Prompt Post: ROUND FIVE

[oakenshields13]

ROUND FIVE IS CLOSED

<< ROUND FOUR | ALL ROUNDS | ROUND SIX >>

Rules post.

Posting Guidelines.

Flat view.

Updates Post (WIPs only)

Fills Post (completed Fills only)

damalur's firstclasskink on Delicious.
Volunteers always welcome.

There is a delay on comments appearing when there is a URL in the message body. This is due to an LJ anti-spam

Comments

this is only now (where do we go from here) 14/?

[anonymous]

"Do you think there should be a theme? Are theme weddings tacky now? Have they always been tacky?" Raven picks up an apricot from the very top of a pile of the same on Farmer Johnston's table. "I went to a McQueen-themed wedding a couple of years back. Or wait, maybe it was a divorce party. Whatever, Guinesses were involved so it was McQueen or don't let the door hit your ass on the way out. Of course, they made an exception for Charles." Raven makes a face and starts to take a bite of the apricot before Hank snatches it out of her hand and puts it back on Farmer Johnston's table, offering the woman a diffident smile.

He picks another one from the pile and hands it to Raven.

"What was wrong with that one?" she asks, biting off half of the apricot.

"Rotten," Hank answers out of the corner of his mouth when he's sure Farmer Johnston's too busy looking elsewhere.

Raven frowns. "Really? How could you tell?" She looks down at the half still in her hand and squinches her face.

"There are black spots all over it. That's called fungus."

"Oh," Raven says in the tone of one who's never seen fresh fruit if it wasn't meticulously organically grown and hand-picked by her ex-Michelin Star restaurant employed family chef.

"Anyway, theme weddings. Thoughts, opinions, violent reactions?"

Hank shrugs, not bothering to look at her from where he's preoccupied picking out the most mutated looking strawberries from the bunch because they're the only type of strawberries Scott eats.

"Tacky as hell," Sean chimes in, joining them.

"I don't recall asking the peanut gallery," Raven snarks, still very resentful about losing The Bet. She won the last one (The Bet on When Erik Would Just Accept the Inevitable and Move In Already) and takes it as a personal insult that she lost this one by a few days' estimation.

"Whatever, loser, there's no way you're going to get Erik to agree to a fucking theme wedding and there's no way in hell any of the folks here'll dress like Lady Gaga just because the invitation says so."

Raven gives him a look, snatches a huge chunk of his funnel cake. "Yeah, no. Do you know Erik?" She makes a whip-wielding motion with accompanying sound effect. "And the guests will do what-the-fuck-ever to attend it. Wedding of the century, buddy."

"I thought this was going to be a small, private affair, you guys," Hank cuts in, nicking Sean's Fanta.

"Hey!" Sean protests, though it's halfhearted at best. "Also, you really need to escape from that depressing as shit cave you call an office. This wedding's all anybody's been talking about the past week."

Raven nods agreement, darting in to take a sip of Fanta. "Dude, just the other day, I had the University Chancellor stop me on my way to get coffee and ask me about the flower arrangements . We do not invite the entire town? They will burn the house down. This shit is serious."

Hank makes a disbelieving sputter. "Exaggeration." He turns to pay Farmer Johnston, who smiles and hands Hank his change while saying, "Hear you talking about flowers. Tell those soon-to-be newlyweds that I grow the best damn orchids in the state and I'll give it to them half-price."

Raven smirks.

*

"Why don't you just hire a planner?" Hank finally thinks to ask.

They're sitting on a bench in plain sight of the petting pen and the arcade area, the two places Scott and his little band of friends are currently raising hell in, which makes it an ideal spot to break for lunch. Raven's stress-eating, demolishing four corndogs, a pulled pork sandwich as big as her head, chocolate-dipped bacon with a bag of cotton candy and two caramel apples waiting to be dessert and bemoaning her unsuitability as a wedding organiser.

"Because," Raven grits out through a mouthful of pork, "I'd have to hire one from the city. Mrs West's little operation can't handle something of this magnitude. And if I hire a planner from the city, word will eventually get around and then we'll have all these snobs calling to passive-aggressively complain that their invites got lost in the mail and that'll be twice as many people and the fucking town will be overrun and it will basically be Armageddon."