouted as he pulled up short in the courtyard. “Chiron, it’s urgent!”

“I should hope it is.” Chiron emerged from beneath a portico. “Since this is the second time you’ve come to my home shouting.”

“Have you heard from the council?”

How would he have heard? Fiona thought. In a sickening instant, she realized that Marcaeus wasn’t asking Chiron because he thought he would have already received news from the gala, but because he wanted to know that his mentor had nothing to do with the council folding to her brother.

She kept her head down.

“”The Council. Have you heard?” Marcaeus repeated.

“You’re the first visitor I’ve had tonight. Though judging from how you’ve arrived, you won’t be the last.” Chiron had barely finished the words when a sliver opened in the air and another centaur stepped out. He looked them over with his ice-blue eyes.

“Galerius,” Chiron greeted the centaur, whose face remained still and expressionless. “I assume you’re here for the same reason.”

The ginger-haired centaur barely shifted his head to nod. “Were you aware that the council was meeting?”

“I was not.” Chiron’s brow furrowed.

Galerius’s already grim expression grew harder. “Neither was Arcaeon. We don’t even know what the meeting was about, though something is afoot in the mortal realm tonight.”

“Infernals,” Marcaeus said. “They’ve made an alliance with the council.”

“An alliance to do what?” Chiron asked, before waving it off with a hand and moving o. “Do you think this is a coup?”

“If not a coup, at the very least, an attempt to keep us in the dark,” Marcaeus said. “The elves knew, that much was clear when they announced it.”

“If the elves knew, the fae knew.” Chiron paced. “How quickly can we convene the gods?”

Galerius and Marcaeus both made noises that roughly translated to, whoa, wait up.

“I know what you both think about the gods and their leadership in this matter. But they will want to know if the Infernals are making a play for the mortal world.”

“How long do we have? The gods don’t respond to summons promptly, and I have this mortal to protect.” Marcaeus’s hand tightened around her wrist.

You can’t protect me, she thought, and suppressed the sob in her chest until it ached.

“We’ll keep the mortal here, for now.” Chiron looked toward the building. “You’ll stay with her. Be responsible for her.”

“She isn’t a pet, Chiron,” Marcaeus replied.

Galerius scraped a hoof impatiently on the stones. “I’ll go to the temple of Hermes. If I can get there before the storm, I’ll be back in the morning, hopefully with news.”

“And I’ll recall our brethren from Earth,” Chiron said. “I don’t believe any of them would have cooperated with council in these circumstances, but I wouldn’t have believed the elves would attempt to alter the pact, either.”

Galerius opened a portal and gave Chiron and Marcaeus grim nods. “Be well.”

When Galerius was gone, Chiron said, gentle but still gruff somehow, “Marcaeus. Tend to your wife. There’s something wrong.”

Marcaeus helped her down, and though she wanted to cling to him, she forced herself to let go. He studied her a moment. “Are you all right?”

No. I’m not. “Yes. Just tired.”

Marcaeus’s dark brows pulled down. “You’re upset.”

“That’s not important right now.” And it wasn’t. “I just need…”

“I’ll take you to a room.” Marcaeus looked to Chiron. “I’ll be in my own quarters. In case I’m needed before dawn.”

Don’t leave me alone. She couldn’t ask that of him, when the planet and humankind hung in the balance.

But the pain. The awful, haunting pain.

“They can’t come here, can they?” she whispered, and her voice sounded very far away to her own ears.

In an instant, Marcaeus stood beside her in his human form. He still had to look down to meet her eyes. “Fiona?”

She shook her head silently, numb. They hadn’t spoken since the gala, which felt like a lifetime ago. She’d wanted to tell him everything the moment he’d come to her rescue, felt like she’d burst if she didn’t. Somehow, she’d held it all in. But now that she could speak freely…

She couldn’t.

What would she say? Please help me, even though I’ve deceived and betrayed you? Fucked up your life? Should she ask him to move all the realms to protect her?

“It’s nothing.”

Marcaeus nodded to Chiron, who left them to the courtyard and their privacy.

“What happened in the gallery?” Marcaeus asked quietly and without enough tone to indicate what he really asked her.

Did he think she’d gone with Scratch willingly? That she’d been conspiring with her brother all along? Scratch had been standing so close to her. Of course, it would have looked like she’d been…

She didn’t know what she would say when she opened her mouth, but what came out was, “He hurt me.”

Marcaeus’s brow grew heavier. “What did he do?”

“My arm.” She lifted the trembling limb.

“There’s nothing there.” So calm, it was impossible to tell what conversation he was having with her. Did he doubt her story? Or was he reassuring her? 

She rubbed the spot where Scratch had grabbed her. “It burned. When he touched me, it… I thought he’d burned my arm down to the bone.”

The tears she’d been fighting back since the gallery won then, spilling down her cheeks, the way the trauma and fear poured from her lips. “My brother sold me. Blayde sold me to Damon Scratch. He’s the one who put the mark on me. When my brother gets what he wants, Scratch gets me. He’s going to torture me. He promised there’s going to be pain. An eternity of pain, just because he can. And then he grabbed me and let me feel…”

Marcaeus said nothing. He might as well have been his portrait, he was so vacant.

She was exhausted. Terrified. She couldn’t keep waiting to be shouted at. “Do you believe me?”

The words seemed to jolt him from a place she hadn’t even noticed he’d gone, and she realized that the anger on his face wasn’t for her.

“Of course I do.” He reached out and she moved into his arms, keenly aware that this moment was a fulcrum. If he believed her, they would tip one way. If he didn’t believe her, they would tip back into animosity. She supposed he could have been faking his concern, but it felt real. She let it be so. One large hand cupped her skull and held her cheek against his beating heart. “Yes, I believe you.”

The relief she felt scared her almost as much as Scratch’s depraved promises.

“Damon Scratch will never touch you again. And he’s not going to hurt you. I give you my vow.” Marcaeus’s comforting words only increased her heartache and guilt over the way she’d deceived him before. She sobbed against him, let him take all of her weight. 

“Fiona.” He lifted her chin and caught her gaze. “He won’t hurt you. And he can’t take you. We’ve been sealed by Hera herself. You belong to me.”

The words came out hoarse, as if scorched by the flame that slithered to life in the space between them. They meant nothing; their union was built on falsehoods. But they meant everything as he held her and promised to keep her safe from the monsters.

Safe.

She’d only ever felt that near Marcaeus.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, and the flame grew hotter, bolder.

“Then make me yours,” she whispered, swaying in his arms. His gaze dropped to her lips, parted in anticipation. His arm tightened around her waist.

He straightened. Gently let her go. Stepped away…

Distance smothered the flame. Awareness stamped out the embers.

“You need to rest,” he said, and put a hand on her back to prompt her toward the house. He walked her to the room she’d stayed in last time, as overwhelming now as it was then, and didn’t stray across the threshold.

“Don’t give anything Scratch said another thought, tonight. You’re safe. I’ll be in the next room, if you need me. Will you be all right on your own?”

No, I won’t. I need you.

“Of course. Good night.”

They stood for another awkward second, then gave another “good night” in strained unison before he walked away.

Reeling, she stayed frozen in place. It felt like Damon Scratch could pounce from any corner, and the feeling intensified the longer Marcaeus was gone. He’d done enough, though. He’d provided her with safety. He had less of an obligation to her than her brother did. Less reason to honor any vow. Yet, he did, as if it were nothing.

Her own family couldn’t go to the effort of not selling her to a demon.

She went to the bed and sat down on the crisp sheets. She knew she should wipe off her makeup, but she couldn’t face the mirrored vanity. She couldn’t stand seeing another woman’s face in the place of her own. She wondered what it might be like to live Flicka Star’s charmed life. To be the woman Marcaeus proudly displayed on his arm. To be envied because she, Flicka Star, a woman who didn’t exist, had ensnared an Astral so beautiful and so powerful.

It would be a shallow life. Boring. But easy.

The breeze stirred the curtains at the corner of her eye and she startled.

She couldn’t be alone. 

Her gown swished against her legs as she walked, then sprinted, outside and down the portico to the next room. Heart braced for rejection, she pushed the curtains aside and stepped in.

Marcaeus was in his true form, towering bare-chested in the doorway.

“What do you need?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

“I—” I need to be near you constantly. You’re my safety. I’ve never been safe before, and now I crave it. I’m addicted to it. 

Instead, she said, “I need you.”

* * * *

Marcaeus had never seen Fiona so diminished. So helpless. Not even when she lay limp in his arms after her fall. He lifted her up, just like he had then, and she melted against him. Despite the panic she radiated, she tilted her face up in anticipation, as she had in the courtyard. There was no passion in her. Just fear, so deep and terrible it threatened to invade his senses, too. 

“Then make me yours.”

It wasn’t what she needed. And it wasn’t the way he wanted to take her.

The way you want to?

He lifted his head. “You’re trying to make a trade.”

She blinked at him. “I don’t understand.”

“You think you need to give me something to seek comfort from me.” The tears that filled her eyes told him the truth. “I don’t take advantage of the helpless.”

“I’m not—” she began.

“It’s all you know. I don’t fault you. But my care and friendship don’t come at a price.” He swallowed a lump in his throat. “We are bound. And my care for you, whatever form it may come in, is given freely.”

“I’m sorry.” Tears flowed down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He set her on her feet and used his human guise to bring himself down to her level and hoped his nudity wouldn’t offend her. “I hope that in time, you will learn that the world is much kinder than it has been to you thus far.”

She shook her head and a tiny sob escaped her. “It has been kind to me. I’ve never wanted for anything. Never struggled. I’ve always had food and shelter and—”

“Material comforts aren’t safeguards from trauma. Your family has used and neglected you your entire life. You can’t accept kindness that isn’t transactional.” He cupped her jaw in his palm and brushed his thumb over the tear-streaked makeup beneath her eye. “Let me be kind to you now. As your husband. With no cost or expectation.”

She nodded and whispered, “All right.”

Though he was cognizant of human shyness, she still wore the tight dress from the gala, and shoes that didn’t appear terribly comfortable. Her body had felt like stone in his arms, she was so tense. All of that, he could fix, though he couldn’t erase the terror of whatever it was that Damon Scratch had done to her. 

“Come with me,” he said, and led her by the hand into the room, past the bed, through another door and outside again. A high, curved wall surrounded the bubbling cauldron of a hot spring for bathing.

“You’ll feel better, once you’ve soaked in this,” he promised, but she stiffened.

“This isn’t a bargain,” he reminded her. “I don’t expect you pay me. Let me care for you.”

She wriggled her bare toes on the grass, and he stepped behind her, saw her shoulders shudder as he reached for the zipper of her dress.

His human glamour had the unfortunate effect of putting his body—most notably, a crucial part of it—in close proximity to hers, and his hands trembled as the emerald velvet of her grown opened and fell away, baring her back to the waist. There were two dimples at the base of her spine. His thumbs longed to press into them.

His intentions to tend to her were pure. His thoughts, however, could not be dissuaded from the carnal.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Can you remove the glamour?”

“Mine? Or yours?”

“Both,” she whispered, and his entire being lurched. What did it mean, that she wanted to stand here with him, in their true forms, naked and vulnerable? If she still had it in her mind that she needed to seduce him, he wouldn’t hear of it.

“Please,” said softly. “I’m tired of looking like someone I’m not. I want us to see each other as we truly are.”

He found the edges of their magic and slowly peeled them away, as she peeled away her gown. The copper tumble of her hair darkened to mahogany silk, and when she turned to face him, lifted her eyes to meet his far above her, the icy blue penetrated his spirit.

And though he knew it was wrong to, though he feared she would misinterpret it, he couldn’t stop himself from drinking in her long legs, her thick thighs, the roundness of her belly and the fullness of her breasts.

He looked away to bring himself under control.

“I know,” she said with a said, self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t look quite as good without the glamour.”

He reached down, bent his forelegs to bring them eye-to-eye, and tilted her chin up. “I didn’t look away because you’re not beautiful. I looked away because you’re too beautiful.”

Gentle steam rose from the surface of the water. He held her hand as she stepped over the rock ledge and into the pool, sinking down without hesitation into a temperature he usually needed time to adjust to. Slipping in up to her shoulders, she tipped her head back and let out a soft moan of relief as her hair turned to a deep black curtain down her back.

The relentless taunting of the Fates forced him to imagine that sound falling from her lips as he sank into the wet heat of her.

Do you not understand? he cursed the crones silently. If they meant for Fiona to be his destiny, he would move with caution. He refused to treat her as she had been treated thus far.

He took up a cake of soap and kneeled at the edge of the basin, cognizant that his hooves were muted by the grass. “I’m behind you,” he said, but she still startled slightly when he placed his hand on her shoulders. She relaxed into his touch, though, and it seemed safe enough to slide his soaped fingers into her hair. He touched her with cautious gentleness, working the lather into her scalp, and she made another one of her tantalizing noises.

How many times in her life had she been cared for? Had anyone ever met more than her basic needs?

The thought turned his arousal to concern, and that concern to a deep, sexless need to provide her comfort, even just one second to let her guard down and feel peace.

He collected water in his cupped hands and sluiced it over her head and down her back. He’d had his doubts before, but he could no longer see her as someone dangerous, a betrayer. She was a true victim of her brother’s scheme.

It was so easy to trust her.

It was impossible to believe it would be a mistake.

He soaped her back and her shoulders and passed her the bar to finish, turning away. “I’m going to get you some towels.”

When he returned with a fluffy white stack of them, she was already stepping out of the spring. She looked at him, water dripping from the ends of her hair to cascade down her body, and seemed to wear the face of someone else, no glamour required. It was, he realized, that she had been anxious and fearful the entire time he’d known her, and for the first time, he’d seen her without a cautiously arranged expression.

The mark on his arm fizzled with energy.

“What?” She asked, moving to cover herself. And her own mark shimmered.

“You’re beautiful.” It wasn’t flattery, but fact. “You’ve always been beautiful, but you’re more so right now.”

She hugged herself, arms arranged over her breasts, and shivered.

“Because you’re not frightened,” he went on. “Are you?”

She thought for a moment, while he shook out one of the towels and wrapped it around her shoulders. But the entire time, she kept her gaze trained on his face, until their eyes finally met again and she answered, “No. For the first time I can remember… I’m not afraid.”

He kneeled to gently dry her, and she held onto his arms to steady herself. When her body was dry and her hair wrapped up, he lifted her in his arms and brought her to his bed.

“You can sleep here. Every night, if you need to.” He set her on her feet. “What would make it more comfortable for you?”

“A blanket?” she suggested. “But you don’t have to. I can manage without it.”

“You’re my wife—”

“Stop.” She clutched her towel closed at her ches. All of the peace and ease she’d displayed just a few seconds before tightened and hardened into the distrust and sadness he’d hoped he’d washed away.

“I’ve offended you.”

“You can’t keep saying that I’m your wife,” she snapped. “You married me because of my brother’s scheme.”

“That doesn’t make you less of a wife to me, in the mind of the Fates.” His arm burned.

Her hand strayed to her own mark.

He swallowed thickly. “You feel it, too.”

“I—”

“Hera and the Fates work closely some times,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching with a bemused smile. “Maybe she’s teaching me a lesson.”

“She shouldn’t use me as her instrument of revenge.” Fiona rubbed her arm stubbornly, as though she could erase the goddess’s rope binding them.

“That may be,” he said with a wry chuckle. “In the meantime, can you just let me care for you? You came to me tonight because you said you needed me. You were afraid. And now, it seems you’re afraid of needing me.

“Don’t forget how this began,” he went on, an ache slowly building in his chest. “You wanted to protect your friend. You were willing to go to great lengths to do so. Allow someone else to go to very simple lengths to protect you.”

She looked down, wriggled her toes on the sheets. “A blanket would be nice.”

“A blanket. I can do that,” he said, and without a second thought about it, kissed her forehead.

RELEASE DAY!

It’s release day for THE OGRE’S FAIRYTALE BRIDE! You can pick it up in eBook and Paperback today. I’ll include links, but if you’d prefer to shop brick and mortar, ask your local bookseller to order you a copy.

I’m so excited to have this book out in the world! I can’t wait for everyone to see Fablemere and get as lost in the world as I already am! Everyone says you should write the book you want to read. Well, I wanted to read about a fat, over-forty enby with epilepsy have a portal fantasy adventure and getting absolutely railed by a hot ogre. If that’s the book you want to read? WELL YOU ARE IN LUCK, FRIEND.

Amazon • Barnes & Noble

Of course, I’m having surgery. Why wouldn’t I?

After ignoring severe abdomen and chest pain for about forty-eight hours, I was finally moved to visit the ER late last night. As it turns out, I have an enormous gallstone. If I were an oyster and you cut me open and found this thing, you’d be psyched. What this means is that my gallbladder needs to be removed very, very soon. This was totally unexpected and will throw a major wrench into my schedule. I will try to continue to post everything I need to post on time, but please be patient until this whole thing is over. I’m on pain meds and frankly, I don’t feel like doing a damn thing but lay around complaining until this thing is out. But I promise I will try hard!

If you enjoy an orgy of breakfast meats, I would recommend Roxie’s in Kalamazoo, MI. They have a meal called The Viking, which includes three eggs, sausage biscuits and gravy, pancakes, ham, sausage patties, sausage links, and hashbrowns. I’m not saying these things are related, I’m just saying that I ate it and now I’m getting an organ removed and it was delicious (the breakfast and not the organ). Zero regrets, highly recommend.

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp chapter thirteen

Need to catch up? (I don’t know why the links highlighted and went wonky. It’s WordPress. It acts in mysterious ways.

What is The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp? The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: PrologueThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter OneThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter TwoThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter ThreeThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter FourThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Five The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Six The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter SevenThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Eight The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter NineNSFW! The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter TenThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter ElevenThe Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp: Chapter Twelve

The moment the crowd closed them off from Marcaeus, Julia grabbed Fiona’s arm in a hold that was anything but friendly.

“What are you doing?” Fiona whispered, her smile still frozen on her face. “If someone sees you—”

“They’ll think I’m drunk. And I am.” Julia laughed bitterly. “Our new friend wants to talk to you, Flicka.”

“Your new friend, Damon Scratch. What a clever name.” Fiona rolled her eyes, then remembered to school her expression. She was the happy new trophy bride of a rich, successful centaur. She needed to look like she knew she’d just won the life lottery.

She also needed to convincingly pretend not to remember the demon or the mark he’d put on her. The first part was easy; she had no coherent memory of that night. The second, however, proved far more difficult. Being within a few feet of scratch had caused the mark to sting, and then the bond her arm to burn, as if the two fought each other.

The demon appeared out of nothing. One moment, he wasn’t there. The next, he was, and so smoothly that no one around them took notice at all. He sipped from his champagne glass and said, “I was looking for the two of you.”

Julia smirked and pushed Fiona forward in a gesture that could have been a shove if she’d put just a little more effort into it.

“Ms. Starr.” Damon offered his arm. “Have you seen the portrait gallery?”

Fiona put on a warning smile and shook her head. “I haven’t. But I’m sure my husband—”

“Won’t mind,” Julia interrupted. “Damon, why don’t you show her.”

The look the demon gave Fiona chilled her. “I promise, I’ll return you in one piece.” He leaned in, inclined his head. “I cannot promise the same for your husband.”

She threw an instinctive glance over her shoulder. Just briefly. But the demon saw it, and a smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Come along.”

Swallowing down her revulsion, Fiona slipped her arm through the infernal being’s elbow and let him lead her away. She tried one last time to seek out Marcaeus with her eyes. He stood head and shoulders above the crowd, but he wasn’t looking in her direction. The dimming of the lights and some movement near the stage had caught his attention. He wouldn’t see her led away. 

The portrait gallery attached to the main atrium but was closed off from the event with velvet ropes. They parted with a flick of Damon’s fingers. As he led Fiona further from the party, they passed holograms in gilded frames, each one depicting a heroic member of the original compact.

“Is it true that you’ve never seen this?” Damon asked, arch amusement scrawled across his handsome mouth.

“Consider my family. Consider who my father is,” she said, pulling away from him. “Do you think we took field trips here?”

“True. I don’t think you’ll see your father on these walls. Or your brother. Though, that might change tonight.”

“What do you mean?” There was no chance that Blayde had suddenly accepted defeat. He would die before he lost a penny of profit.

But Damon didn’t answer her. He stopped before a hologram of breathtaking familiarity: Marcaeus, bare chested, in his centaur form, his hair much longer and unbound, stirring in an Elysian breeze. Heat flushed her face and she looked away.

“There it is,” Damon said, every pretense of friendliness dropped. “I knew it.”

“I won’t play games with you,” Fiona said though clenched back teeth. “I don’t like to dance around with words like my brother, because I’m not trying to be clever. Tell me whatever it is that you think you know. Don’t make me spar with you.”

“Plain speech is a virtue. I loathe virtue.” The demon sighed in disappointment. “You’re in love with the beast.”

“I’m playing the role my brother cast me in.” That you cast me in, when you put this sick mark on me. The mark that throbbed like a full-body toothache, an exposed nerve.

“I’m not angry.” Damon held up his hands in a stunningly human gesture. “It will make it all the more enjoyable for me when I take you.”

A nervous, involuntary laugh burst from her throat. “Take me?”

“As payment.” He tilted his head. “You didn’t know?”

“Did I know that you expected to… what? Fuck me? If I had known my pussy was that valuable—”

Damon flinched at the word. “No, no. Don’t be crude. You’ll ruin it for me.”

“Ruin what?”

“Ruining you.” He stepped closer. Too close. Fiona didn’t want to cede any ground to him, but the urge to run coursed through her muscles like ants crawling beneath her skin, and the pain from the mark increased until she could hear it ringing through her skull.

“When I say I’m going to take you, I don’t mean in a sexual sense. That’s so…boring, compared to what I’ll do to you.” Damon turned away and ran one finger through the surface of the hologram as he walked away from her. “My services are expensive, Fiona, and money is trivial. Your brother had to find some way to pay me.”

“You have no intention of honoring my request for plain speech.” Though she kept her tone even, her stomach and mind fought each other to see who could roil the most. There was no mistaking what the monster meant.

Her brother planned to hand her over to a demon. It wasn’t surprising. He’d already proven himself capable of sacrificing her for his own gain.

“Oh, you look so disappointed. Is it because I said my interest in you isn’t sexual?” He snickered. “I’m sure I can find some time for you. If your sister-in-law isn’t keeping me busy.”

“You’re disgusting.” The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. They would only amuse the monster. Encourage him to keep trying to shock and frighten her.

“You’re no stranger to depravity,” he said, giving her a long look up and down. “I’ve had great fun imagining how you consummated your union with Marcaeus.”

“I didn’t come here with you to be threatened and insulted.” She turned away.

The demon’s hand caught her naked arm. His skin scalded her with a touch, and she whimpered.

“All of the things I can do to you,” Damon murmured close to her ear. Fiona writhed in his grasp, trying to dislodge his burning hold as she imagined her skin bubbling and crisping beneath his fingers.

“If you think you’re experiencing pain now, think of how it will feel when I cut into you. Flay this pretty skin from the muscle beneath. Roast bits of you over the coals like meat, meat you can still feel even after it’s been carved away. Meat I’ll serve to you and force you to consume.” The demon breathed harder now, and the scent of sulfur turned her stomach. “The deal is done, Fiona. You’re mine. I can’t wait to shred you to pieces and stitch you back together to do it all over and over again. Eternally.”

“Let me go!” she shouted. If someone heard, it might blow their cover. She might end up in the gossip pages: wife of mogul caught in salacious embrace. It didn’t matter, as long as the pain stopped. As long as he let her go.

This was what her brother had condemned her to. A lifetime of this, and worse. An eternity, if Damon Scratch could be believed.

It already felt like an eternity. Her skin must have been blackened by now, the muscle beneath charring, the blood boiling away.

She screamed, but the sound cut off before it could exit her throat.

“No, no. Don’t spoil the surprise. I don’t want to hear it before our first night together.” The demon laughed. His forked tongue touched her ear, and vomit rose in her throat.

“Flicka?”

Scratch moved quickly aside, putting polite distance between him and Fiona. The demon would report this back to Blayde, and her brother would see it as a victory, to have been caught taking her from his rival.

If they believe they’re winning, they’ll let their guard down.

The moment Scratch released her arm, the burning stopped. She looked down in horror at what should have been a charred bone to find the arm looked perfectly uninjured.

Marcaeus walked slowly toward them, arms crossed over his chest. He studied his hologram and gave it a nod. “What do you think, darling? Have they gotten it right?”

“I thought your wife would want to see this.” Scratch gestured toward the portrait. “To understand how important her husband has been to the cause.”

“Of course, I know how dedicated my husband is to peace and cooperation between the realms.” Fiona moved to Marcaeus’s side. “I’m very proud of him.”

Scratch turned his wrist and examined his watch. “We should go back to the atrium. For the announcement.”

“What announcement?” Marcaeus asked.

“A major donor asked for the opportunity to speak this evening,” Scratch said, and moved for the door. “I think you’ll see a new portrait added to this gallery soon.”

Marcaeus’s eyes met hers, and Fiona blinked back tears. She shook her head, barely, to discourage him from asking the questions on his face. Are you all right? What did he do? 

He took her hand and gave it a brief, reassuring squeeze she interpreted as, we’ll talk about it later.

They rejoined the crowd in the atrium. Everyone had concentrated around the stage, where the band put aside their instruments and exited.

“I think we can guess who the donor was,” Marcaeus said grimly, nodding toward Blayde standing at the edge of the dais.

An elf glided onto the stage, glowing silver and pearlescent white in a ballgown of gray gossamer. She took the microphone. “Good evening, good friends. May the pact ever be honored.”

She paused for crowd approval and response.

“I am Virion Xilfir, CFO of the pact council, and it is my deepest pleasure to welcome you tonight. As we’re gathered to celebrate our history, we look toward the future. Toward change and growth. Neither of these are possible without examination of where we’ve failed. It’s easy to choose a path and never waver. It’s more difficult to admit our missteps and atone. The generous donation we have received from Julia Trasket stands as an apology for her past opposition to our cause, and as a promise of support that will last for generations.”

“I stand corrected,” Marcaeus said under his breath.”That wasn’t who I was expecting at all.”

This is going to hurt her campaign, Fiona thought as she watched her sister-in-law ascend the steps to the stage. The party ran on its firm stance against the pact.

“Thank you,” Julia demurred into the microphone over the confused applause that followed. “I know some of you may be thinking that my support of the council will harm me politically. And it’s true, that my opponents and other detractors might see this donation as a ploy to court the middle vote. Despite what they say, I do not make this donation without acknowledging some simple facts. Fact: the pact inhibits growth in areas of manufacturing and commerce that have been long-cherished human principles. Fact: due to the rising involvement of Astrals in other areas of our—”

A crescendo of boos drowned out a few of her words, but she raised her voice. “—infringe on the rights of humans. Fact: none of that matters.”

She paused dramatically, and it worked to silence her detractors. The boos turned to murmured conversation as she continued.

“The party has it wrong. The pact is vital to the continuation of our way of life. But it is flawed. There is another realm, with untold resources. We’ve neglected relations with them for too long.”

Four tuxedoed men with long, protective gloves brought a box of glowing metal up the steps at the side of the stage. Another came forward with a pair of pincers and pushed the nearly-molten top of the box back.

“The energy contained in this one piece of brimstone—”

The outrage swelled again. Fiona leaned into Marcaeus so no one would see her grasp his sleeve.

This was what her brother had sold her for.

Julia was undeterred. “—can power an entire block of this city for three years. But when the pact was made, this clean-burning source of energy—”

Xilfir returned to the stage as the man with pincers hefted the lump of brimstone into view. A rank, sulfurous smell oozed over the room, and guests covered their noses.

It was difficult for them to boo and avoid breathing at the same time. Julia held the floor once again.

But it was Xilfir who took the microphone. “The council has voted and agreed. Trasket industries will advance research into the capabilities of brimstone. This is not a permanent alteration of the pact, but an investigation.”

The World Congress would have to approve any change to the pact, anyway, Fiona thought, just a sliver of of a second before remembering that her sister was a part of that congress. This move had to have been approved by her party.

They were witnessing a coup.

“We’re leaving,” Marcaeus said flatly. He offered Fiona his hand and hefted her up, startling people nearby. Once she was safely on his back, he strode from the atrium and out of the building, where reporters clustered around their holopads to watch the announcement continuing inside. They lifted their heads and fumbled for their recording devices, but Marcaeus trotted past them, not bothering to even issue a “no comment” before he pulled a selenite pendant from beneath his shirt and opened a portal that swallowed him and Fiona up in the blink of an eye.

FABLEMERE IS BACK!

Fablemere season two begins today on Vella, Ream, and Patreon! If you’re already subscribed to the Fablemere tier or higher on Patreon, you don’t have to do anything extra. You’ll continue to get the posts in your Patron feed. If you’re reading on Vella, the chapters of season two will post in The Ogre’s Fairytale Bride serial. If you’re a Ream reader, you may need to follow the story to get updates, but no other changes to your tier or subscription need to be made. I’m trying to keep this as easy as possible!

Season two is going to be a total trip. Read on for the blurb!

A city is missing. So is her best friend.

Tabitha was having a normal day at work, until she found out her slacker boss is the legendary wizard, Merlin. Now, she’s in a fairytale land, on a mission to bring her best friend back to the real world. A mission that’s complicated by the disappearance of an entire city and a millennia of accidental time travel.

The only way to survive… is to die.

Out of medication and options, Vanessa knows it’s just a matter of time until she must become a vampire or die the kind of death that doesn’t involve a cool cape. But she can’t stop thinking about the ogre she left behind and the daring escape she promised him she would make. All she needs now is for Baron Scylas to make her one of his undead concubines—and he’s certainly taking his time.

He’s used to being alone. He’ll need help to rescue his true love.

Droguk won’t stop fighting for Vanessa until the day he dies. That day will come sooner if he doesn’t rely on a mage and his assistant, who claim to know Vanessa from her world and want to take her back there. Working together could mean rescuing his mate from the Baron’s clutches only to lose her… forever.

STATE OF THE TROUT: The sea is awful, I was very brave, and other news

Hey there, friends! Have you heard of this thing called the ocean? Well, I have. And it is awful.

Last week, I did a big, scary thing. I traveled on a plane, all by myself, to South Carolina to spend a whole week in the Sea Pines neighborhood of Hilton Head Island with a friend and a group of seven other strangers who would not, my friend assured me, be mean to me.

I was so afraid someone would be mean to me. I am pleased to report that they did not.

I am also pleased to report that, although this opportunity presented itself on my connecting flight, I did not rush in and start flipping switches hither and thither, despite the nearly overwhelming temptation to do so:

There are switches on the ceiling. ON THE CEILING. I knew I could reach those bastards before the pilot could even stand up. I had this vivid image of smashing my hand on those buttons and just pressing everything frantically as they dragged me off the plane.

Since I controlled myself and did not get air marshalled straight to federal prison, I got to see the sun come up while I was in the sky:

Can I just interrupt this previously scheduled post to rant for just a second about people on airplanes? Not, you know, the fact that I forgot my mask on my return flight and ended up next to someone who sneezed constantly, loudly, and with alarming force and therefore I am now ill, myself? I need to address the jaded flyers out there. I know some of you are reading this thinking, “I fly all the time for work, so yes, I’m a jaded flyer.” You’re who I’m talking to, okay? With love, I’m talking to you.

YOU ARE IN THE GOD DAMNED SKY. I get that it happens a lot. Maybe you’re a pilot or a flight attendant and it’s all in a day’s work. But you’re in THE GOD DAMNED SKY. It’s a miracle! Imagine explaining this to your caveman ancestors. Or walking up to a medieval knight and being like, “Yeah, I was IN THE GOD DAMNED SKY FOR A COUPLE OF HOURS, but no big deal.”

It’s a big deal. Don’t let routine destroy the wonder and joy that you experience. YOU GO IN THE SKY.

I was pretty tired on my way down, owing to the fact that just hours before my flight, I got bit by my dog. It was an accident, she felt horrible, she would never bite me on purpose, but boy howdy, she’s an enormous pit bull/great dane mix and she got me BAD. I will spare you a photo, but suffice to say that after an ER visit, a shit ton of painful wound cleaning, and a prescription for enough antibiotics to permanently destroy my vaginal biome, I had just enough time to stop by the house for my luggage before leaving for the airport with a gauze-and-pressure-bandage wrapped hand. By the time I arrived in South Carolina, I’d been awake for thirty consecutive hours (with a light nap in the Charlotte airport). And by the time we went out for dinner that night, I was coming up on hour thirty-seven.

The food was worth staying awake for:

However, I do believe they were a bit stingy with their grits. It was good, don’t get me wrong, but the sauce-to-grits ratio was definitely off.

At the end of the day, I returned to this lovely little room. The picture over the headboard factors into the story later:

The next morning, refreshed from a brief, exhaustion-induced coma, I decided that I would venture to the ocean.

“There are paths to beach that run between the houses,” my friend Stella, who booked the trip and had experience staying in Sea Pines before, told me. There was a path behind our house, so that’s what I assumed she meant. I left the house with a little bowl of raspberries to munch on and followed the path.

It lead me right onto someone’s pool area.

Those were not the paths she was talking about. Later in the week, I noted that these little paths behind the houses were actually so landscapers and such could move about without being too visible. You know. Like how you want servants to be invisible when you live in a place where the five bedroom, five bathroom, over 3,000 square foot house we were staying in is a shack in comparison to everything else.

Yeah. This:

…is what passes for a modest home in Sea Pines. This gorgeous, heated pool and lushly landscaped patio area. You can see the path behind one of those chairs. Also, a giant ass house that I mistook for a hotel when we first arrived. Some of these places have legit hotel-sized mechanical systems outside for like, their A/C and such.

The actual beach access path was somewhere else, and I did not find it until later that day. When I did, I found this:

I’ve been to the ocean before, but never in South Carolina. I was a little shocked to learn that it looks about the same as it does in New England. I thought it would be, I don’t know, slightly different looking? Like how in some places it’s like this but in other places it looks blue or green? But it was like something out of Moby-Dick about 99% of the time I was there.

It’s also incredibly spooky, as each day that I visited, the ocean had picked something new to murder. The first day, the beach was covered in dying sand dollars. After that it was like, scallops, another day was horseshoe crabs just bashed to fucking pieces all over the place, and on one day, the whole thing was a jellyfish graveyard.

I learned that the sea is full of murder and gross stuff and I don’t feel like I need to interact with it further. Disgusting.

I got a lot of work done on this trip, lest you think I was just fooling around and writing negative reviews of the ocean. I came home with a little bit under 20,000 words written across three projects, and a whole bunch of knowledge from my new friends, who are all indie authors. We shared our tips and tricks (and I don’t have a lot of them) for sales and promotion and having successful signings, which made this not just a good trip for writing, but for network and branding and such.

And nobody was mean to me! I came home with new author friends, and we’re already planning to do it again next year.

Now that I’m back and not exactly rested, since my mask mistake resulted in creeping sickness (yes, I’ll test for Covid), I have good news!

The Business Centaur’s Virgin Temp is coming back from hiatus! You have until Friday to refresh your memories, because that’s when the next installment posts. Also, if you’ve been following Fablemere, season two, The Vampire’s Willing Captive, begins on Vella, Ream, and the $3 (USD) Patreon tier TOMORROW! On Vella, season two will be attached to The Ogre’s Fairytale Bride, so you don’t have to go looking for a different link.

The Ogre’s Fairytale Bride will be available in ebook and paperback on February 29th. You can pre-order the ebook now on Amazon, but printing issues with the paperback has pushed that pre-order back on other platforms. Hey, if a book release of mine ever ran smoothly, I would probably pass out from shock.

That’s all the news that’s fit to print right now. Stay tuned to find out what disease I got from going maskless on a plane.

SURPRISE! The Princes of Pleasure and Torment releases THIS WEEK.

Remember when I was like, here is a handy graphic that says The Princes of Pleasure and Torment (Fablemere Fae #1) will be on Radish in February? Yeah, funny thing about that… I found out last week that it will actually be out on FRIDAY. As in THIS FRIDAY.

Here’s a blurb that I cobbled together in a panic upon learning that the book is being published a month earlier than I expected:

Shattered by the murder of her mother, Cenere knows that she cannot rest until the killer is brought to bloody, terrible justice. When a faery from her mother’s past offers his help, Cenere knows she must accept. But the fae give nothing freely, and the price Luthian of Mithrax asks is nothing short of the total surrender of her body and spirit.

Exiled from the Court of Pleasure and Torment, Luthian seeks to return to the life of hedonism on offer there. Cenere will be his most seductive weapon in a court ruled by depravity and indulgence, and the sadistic King Arcus won’t be able to resist her.

But Luthian has secrets, and when his true motivations are revealed, they will change the course of Cenere’s life forever…

I don’t have a cover or a link to share with you, that’s how fast this is suddenly happening. They’re releasing it much sooner, I think, than either I or Radish expected. I found out on the 19th and I stumbled around in a bit of a daze like, how do I even promo this thing, right?

Well, I’m gonna do it in the most honest way possible. Here is a bulleted list of stuff that is in the book and you can choose whether or not to read it or you can recommend it to someone who likes freaky stuff. Because this book is dark, and way different than anything else I’ve written as Abigail Barnette. This is very much a “Dead Dove, Do Not Eat” situation.

Read this book if stuff on this list interests you. Don’t read this book if it doesn’t interest you. Definitely do not eat the dead dove if you don’t like the taste of dead dove. I cannot deliver a clearer warning that this book is dark romance and not like The Boss or The Ogre’s Fairytale Bride.

rape, dubious consent, consensual non-consentviolence, gore, murderneedle/piercing playexhibitionism/voyeurismgroup sexorgasm torture, orgasm deniallesbian mermaid group sexminotaur sexhumiliationliterally any combination of genitals in various quantities getting togetherfoot torturefluid play (including a bathtub full of cum)ritual sexual torturesentient plant sexmorally dark-gray charactersborderline necrophilia, honestlyflying sex24/7 unconditional submission

I feel like that’s it? I honestly don’t remember. Look, I went full on feral writing this one. Just anything I could throw in there, I did. And if that’s your jam, well, good news. On Friday, you can read the entire serial on Radish. They’re foregoing a chapter-at-a-time release with this one.

Meanwhile, I’m going to breathe heavily into a paper bag and not freak out about having a surprise new release come as a surprise to me.

The Week In Video!

I don’t know where the week went, I will tell you that for free. It was eaten by book formatting, that’s where it went.

However, I’ve struggled so hard with technology of all kinds this week. I’m pretty sure a witch did it. As a result, I don’t have Bridgerton for you all this week, and the Patreon-only uncut Buff The Vampire Slayer react is delayed due to captioning problems. We’ll get back on track next week, just in time for me to take a flippin’ hiatus for a writing trip like two weeks after that.

But we do have two new videos!