#and he's only polite and amiable because the twins are

[that1nkyone]

Unpopular opinion:

I like Fourchenault. He sucks.

Imagine being an emotionally-stunted man who's in this society that's all about peace and nonintervention and Knowledge, so obviously you know better than anyone else in the world and their petty conflicts.

And then you get told that the world will end in your lifetime - and then you get two kids, which makes you panic about it all the more. So when your kids come of age and go off to explore this world while you're figuring out the Evacuation Plan for End Times, and then come back having involved themselves in almost all the petty conflicts you've heard about, you get mad.

You think they're being rebellious children who don't know any better, so you decide the best course of action is to disown them of the family name so they're suitably punished, don't get support, or don't get in the way if they ever rock up to your doorstep. And then you can shove them kicking and screaming onto the Noah's Ark you're making when it's time to scoot off this planet. Flawless plan. Cool.

Within, let's say, a month - your kids, with their very powerful friends, rock up to your front doorstep just as your promoted to the leader of your life's work. And after agreeing that they won't work against your plans, your kids proceed to systematically hijack your entire life's work, using all the knowledge, allies and experience they have accumulated during their trip into the rest of the world. Everything that you have lacked.

You're actually proud, but you are struck dumb because every single thing you thought was right has been flipped on its head. Because your kids (and your wife) are too smart for you to comprehend. So, you swallow your pride and you relinquish the wheel to your whole operation. And the Doomsday Evac plan never happens. It doesn't need to. Your children and their friends do the impossible - they stop the world from ending.

You're lucky that your family is willing to give you forgiveness in the face of all this - because you will forever be plagued by the looming presence of the Warrior of Light, whose attitude will range from "Fuck the narrative, these are my kids now," to "I respect your kids' decision to forgive you, and I will work with you, but you are on Thin Fucking Ice."

The cherry on the top is that if your Doomsday Evac plan had actually happened, your distant collaborators would have only been able to provide food in the form of carrots.

You would have been stuck eating your most hated food for perhaps the rest of your life.

Just, mwah. Poetry.

[arcielee]

Hazy Shades of Spring

Summary: A professor runs into one of her students.  Paring: Modern Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader  Word Count: 3483 Warnings: Nothing too spicy, so please don’t report. ♥ There will be a part 2 though for the smut.  Author's Note: This is for the poll you all voted for. I hope you enjoy and a huge thank you to @sapphire-writes for your read over/feedback, your modern Aemond has definitely set the bar (for me anyway).  Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @sirenofavalon​

It was the fourth walk-by from your waitress when you decided to request your bill and just accept that you, in fact, had been stood up. 

You were single and freshly thirty and dating had seemingly become a monstrous thing to attempt. You kept your humor with dating apps, but you also held a mild regret that curled in your abdomen that you ended things with Cregan; as amicable a break-up as it was, you were beginning to believe that complacency might have been the best option. 

Now you only had yourself to blame because you finally caved to the incessant needling of your colleague, Johanna Lannister, when she cornered you, again, and pressed her suggestion of a blind date with her husband’s brother. 

“It’s his twin brother,” she added to her attempt to make her point. “So you know he’s handsome…”

Your nose involuntarily scrunched with her closing statement, but you decided to set aside your judgment and agreed to it, if anything to shut her up.

Numbers were exchanged and you texted back and forth a bit; he was amiable enough with some wit to him, though not enough to laugh out loud, but it was enough to agree to meet for dinner. The semester had ended and you had submitted your grades, allowing you several weeks of freedom before the spring semester would begin. 

He suggested and seemed adamant about the new upscale restaurant that opened up downtown, which was an old theatre that had been purchased and repurposed for fine dining. When you arrived, its renovation was breathtaking: the inside arched upwards and there was a new mural of brilliant colors on the ceiling, with marble columns that led to a grand staircase and red carpeting that was a walkway over the polished floors. 

You knew it would be ritzy and opted for a black, flitted dress that complimented your figure and cut off just above your knees, with tights that showed a definitive black seam centering the backside of your legs and a heel with a clasp. You removed your cardigan before you approached the hostess, checking your phone to see the text, running late, be there soon.

Your grip tightened on the phone, with a fleeting moment to retreat homeward but you had put effort into your look tonight and you ignored the call of comfort for a baggy shirt and sweats. Instead, you get a table and order a glass of red wine while you wait. 

The time rolled away and your glass neared empty; you checked your phone to see that the courtesy text you sent to see if he was still alive had been left on read. It sends a bolt of vexation in your chest and you finish the wine; you were nettled by the inconsideration being shown by the damn Lannister twin.

An annoyed sigh leaves you and you can feel the pitied look of your waitress. “We do have a bar upstairs,” she offers with a small smile. “It isn’t as crowded as down here.” 

Fuck it. You tip her well and decide to climb the grandiose staircase, to make most of your night out as well as escape the music and murmur of the dinner crowd. The lighting was not as harsh and you seated yourself at the end of the bar, ordering a second glass of wine and retrieving a small notepad you have tucked into your purse. “Do you have a pen?” You asked the bartender and he is polite enough to retrieve you one. 

You allow the new scenery and your new muse, the feeling of absolute annoyance, to help create something for your editor; lost in your scribble and half a glass later, you are interrupted with a question.

“Professor?” 

Your hand stilled on the glass stem, your grip so tight you would think it would crack under the  pressure. 

Living centrally downtown did mean you would often run into students, present and sometimes past. You knew you were not as old and dusty like some of the other professors, but you kept your reservation with social interactions, giving a tight smile when they acknowledged you and looked for a segue out of any pleasantries they attempted to exchange. 

It wasn’t that you did not care for them, it’s just that you did not want to be reminded of your occupation outside of your working hours. 

This voice was familiar, with a distinct, low hum from the chest.

Aemond Targaryen. 

He was one of the top students at the university; he was never late with assignments, would always push for extra credit, and would meet any opinion with his own educated intellection, which often led to heated debates in business law. 

In the beginning, you struggled with your prejudice when he entered your classroom; you noted his gait and composure, how he held himself with an eerie elegance as opposed to his brother and his frat boy persona. Aegon had been a handful, often showing up under the influence of something and once making a crude pass when he asked about extra credit. 

You halted the attempt immediately and pushed him from your office; the thought of fraternizing with a student never crossed your mind.

That was until you had Aemond.

His family was known in King’s Landing, their family empire owning most of everything and their standing revered, with a hand in everything within city limits. Aegon only had passed your class, begrudgingly by you, due to the family’s repeated and generous donations to the university, though he hardly deserved the lowest grade you gave him. 

It was why you were not surprised when Aemond followed the same academic route, as it was expected for him to get a business degree of some sort and contribute. He had a different drive than his brother, he was present and moved with a determination, some unforeseen drive that pushed him and it gave him an almost arrogant air. 

The interactions you shared throughout the semester was a stark contrast to his stern demeanor; his voice was low and commanding, with a genuineness to his tone. He was never inappropriate and you found you actually enjoyed the interactions shared. 

He is also so very handsome, you cannot help but admit to yourself, your cheeks flushed when you turned to see him standing and watching you. 

Despite the scar that marred his face, a childhood accident was all he shared with you, his mien was still breathtaking. It was apparent he came from old money with the sapphire stone chosen to replace his missing eye and you could still see the gash that cut through from above his brow into the sharp contours of his face. His lips were curled, his head with a slight tilt as he peered at you. Tonight, he wore dark, fitted slacks and button up shirt, with a cashmere sweater and dress jacket. His silver chain peaked underneath his collar and his long, silver hair was not knotted back in his usual low, messy bun, but instead was draped over his broad shoulders.

“Oh, hello, Aemond, how nice to run into you,” you are quick to tuck the notepad back into your purse. “What brings you out tonight?” 

He always had this damnable, perpetual smirk that played at his lips, like he is aware of the effect he has on you. Aemond moved to take the seat next to you and you notice how the bartender is quick to serve him a drink. “My father insisted I help my uncle with the grand opening,” he explained, touching the glass but not drinking it. “I am shadowing the ordeal.” 

Of course they own this restaurant, your cheeks burning with the realization, but before you could excuse yourself, he instead asks, “You look lovely tonight. What brings you here?” He looks around, “Were you meeting with someone?” 

You fidget with your glass, clearing your throat. “Um, I was supposed to meet for a date and…” you faltered on the lie prepared on your lips and instead admitted, “I was stood up.” 

His expression is unreadable and he shrugs. “This seems to happen to the best of us,” and he finally lifts his glass to you. “Cheers to the best.” 

You give a small smile and the cheers allow you to finish your drink. Aemond gestures for a refill, but you push to stand. “Thank you, but I should probably leave. You are a student, I’m your professor…” 

“The semester is over,” his voice is low, his expression almost amused and you note how his eye takes in your form when you stand up. You pull your cardigan on, but it does little to cover your black dress and you burn from his steady gaze. “I’m hardly a student, except for a few filler courses this spring, but then I will be done. And besides, I already turned in my paper and you, actually, already submitted my grade.” 

“Oh, did I?” Of course I fucking did. 

Aemond hummed. “Yes, in fact. I appreciate the good score.”

The bartender rests the new glass in front of you and you lift it, “Well, it was well earned. And cheers, then, to the semester ending and good grades.”

The soft plink of glass and you see his perpetual smirk playing on his lips again. “You do look lovely tonight and I am obligated to be here. Enjoy your glass of wine and keep me company until it’s finished.” 

Since you had not eaten and were on your third glass of wine, it makes you agreeable to accept his company; you know your cheeks are rosy as you are swept up into conversation with him. Aemond always had a wit that would make you laugh, or maybe it was the wine, but either way you found you were enjoying yourself. 

With your third glass almost gone, your eyes catch sight of the cigarette case he placed on the bartop; the embossed design glinted under the lighting. “It’s a family insignia,” he explains, pushing it towards you. 

You pick it up, your finger trailing the dragon design. “This is in the mural in the lobby,” you muss and he nods. There is a satisfying click when you open it and the waft of cinnamon reaches your nose, which crinkles with your smile. “Clove cigarettes?” You cannot help but giggle with the discovery. 

He narrows his gaze on you, but his lips are still curled upwards as he leans over to take it from your hands. “It is my guilty pleasure, a treat when the semester ends,” he closes it. 

“We all deserve a guilty pleasure,” you agree, your attention falling to the empty glass in front of you. “I will have to ask for one, though,” you gestured towards the case. “I feel I need to indulge just a bit more, on this night in particular.” 

Aemond stands up and pulls your chair back, his hand offered to you so you can find your balance on your heels. You look up at him through your eyelashes and notice that even with your heel, he is taller still. 

He is gentle to take your hand in his own, his other hand on your lower back to guide you as you weave through the few patrons and staff. You eventually slip through a threshold that leads out to a secluded balcony that is decorated with lights, giving a golden hue. 

With the approach of spring, the night air is crisp and you wrap your arms around yourself and your thin cardigan. “Oh, this view,” you cannot help but smile, despite your shiver. 

Aemond hums his agreement, pulling off his dress jacket and handing it to you. You try to decline, but he insists, “I run warm. It’s a family trait.” 

You pull it on, engulfed in the fine fabric and his scent, a mixture of clean laundry with an expensive cologne. He walked towards the ornate balustrade that stems around the balcony and leaned his elbows on top; you followed him, the soft clicks of your heels on the stone and rested on his visible side, peering out towards King’s Landing. 

He pulled out the case and retrieved a black clove cigarette, lighting it and passing it to you, smoke pouring from his smile as your fingertips touch to take it. The drag is a mixture of the best and worst feeling; you allow your exhale to snake over your features and lick your lips to taste the cinnamon on them. “I haven’t had one of these,” you blush again. “It has been a while, but thank you, this is just what I wanted.” 

You watch him pull another and balance it between his lips. Wordless, you tuck yours into the corner of your mouth and place your hands to cup the flame as he lights it. With his exhale, he says, “Thank you.” 

The silence allows a moment to enjoy the city bustle below, but the sound of him clearing his throat brings you back to the balcony. “What about you?” You tilt your head to look at him, your brow quirked and he clarifies, “I had answered your questions and shared about my interests outside of my degree, but what about you and your passions?” 

You take another drag to mull over your reply. “Perhaps teaching is my passion,” you reply, your brow raised at him. 

He hums a moment. “I don’t think so,” his voice is so low that you need to turn to hear him, facing him and leaning one elbow on the bannister. His brow is cocked and his perpetual smirk playing on his lips. “I saw passion when you were focused on your notebook earlier, you had a glow with your penning.” Aemond blows the smoke above his head, “You do not have that same expression with your lectures.” 

You turn away and focus straight ahead, hoping the city lights would wash away the embarrassment that rushed to your cheeks. He makes almost an aha noise and steps closer towards you, peering at you. “I am correct about your passion outside of your teaching,” his tone is teasing.

“Well, yes,” your mind is buzzing from the wine, the cigarette amplifying it ever-so-slightly. He graduates after the spring, you reason and then decide to share, “I enjoy writing.”

This confession breaks the levy and your passion spills as you babble about your love for science fiction and how your interests were piqued by the classics like Ray Bradbury and Kurt Vonnegut, plus his pseudonym. Then you stop, your hand covering your mouth. “Sorry, I am rambling,” you blush again. 

“It’s cute,” he encourages. “Please, continue.” 

You sigh. “Unfortunately, there isn’t much else to add. Science fiction does not have the same audience  it once did and it definitely isn’t what sells as far as digital books,” you finish with a grim smile. “What sells then?”

You focus your eyes on him and cannot stop the fit of giggles that spill from your lips; he peers at you, his cheeks dimpling with a pursed smile of his own. “Smut, mostly,” you confess and he chuckles. “It is all,” you wave your hand flippantly, “porn with plot and I happen to have a knack for it. Plus, I am very fond of the residual income from my sales,” you finish your cigarette. 

“A knack for it?” His tone is still low and he flicks his own cigarette over the edge. “Like, the ability to incorporate it into any situation…?” 

“I mean, within reason,” you are unable to hold his gaze, feeling almost childish in his large jacket, your fingertips playing with the button stance. “It depends on the ratio of porn to plot, really. It kind of comes down to a science with the method.” 

“Oh?” He sounds amused and shifts himself, edging closer still, his gaze still locked on your face. “Enlighten me.” 

“Well,” you hem for your words, your wine-addled brain unable to stop them from leaving your mouth. “Obviously, as a writer, you wish to set the scene for your reader, the build-up to the moment, but you also don’t want clutter it so much when they are obviously looking for one thing-” 

Your words are stopped by the soft press of his lips to your own, his hands covering your hold on his jacket and bringing you against his chest. Your eyes widen for a moment before you relax against him, enjoying his taste, the mixture of clove cinnamon, smoke, and whatever whiskey he had at the bar.  

His large hands move to your hips, pulling you closer with a soft squeeze and you moan into the kiss, your fingers curling around the back of his neck and tangling in his hair. Aemond presses against you and your back against the bannister; you can feel him through his dress slacks, your own body betraying you by the warmth pooling between your thighs. 

“Wait, wait,” you break the kiss, your eyes wide again and looking him over.

The pupil of his eye is blown, almost black with his stare, and his lips curl upwards. “We should do this somewhere else,” he suggests, his tone velvet. “Take me home?”

You bite your bottom lip with your pregnant pause before nodding. You feel his finger curl beneath your chin, tilting your head to meet with his gaze. “I require verbal consent,” his tone still teasing you. 

“Yes,” you say, your cheeks are red, and his usual stoic expression brightens slightly. He takes your hand into his and you follow, Aemond pulling his phone and texting, his grasp tight as he helps you down the stairs. You avoid the looks of the staff and follow him to exit the restaurant. 

Out front is some black luxury car idling and Aemond moved to open the door for you, helping you seat yourself before closing the door and walking to the other side. Your eyes burn into the back of the driver’s seat, who turns and offers a smile, asking for your address before he closes the partition. 

You can feel the shift in the back seat as Aemond sits next to you, his expression unreadable once again. A beat of silence follows as the car begins to drive and only then does your liquid courage take its hold. You reach to pull him towards you and his mouth finds yours. His lips are so soft, so warm against your own, his tongue moving into your mouth and yours meeting with his languid movements to continue to taste him. 

He pulls you to straddle his lap, your dress bunching around your hips and his large palms are warm as they grab into the softness of your thighs, pulling you slow to grind against the growing bulge of his pants. A soft moan spills from your lips with the pressure and his mouth falls to your chest, his tongue following your clavicle and closing on the junction of your shoulder to your neck. You mewl when you feel his teeth bite into you, moving your hips against him which elicited a guttural groan from the back of his throat. 

You had forgotten how much fun kissing could be, the intimacy of hands pawing with purpose and the soft pants from the passion. The car stops and when you realize it is parked in front of your apartment building; you break the kiss and fall into your seat, your hands moving to righten your skirt. 

Another beat of silence follows and he finally says, “Is this your place?” His voice is gentle. 

You nod your head yes, you mind whirring with what had unfolded this evening and your eyes falling to his hands; you watched his slender fingers slowly drum the leather seat between before moving to palm your hand, his thumb gentle to run the length of your knuckles and back. “Nothing more needs to happen,” he offered you an escape. “But could I ask for a kiss goodnight?”

Your eyes lock onto his, your tongue wetting your lips and leaning to find his mouth once more. His lips fit so perfect against your own, his tongue trailing your bottom lip with a soft nip before he pulls back. 

You open the car door and climb out, hearing him shift in his seat to lean forward. “Goodnight, professor-”

But you turn on your heel, leaning over and well aware of your cleavage in this little black dress you wore tonight. “Aemond,” your eyes rest on his face, your cheeks growing warm once again. “Would you like to come up?” 

With the familiar curl of his lips, he tells the driver to go home. He pulled himself from his seat and reached again for your hand. Your cheeks burn with the feeling of how your hand fits in his own and you lead him inside. 

[tennessoui]

Cheating au has its own doc you say 👀 Would love to see more of this delicious mess, like how Obi-Wan and Padme keep working together after the reveal. I remember you said she couldn't be in the same room as him when her and Anakin trade off the kids, does Obi-Wan retire or do they just keep plugging along while the tension crackles 🔥 I feel like she'd have to be vaguely amiable with Anakin if only to co-parent but Obi-Wan was her mentor and friend who actively pursued the affair and was secretly co-parenting the twins since day 1 so the tension must be sky high, how do they function as senators after?

I think for most obi-wan assholeness that cheating au thrives on, obi-wan doesn’t retire. He doesn’t leave any senate committee he and Padmé are both on. He says very publicly that there are many matters of galactic importance that outweigh silly interpersonal matters of senators and he has been elected to serve the galaxy and represent the people of Stewjon and he will continue to do so as all senators truly dedicated to their calling would.

and Padmé is spitting mad because she’d wanted Kenobi to retire or to drop off their shared committees like any good and guilty person would but now she can’t either

And worse, they agree on a lot of things politically so if she disagrees with him it’s mostly because of what he’s done to her personal life, not their politics which makes her more furious

and in maybe five years obi-wan retires as senator to take a job that allows him to be at home more and be there for the kids and he says very publicly that he wants to spend time with his family now so that they don’t miss him as they grow

which also makes Padmé furious because she was never in a part of her career that would let her give up politics for her family and she’d never wanted to and obiwan can because he’s older and nothing is fair and everything makes her furious and probably obiwan hadn’t even meant to imply anything but also maybe he had its incredibly hard to tell

[avirael]

FFxivWrite 2023

Day 16 - Jerk

"Ah Rael! It’s good to see you return safely.", the Serpent Commander Vorsaile Heuloix said. "What brings you to me today?"

To A'viloh’s surprise, Rael put on a polite smile. He had already wondered if the Viera had a genetic defect that made them physically incapable of smiling but here it was! It was a pretty smile even, like everything about the Viera was undeniably pretty. It made A'viloh even more annoyed about the fact that all he ever got from them was a grumpy scowl although he really had tried to strike up a conversation on their way to Gridania.

"We are here on behalf of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. You requested their support because of a problem with the Ixal?", the Viera explained getting straight to business.

"Yes, it‘s more of a potential problem though. But tell me who is your friend? I‘ve never seen him around here before?", Vorsaile asked eying A'viloh.

"We are not frie-", A'viloh tried to correct but Rael was faster.

"This is A'viloh Tia, he also works for the Scions. He‘s a pugilist from Ul'dah and he‘s only been to Gridania… twice before?" Rael turned to A'viloh with a questioning expression on their face.

"Once.", A'viloh offered. "This is my second time here."

"See, so it’s no surprise you haven’t seen him before.", Rael said once again turned to the Serpent Commander and smiling amiably.

"Alright. Well, if he‘s with you, that’s enough reason for me to trust him.", Vorsaile said and then went on to explain the task he had for them.

There had been an increasing number of thefts in the North Shroud and the Order of the Twin Adder feared that the Ixal might be responsible. Rael and A'viloh were supposed to investigate the area and ask around for more information.

As they left the Adders Nest A'viloh asked mit furrowed brow: "Why did he eye me like this?"

"Don’t think too much of it.", the Viera explained. "The people in Gridania are a naturally distrustful lot. But once you get to know them, they are actually very nice. It’s nothing personal…"

"Nothing personal, huh?", A'viloh repeated but kind of doubted it.

The two of them spent the whole morning patrolling through the South Shroud, talking with the guards and keeping an eye out for Ixal but without much result.

At noon they decided to take a break in Hyrstmill and eat lunch. Afterwards they talked to the villagers about their task when a girl approached them. She explained that she had heard why they were here and asked them for help with a problem that might have to do with their task.

She then explained that lately she received several anonymous gifts, some of them pretty expensive, along with an invitation. Furthermore she found out her secret admirer’s name and that he was a wanted thief.

"I doubt that we are talking about the same thief here. Our culprit is after a little more practical things than jewels and silks…", A'viloh wondered out loud.

"But of course we are going to help you anyway. It‘s not like we would leave a helpless girl alone to deal with her stalker all on her own, right A‘viloh?", Rael quickly added and stared at the Miqo'te expectantly.

A'viloh blinked surprised. "Of course not! I wasn’t trying to suggest otherwise!"

So they let the girl explain the details and went out to the spot the thief had suggested for their meeting. There was nothing to see though, so they decided to split up and search the surroundings.

After a while Rael discovered something between the bushes that looked like an abandoned fireplace. They knelt down and examined the remains for clues when suddenly they felt a cold blade pressed to their throat.

"Hold still and I won’t harm you.", a voice said behind them. "Why are you here? Did the Adders send you to look for me?"

Rael defensively raised their arms. "Emeria send me."

"Don’t lie to me!", the voice growled angrily.

"I‘m not lying, I swear! She‘s scared of you and send me to talk to you on her behalf.", Rael explained.

"You’re a liar! She doesn’t have any reason to be scared of me!", the man yelled. "If you don’t tell me the truth right now, I‘m gonna cut your throat and leave you here for your Adder-friends to find!"

Rael hoped this was an empty threat and their mind raced to find a way to talk themself out of this when suddenly a heavy thud sounded behind him. The blade disappeared from their throat and the man collapsed beside them.

Confused the Viera turned around and saw A'viloh standing behind them with a heavy stick in his hands. "Are you okay?", he asked with a mixture of shock and worry on his face.

Rael ran a hand over their throat. "I think so. Thank you, A'viloh, honestly. I don’t know what I would have done without you."

"Oh, I‘m sure you would have come up with something.", the Miqo'te chuckled nervously and rubbed their neck. "What should we do with your new friend here?" With the branch in his hand he pointed at the unconscious man on the ground.

Rael thought for a second and then said: "I think it’s best if we tie him up and go tell the guards in Hyrstmill."

A'viloh nodded in agreement and so they tied up his hands and his feets in case he would wake up.

"What’s that?", A'viloh asked and gestured at something peeking from the man’s pocket. Rael bowed down and took it. "I think it’s a letter… and look! It’s addressed at Emeria."

They decided to take it back to Emeria, who already awaited their return. She was glad to see them safely return and then read the letter they presented her.

"If it wasn’t so creepy, I would almost call that love letter sweet…", A'viloh said and Emeria also seemed a little confused by the letter.

She asked them to bring her gifts to Miounne in Gridania, so she could return them to their respective owners. Rael and A'viloh talked to the guards and made their way back to the place where they had left the man but apart from his cut ties there was no trace left of him. The guards decided to search for clues and Rael and A'viloh traveled on towards Gridania.

Back at the Carline Canopy Miounne was surprised to hear their tale. She promised to return the stolen goods to their owners and explained to them the truth about Emeria and her admirer. In reality the man was her older brother, who as a boy had started stealing things to make his sister happy, and was therefore disowned by their parents. Miounne thanked them for their kind help and invited them to dinner to thank them.

"What a sad story…", Rael said as they sat down to eat.

A'viloh sighed and agreed. "I wish we could have done more for them…"

For a moment they silently ate, before Rael cleared their throat. "Thank you once again, A'viloh. I think I need to apologize to you. Without your help this could have ended very differently. I behaved rudely to you and thought you were an idiot, but I was horribly wrong. I‘m sorry."

For a moment A'viloh just speechlessly stared at them, then he laughed. "Ah, don’t worry! You are also a lot nicer than I expected. If it makes you feel any better, I was convinced that you‘re a heartless, mean jerk!"

Then both of them laughed and proceeded to have a nice evening at the Carline Canopy. The Ixal would have to wait for another day…

[thevalleyisjolly]

Some Celebrían headcanons:

She discovered a passion for architecture after travelling through Khazad-dûm, and maintained a lasting friendship with the Dwarven architects of Khazad-dûm until their kingdom fell in the Third Age.

Though she does not desire to rule any kingdoms, she can and will roll up her sleeves to take over when she feels things are not being done properly.  This can mean anything from taking over the kitchens when the stove dies in the middle of a feast, to completely overhauling Lindon’s emergency response system (her mother was exceedingly proud and more than a little smug for centuries afterwards).  She once said that though she might have small hands, they do more in an hour than the minds of the great in a year.

Compared to other Elves, her singing voice is considered breathy and not very strong, but she does have a talent for arranging music.  No one is quite sure how she managed to arrange a Númenorean war march into a harp concerto that retained the essence of its rousing spirit, but she did.

She likes flowers as much as the next Elf, but could not tell you any of their names or properties if she tried.  It took her about fifty years to realize that the pretty posies being left every so often on the windowsill of her guest-room in Imladris meant that she had a secret admirer, and it was only because her father caught a glimpse of one bouquet, raised an eyebrow, and was eventually persuaded to explain Iathrim flower language to her.

She’s an excellent baker, and once recreated Menegroth in gingerbread for her parents’ 1000th wedding anniversary.

Her first impression of Elrond was that he was oddly shy for an Elf-lord of such reputation, since he kept blushing and looking at his feet whenever she glanced in his direction.  Then on a tour of Imladris, he began talking about his vision for what the hidden valley could become and she instantly recognized a city planner when she saw one.  They spent the next three days engrossed in a conversation about landscape design and civic infrastructure and structural engineering, and continued to exchange letters debating their ideas for the rest of the Second Age.

Her favourite colours are lilac and orange.  Those are difficult colours to make work together, but she pulls it off. 

Her one youthful rebellion was to learn Exilic Quenya, which irritated both her father (for obvious reasons) and her mother (whose cradle-tongue was Valinorean Quenya).  Both of them blamed Celebrimbor, although his only part in it was to speak it with her occasionally as practice, until he found it expedient to go and visit Narvi for several years.

Celebrimbor was her favourite cousin, and not just by default.  He once made her a fine amber and gold filigree necklace as a birthday present, which she has kept all her life and still wears.  She considers it his finest work.

Although generally a sociable and amiable person, she can nurse a grudge forever if she sets her mind to it.  She never quite forgave Amroth for condescending to her when she asked about the construction of the tree flets in Lórien, and she spent a full thousand years being coolly polite to Erestor because she heard him make an inconsiderate jape about Dwarves once. 

Since childhood, she has been very good at climbing and loves heights.  Some of her earliest memories are of trying to clamber up her father (so tall and strong, just like a great big tree!) before he swung her up onto his shoulders and let her ride, giggling, upon them as he went about his day showing off his daughter to everyone within range.

She is very much a morning person while Elrond is a night person.  Adjusting to each other’s rhythms at first took some time and a few spats, but they made for the perfect tag-team once the twins were born.

Whatever the opposite of a green thumb is, Celebrían has it.  Even the hardiest, most stubborn weeds wither under her ministrations.  However, she is quite good at cultivating fungi, and wrote a book of mushroom recipes.  When Bilbo Baggins discovered that book in the library at Rivendell centuries later, he named her the most excellent queen among Elves, wrote an effusive ode to her wisdom, and copied down the recipes for his own collection which passed down to Frodo and then Sam.  It is said in Shire-lore that when the King and Queen came to the Brandywine Bridge, the famous Samwise Gardner prepared a proper Hobbit meal for them himself and the Queen wept when the centrepiece mushroom dish was placed before her, and that is why the dish was known ever after in the Shire as “Queen’s mushrooms.”  Other Shire scholars argued that the dish was already known as such because Old Mad Baggins had gotten it from an Elvish queen, a viewpoint which gained considerable support after Fíriel Fairbairn discovered a loose scrap of parchment covered in thin, spidery handwriting among her grandfather’s papers, which appeared to be an early draft of an ode to a wise Faerie queen by the infamous Bilbo Baggins.  Seeing as the ode was never formally published however, the provenance remains in vicious dispute among Shire scholars to this day.

While Ost-in-Edhil was her childhood home, Khazad-dûm the great inspiration of her life, and Imladris the home she and Elrond built together, her favourite place she ever lived in was Dol Amroth, by the sea.  It wasn’t Sea-longing, like her parents feared.  She just liked living on the coast.

Healing comes slowly, even in Valinor, but it does come.  She takes long walks beneath the trees with her uncle Finrod, speaking gently of the wondrous things they’ve seen and the joyous adventures they’ve had in Middle-earth.  She sits by her grandfather Finarfin’s right hand as he holds court, and finds laughter again hearing him comment in her mind about some of the more banal or petty petitions.  When the days dawn sad and grey, she goes to visit a white tower by the sea where her mother-in-law lives and understands quite a lot about despair and wounds that struggle to heal.  She sits in silence at the top of the tower, looking out onto the Sundering Seas and feeling the cold sea breeze against her face, harsh and briny and alive alive alive.  Then she goes down and helps Elwing with the chores, because she was raised properly with manners and doing the dishes, too, is living.

She starts designing their house on Tol Eressëa some decades before the Last Ship sets sail, but does not break ground until Elrond arrives.  Mostly so that they can build it together, but also partly because he is sure to have strong opinions on the plumbing and they have not had the chance to really debate with each other since the boys were born. 

[ace-oreos]

Hey I got three prompt idea for your alpha fic (that I just finished reading, and I loved it): 1) Alpha, Fordo (and the rest of the ARCs of hypori, if you want, because a squad of ten arc have potentiel) and Satine meet while Kenobi are left in the middle of this. 2) Alpha and Fordo meet Ahsoka, Ahsoka fangirl, because Alpha ARC trooper, Fordo is puzzled and Alpha discover there is three of them now. 3) the Alpha ARC meet the newly promoted ARC, your choice if this goes good or bad

Ooh all of these were so fun, anon! Although I do have to admit I think the first one was my favorite to write - Alpha has no time for Kenobi's drama, but he's not above making Obi-Wan's life difficult. XD

And to no one's surprise, the ARC in the third little snippet is an OC! I haven't actually written much with him, but he's been taking up some space in my brain for a while now.

Taglist: @delta-the-mando @merspots @the-mandalorian-clone-lover @dudewhynotthis @a-lil-perspective @trashynishiki (because I know Obi-Wan amuses you to no end)

Alpha has been General Kenobi’s second long enough to know far more about the man’s various romantic pursuits than he ever wanted - there’s no way to avoid it, given the rate at which rumors whirl through the ranks and grow more ludicrous every day.

As for the second parties in question - Kenobi always becomes conveniently deaf at any mention, so Alpha has limited information for comparison - he is convinced that the Mandalorian duchess is the worst.

He very deliberately avoids catching Fordo’s eye; if his brother cracks, then it’s over for both of them. The clipped exhale picked up on his helmet audio confirms his suspicions.

Kenobi casts Alpha a look of warning. Alpha spreads his hands to indicate that he will not be acceptable for the aftermath when Fordo finally snaps and turns his attention to the duchess.

Her face is set with the same polite disinterest he’s seen on Coruscant politicians, although this time it’s accompanied by a distinct sense of disapproval. Alpha returns the look with interest. He doesn’t like her, and seeing as Kenobi is too busy trying to salvage his dignity, someone has to let her know.

Unfortunately, the Force tips him off, or maybe the general knows him too well by now; whatever the reason, Kenobi clears his throat before Alpha can think of a fitting comment for the situation.

Alpha plays innocent. Kenobi may know him, but Fordo is a wild card, and his brother certainly has a mouth -

“So,” Fordo says, and Alpha can hear the wicked grin in his voice, “I take it you and the general know each other?”

Kenobi’s face is a study in abject horror, the duchess’ somewhere between outrage and mortification, and Fordo looks duly pleased with himself. Alpha, for his part, is intensely grateful for his helmet. He certainly couldn’t care less about Kenobi’s private life, but he has a feeling that he and Fordo both will be getting an earful before the negotiations conclude.

_________________

Skywalker’s Padawan - General Skywalker - is a scrap of enthusiasm and curiosity wrapped up in an undeniably impulsive package.

She’s learned her lessons a little too well, Alpha decides, catching the look on her face. It’s somewhere between wary and inquisitive as she considers the ARCs with a thoughtful tilt of her head.

Suddenly she brightens. “You served with Master Skywalker.”

“It’s been a while,” Alpha says reluctantly. He’s acutely aware of how young she is; even the cadets on Kamino don’t give off the same sense of naivety. He’d rather not admit it, but he’s not at all sure how to handle her.

Fordo slings a companionable arm over his shoulder. “And I’m sure the general has taken your lessons to heart.”

Alpha glares - or he would, if Tano weren’t watching raptly.

“He’s told me about you,” the commander says, and Alpha knows in no uncertain terms that the grin spreading across Fordo’s face means trouble for him in the very near future.

Right on cue, his brother asks innocently, “Has he?”

Alpha jams his heel into his Fordo’s foot at the same time Tano starts rattling off every campaign and minor skirmish Alpha and Skywalker have ever been involved with. It’s almost impressive, her recall and her ability to list every planet and star system without pausing for breath in between. As it is, Alpha finds the attention uncomfortable.

When Tano’s recitation finally comes to a close, Alpha seizes the opportunity to put in, “Don’t forget Captain Fordo’s squad, ma’am.”

The dismay is written plainly across Fordo’s face as he tries to minimize the damage, saying, “It’s really not that exciting - ”

“Shabuir,” he hisses five minutes later, when Tano is hurling questions at both of them left and right. Alpha merely smirks in response.

They manage to escape within the hour, citing a briefing for a mission command is unaware they’ve assigned.

“Well,” Fordo says at last, “she’s Skywalker’s, alright.”

Alpha can’t help but make a face at that. Even Skywalker knew when to keep his mouth shut. Tano, on the other hand, has yet to absorb that particular lesson.

“Captain!”

The voice carries clearly through the hallway, and Alpha comes to a grudging halt. Tano catches up to them, twin lightsabers bouncing on her belt as she tries to maintain some measure of dignity.

“What can I do for you, Commander?” Alpha asks, wondering if she can sense his exasperation.

“I think my Master is supposed to accompany you on this next mission,” the commander explains. She smiles up at him with all the confidence in the world. “It only makes sense that I go too, don’t you think?”

“Well - ”

“D’you know, Master Kenobi was younger than I am now when he went on his first mission.”

“He might’ve mentioned it - ”

“I’m sure he’d be happy to have you on this one,” Tano continues cheerfully.

“I, uh, have a new assignment…”

“Oh, don’t worry, Alpha,” the commander says, patting his arm amiably. “Master Kenobi can pull some strings.”

Alpha, already intimately familiar with Kenobi’s methods, has to work to keep his dismay from showing on his face.

_________________

Alpha wakes abruptly after a particularly tiring training session to find Fordo waving a datapad perilously close to his face.

“What are you doing?” he demands, awake enough to be irritated.

“New ARC recruit,” Fordo announces, and the datapad whizzes by Alpha’s nose to land on his stomach.

Alpha smacks Fordo for good measure and picks up the datapad. As reluctant as he is to indulge his brother’s antics, he’s intrigued by the news. ARC recruits are few and far between these days.

It’s one of Skywalker’s di’kute, cross-trained from the infantry ranks.

“And you’re in luck,” Fordo continues, helping himself to the spot on the bed by Alpha’s feet. “He’s on planet now. You can give him the ARC speech.”

“ARC speech?”

“You know, do honor to your brothers and Jango, et cetera. The usual osik.”

“Shove off,” Alpha says. “I don’t give a - ”

“Whatever you say, ner vod.”

“I’m not - don’t look at me like that!”

“Like what?” Fordo asks innocently.

“You little - ”

Just as Alpha readies himself to throw something at Fordo - or tackle him head-on - the door slides open, followed by an uncertain, “Sir?”

Alpha straightens in time to see a trooper in full armor tuck his blue-striped helmet under one arm. His face is studiously blank, but there’s a smile playing on his lips.

“Four-one-oh-eight, sir,” the trooper says unprompted, apparently unbothered by the awkward silence. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“Not at all,” Alpha says, and takes care to step on Fordo’s foot as he approaches the trooper. He ignores the ensuing yelp and instead opts for, “What can I do for you?”

“The general referred me to you. Seemed to think I could pick up a few pointers.”

“That would be Skywalker?”

“Got it in one, sir.” Now the trooper gives a wry grin. “He recommended me for ARC training.”

“Got a name, kid?” Fordo asks, playing the steady ori’vod he absolutely is not.

“Ike, sir.”

“Well, Ike,” Fordo says, “glad to have you.”

“Don’t let Skywalker get in your head too much, yeah?” Alpha puts in.

Ike’s grin widens. “Yeah, I’ve heard stories.”

“If you’ve made it this far, you’ve already got more self-preservation than the general,” Alpha reassures him, offering a sardonic smile of his own.

“I’d like to think so, sir,” the trooper answers, almost sincere if not for the look of mischief in his eyes.

Yeah, Alpha likes this kid. If he’s careful, he may even make it past his first deployment.

Alpha claps him on the shoulder. “Welcome aboard, ner vod.”

[libraryoffandomsuniverse]

Being Tywin Lannister’s favourite child

Another idea that wouldn’t leave my head until I wrote it down!!! This is a mixture of both the book and the show. Warning for possible misogyny (I tried not to make it obvious, but it’s there. Westeros is a very misogynistic place after all). This is also a little Jaime and Cersei critical, so ymmv.

Congratulations on being a member of Westeros’ most dysfunctional family.

Don’t get me wrong, other noble families have problems of their own (the Greyjoys, Targaryens, Tarlys, to name just a few) but your family is so ostentatious with how messed up they are that they’re in another league.

You were born a few years after the twins.

Out of all your siblings, you’re the one who resembles your mother the most.

It was a fact that caused Tywin pain when she died, but he later grew to think of it as a comfort that some likeness to his beloved Joanna remained after her death.

Tywin Lannister never smiles, it’s true. But when you’re around him, his face does soften and relaxes.

One day the corners of his mouth crept up a fraction after you’d been particularly witty.

Tywin doesn’t mind you asking him questions, particularly about governing the Westerlands, because you always do it privately (to publicly question his judgement would be suicide) and they’re not stupid questions (if you think they are, you go to your Uncle Kevan because he’s more amiable).

Tywin’s never said it aloud, but he’s often thought that it would’ve been best if you’d been born a boy. House Lannister’s greatness would have continued under your leadership, but alas.

You get along well with your brothers, but Tyrion is your favourite.

You and him are the more intellectual siblings. You swap books together and converse about a wide range of topics.

Whenever you’re apart, you send each other long letters that always entertain the sender.

Part of you resents Jaime for joining the Kingsguard, because he was supposed to be the Lord of Casterly Rock and he threw it away.

Only a Lannister can love the Rock. What kind of Lannister gives it up?

You and Cersei have a complicated relationship.

As children, you were both very close (but not as close and her and Jaime) and you actually looked up to her.

She adored you in return.

You were so happy for her when she became Robert’s Queen.

And when her children were born, you fawned over them and constantly sent them little presents.

But as the years began to pass, your relationship became more and more tense, until you both seemed to get along better when you were miles away from each other.

Before your marriage, you helped your father run Casterly Rock. You did a superb job; he was impressed by your prudence, your discretion and your wit.

Cersei began to resent how Tywin listened to you more than her. She felt that he valued your opinion more than hers and discontent began to settle in her heart.

Tywin takes great care when it comes to choosing your husband. Cersei’s a Queen, so your marriage won’t be quite so magnificent.

But you’re a Lannister, so you’ll still get a very good one.

You end up being married off to one of the most powerful houses in the Westerlands.

Your husband is the heir. He’s not politically astute (unlike you), but he is kind, handsome and only a few years older than you.

Plus you later find out that he’s great in bed.

Your marriage is happy. You have several children and your husband succeeds to his Lordship a few years after you’re wed.

When Tywin sends Tyrion to King’s Landing, you join your little brother.

You arrive with your children and entourage (your husband stays behind to fight against the Northmen with your father) and Cersei is pissed.

She’s furious that Tyrion’s been made Hand and she despises the way that you’re treated as Queen in all but name.

Varys likes working with you and Tyrion. Both of you are the more reasonable Lannisters and he enjoys verbally sparring with you both.

You and Tyrion play good cop, bad cop with Pycelle. After Tyrion’s thrown Pycelle in the cells, you loudly advocate for his release.

It’s faked - you think he’s better off dead, but by petitioning for his release, you know you’ll gain his support. Pycelle dislikes Tyrion, but he can trust you.

Pycelle internally admits that you’re more reasonable than your sister. 

After the Battle of the Blackwater, you avoid recrimination from Tywin. You hadn’t taken charge of the troops like Tyrion had. Instead you’d been responsible for ensuring calm during the siege and boosting morale among the nobles and the city’s population.

When Tywin becomes Hand, your husband joins him on the Small Council.

It’s an open secret that you’re the real power behind your husband and all his ideas are yours. You don’t attend the Council meetings yourself, but you still know what’s been discussed. Usually because your husband or Pycelle have dropped in afterwards to tell you.

Whenever you and Olenna Tyrell cross paths, it’s like two tigers circling each other. Separated by decades and family loyalty, you’re exquisitely polite to each other. But your words have a bite to them.

If she wasn’t a Tyrell, you privately muse, you’d like her.

“If Y/N wasn’t a Lannister,” Olenna says to Margaery, “I’d like her.”

You don’t believe that Tyrion killed Joffrey. You express your thoughts once to your husband. You don’t dare to tell your father what you think; you know he’s wanted Tyrion dead for years.

When your husband breaks the news of Tywin’s death, you’re taken aback. Somehow you’d forgotten that your father was mortal, that he could die. It had seemed like Tywin Lannister would live forever.

When you start to cry, your husband comforts you.

You later find out that Tyrion killed him. It sends a cold shiver down your spine. You don’t want to believe it, but you know it’s true.

As soon as Tywin’s body is taken back to Casterly Rock, Cersei begins to assert herself. As Queen Regent, she takes control of the Small Council and your husband loses his position.

You’re furious. Your husband’s always worked for the betterment of the kingdom and the family. Now he’s been pushed out, replaced by toadies and sycophants who cater to Cersei’s growing paranoia.

When you find out your sister’s allowed the revival of the Faith Militant, you’re enraged. You remember your history lessons, you know what will happen.

You try to make Cersei see reason, but it ends in a screaming match between the two of you.

Hurtful words are exchanged, so painful that they cut you deep (you won’t cry until you’re back in your chambers) and she banishes you from court. Your relationship is broken beyond all repair.

All you can do is ensure that your husband and children are safe.

“We’re going home,“ you tell your husband as you prepare your household to begin packing. “My sister refuses to see reason and her paranoia is hurting the crown. I won’t let her stupidity bring us to ruin.”

Your party leaves King’s Landing the next day. You return to the Westerlands, to your husband’s ancestral home, where you’ll be able to avoid the coming political powder keg that’s due to erupt any day now.

[thekillerssluts]

DIY Magazine, October 2020.

Interview TALKING ‘BOUT MY GENERATION: WILL BUTLER

Talking to Will Butler is a bit like trying to have a conversation with a human magpie. Hugely enthusiastic and with a constant giggle on the go (“I have a nervous laugh, so I laugh at more things than I should…”), the 37-year-old has a tendency to veer off down strange tangents, taking your original point but then getting distracted or excited by some other new, shiny train of thought in a different direction.

You can tell he’s smart - not just booksmart, but the kind of smart where you can practically see the cogs turning at 100mph. “I love knowledge for its own sake,” he professes at one point. “I believe in it to a fault. I think it’s worth knowing all this shit, for no other reason than just knowing that it’s true.” And it’s this attitude that’s filled the three years since ‘Everything Now’ - he and his Arcade Fire bandmates’ society-skewering fifth LP.

In that time, amid world tours and festival headlines, Will has had two more children - twins - and went to Harvard to study a masters in public policy. He also found time to record ‘Generations’ - a second solo effort that takes the brilliantly all-over-the-place nature of 2015’s ‘Policy’ and hones it into something that’s more pointed, though still clearly fuelled by the same curious mind. Or as he puts it: “The first [album] it’s like, ‘I’m at the market! There’s some eggplants! Oh there’s a nice sausage guy! And OK cool I’ll get some of those and these!’ But then ‘Generations’ was much more like, ‘I’ve been storing these bones in my freezer for two years and now we’re gonna boil this down to make the pure essence of the beast’.”

Like most debuts from artists splintering off from their main projects, ‘Policy’ had been born from accumulating a collection of material that didn’t fit with his band. Unlike most, Will had just been nominated for an Oscar (for his soundtrack to Joaquin Phoenix film Her) before its release, “so that was a confidence boost,” he notes amiably. Conversely, the essence of ‘Generations’’ particular beast seems a far more targeted one - one intrinsically linked with the intense political conversations the musician had found himself wrangling with during his recent studies.

“I always want whatever I’m making to emerge out of what I’m living and for it to help me understand how I’m living better, so going to policy school was certainly part of that artistic project as well as the ‘what do we fucking do?’ project,” he explains. “I jokingly say that I was radicalised at Harvard, which is basically true. I was in a mid-career programme, so there were 25-year-old geniuses but also people in their middle age who’d worked in the UN in Pakistan or the government in Mexico. They had this whole perspective of how fucked everything is across the whole globe so it was… educational.

As such, his second brims with a sense of palpable unease for a society that’s not only crumbling before our eyes right now, but has been doing so intermittently for decades and centuries. The twinkling, finger-clicking patter of ‘Close My Eyes’ belies the all-too-timely despair beneath it (“The photograph is new / But I seen that same headline, and I got to dance to keep from crying”), Randy Newman-esque closer ‘Fine’ digs right back to “George Washington and all his slaves,” while ‘Not Gonna Die’, he explains, was written in direct response to the November 2015 Bataclan shootings.“All these things hit different people in different ways, but that was so close to home,” he says. “It was Christmas after that and I was shopping in Manhattan; I walked into Sephora and it was super crowded and I thought, there’s a lot of people in here, where would I go [if something like that happened]? And I got so mad. It fucking worked. You made me scared. I’m not gonna die in Sephora on 5th Avenue but you made me think about it, you fucking pieces of shit.“Mike Pence was writing about it before he was running for Vice President, like, ‘We need to make sure we don’t have any immigrants come in because the immigrants can do this to us here’. And it’s like, I’m not gonna be killed by a woman fleeing violence in Guatemala!! The terrorists and the people saying ‘Be afraid!’: what you’re doing is working, and I AM afraid, and fuck you.”

Perhaps most interestingly, however, ‘Generations’ doesn’t just point the finger outwards, it also poses questions of the singer’s own inherent part in it all. “A big chunk of this record is asking: What’s my place in American history? What’s my place in America’s present?” he explained in a previous statement about the album. “Both in general, but also extremely particularly: me as Will Butler, rich person, white person, Mormon, Yankee, parent, musician. What do I do? What can I do?”

“It’s basically like, ‘My God, how did we get here?’ - that Talking Heads line,” he continues now. “The record is at times literally a conversation with people arguing back and forth, and there’s a lot of questions raised and the answers aren’t answers - you just end the conversation in a different spot. There’s something to that process of discussing and coming to some sort of revelation only to find out what’s lacking there, and then you move onto the next conversation and find out what’s lacking there. I was pleased that the material felt cyclical and of a piece, and you feel like you’re in a different spot than you were at the beginning.”

Because yes, his latest might not provide all the answers - “This is a musical work and I don’t know what the end notes are,” he admits - but ‘Generations’ does emphasise the importance of asking the questions and having the conversations, both with the world and with yourself. And if you can have them over an album of musically explorative, rich and often perversely funny new offerings? All the better.

Next, he’ll return to the fold to begin work on Arcade Fire’s sixth opus. Writing for that had originally started in New Orleans before the pandemic hit, but the band “don’t have the file management down to really do it at a distance,” he chuckles. “Win and Régine are always demoing and working, and I’ve done a little. We always work on a record for about a year and a half and we’re not off that pace yet, we’re still weirdly on track…”

You can bet by the time that record lands, he’ll have chalked up a handful of other accomplishments to his name, too; lord only knows the political battleground of the coming weeks will give him enough food for thought. And in the inquisitive mind of Will Butler, thought and curiosity are clearly the most nourishing tools of all. “You can write a love song that’s super true, but can you write a history song that also is? And if it comes out right and there’s some value in it, then what does that mean?” he muses. “It’s about just trying different angles to express something true.”

‘Generations’ is out now via Merge.

Butler’s Bits

‘Generations’ is undoubtedly an album rooted in politics and society - this much we know. But it’s also a record that digs into the musician’s relationship with other parts of the human experience…

HUMOUR “It’s a coping mechanism and it’s also a worldview. There’s not exactly a cabaret scene in New York but the comedy here is quite musical and there’s a lot of comedians that interact with people in interesting ways. They’re a bit younger than me - I’m the oldest millennial - but there’s something in that spirit that feels relevant.”

RELIGION “I grew up Mormon and I’m still ethnically Mormon. It’s like The Smiths song, ‘Meet Me At The Cemetery Gates’ - ‘Keats and Yeats are on your side, and Wilde is on mine’, you lose, haha. I’m sure Yeats is such a fucking asshole but that’s my heritage. The classic lineage of the Western canon is how I grew up.”

ADULTHOOD “I have three kids now, and it doesn’t make me worry about the future so much as it’s made me learn so much about humanity watching them - watching how it all goes into the ‘this is what humans are’ mill. On ‘Policy’, the protagonists are a motley crew of rag-tag whatevers, whereas this is much more a coming of age novel - not like a teenager becoming an adult, but an adult becoming a worse adult…”

As featured in the October 2020 issue of DIY, out now.

[hello-robin-goodfellow]

Once upon a time there was a Queen who had a son so ugly and so misshapen that it was long disputed whether he had human form. A fairy who was at his birth said, however, that he would be very amiable for all that, since he would have uncommon good sense. She even added that it would be in his power, by virtue of a gift she had just then given him, to bestow as much sense as he pleased on the person he loved the best. All this somewhat comforted the poor Queen. It is true that this child no sooner began to talk than he said a thousand pretty things, and in all his actions there was an intelligence that was quite charming. I forgot to tell you that he was born with a little tuft of hair upon his head, which made them call him Riquet[1] with the Tuft, for Riquet was the family name.

Seven or eight years later the Queen of a neighboring kingdom had two daughters who were twins. The first born of these was more beautiful than the day; whereat the Queen was so very glad that those present were afraid that her excess of joy would do her harm. The same fairy who was present at the birth of little Riquet with the Tuft was here also, and, to moderate the Queen’s gladness, she declared that this little Princess should have no sense at all, but should be as stupid as she was pretty. This mortified the Queen extremely; but afterward she had a far greater sorrow, for the second daughter proved to be very ugly.

“Do not afflict yourself so much, madam,” said the fairy. “Your daughter shall have her recompense; she shall have so great a portion of sense that the want of beauty will hardly be perceived.”

“God grant it,” replied the Queen; “but is there no way to make the eldest, who is so pretty, have any sense?”

“I can do nothing for her, madam, as to sense,” answered the fairy, “but everything as to beauty; and as there is nothing I would not do for your satisfaction, I give her for gift that she shall have power to make handsome the person who shall best please her.”

As these princesses grew up, their perfections grew with them. All the public talk was of the beauty of the elder and the rare good sense of the younger. It is true also that their defects increased considerably with their age. The younger visibly grew uglier and uglier, and the elder became every day more and more stupid: she either made no answer at all to what was asked her, or said something very silly. She was with all this so unhandy that she could not place four pieces of china upon the mantelpiece without breaking one of them, nor drink a glass of water without spilling half of it upon her clothes.

Although beauty is a very great advantage in young people, the younger sister was always the more preferred in society. People would indeed go first to the Beauty to look upon and admire her, but turn aside soon after to the Wit to hear a thousand most entertaining and agreeable things; and it was amazing to see, in less than a quarter of an hour’s time, the elder with not a soul near her, and the whole company crowding about the younger. The elder, dull as she was, could not fail to notice this; and without the slightest regret would have given all her beauty to have half her sister’s wit. The Queen, prudent as she was, could not help reproaching her several times for her stupidity, which almost made the poor Princess die of grief.

One day, as she had hidden herself in a wood to bewail her misfortune, she saw coming to her a very disagreeable little man, but most magnificently dressed. This was the young Prince Riquet with the Tuft, who having fallen in love with her upon seeing her picture,–many of which were distributed all the world over,–had left his father’s kingdom to have the pleasure of seeing and talking with her. Overjoyed to find her thus alone, he addressed himself to her with all imaginable politeness and respect. Having observed, after he had paid her the ordinary compliments, that she was extremely melancholy, he said to her:–

“I cannot comprehend, madam, how a person so beautiful as you are can be so sorrowful as you seem to be; for though I can boast of having seen a great number of exquisitely charming ladies, I can say that I never beheld any one whose beauty approaches yours.”

“You are pleased to say so,” answered the Princess, and here she stopped.

“Beauty,” replied Riquet with the Tuft, “is such a great advantage, that it ought to take place of all things besides; and since you possess this treasure, I can see nothing that can possibly very much afflict you.”

“I had far rather,” cried the Princess, “be as ugly as you are, and have sense, than have the beauty I possess, and be as stupid as I am.”

“There is nothing, madam,” returned he, “shows more that we have good sense than to believe we have none; and it is the nature of that excellent quality that the more people have of it, the more they believe they want it.”

“I do not know that,” said the Princess; “but I know very well that I am very senseless, and that vexes me mightily.”

“If that be all which troubles you, madam, I can very easily put an end to your affliction.”

“And how will you do that?” cried the Princess.

“I have the power, madam,” replied Riquet with the Tuft, “to give to that person whom I love best as much good sense as can be had; and as you, madam, are that very person, it will be your fault only if you have not as great a share of it as any one living, provided you will be pleased to marry me.”

The Princess was quite confused, and answered not a word.

“I see,” replied Riquet with the Tuft, “that this proposal does not please you, and I do not wonder at it; but I will give you a whole year to consider it.”

The Princess had so little sense and, at the same time, so great a longing to have some, that she imagined the end of that year would never come, so she accepted the proposal which was made her.

She had no sooner promised Riquet with the Tuft that she would marry him on that day twelvemonth than she found herself quite otherwise than she was before: she had an incredible faculty of speaking whatever she had in her mind in a polite, easy, and natural manner.

She began that moment a very gallant conversation with Riquet with the Tuft, which she kept up at such a rate that Riquet with the Tuft believed he had given her more sense than he had reserved for himself.

When she returned to the palace, the whole court knew not what to think of such a sudden and extraordinary change; for they heard from her now as much sensible discourse and as many infinitely witty phrases as they had heard stupid and silly impertinences before. The whole court was overjoyed beyond imagination at it. It pleased all but her younger sister, because, having no longer the advantage of her in respect of wit, she appeared in comparison with her a very disagreeable, homely girl.

The King governed himself by her advice, and would even sometimes hold a council in her apartment. The news of this change in the Princess spread everywhere; the young princes of the neighboring kingdoms strove all they could to gain her favor, and almost all of them asked her in marriage; but she found not one of them had sense enough for her. She gave them all a hearing, but would not engage herself to any.

However, there came one so powerful, so rich, so witty, and so handsome that she could not help feeling a strong inclination toward him. Her father perceived it, and told her that she was her own mistress as to the choice of a husband, and that she might declare her intentions. She thanked her father, and desired him to give her time to consider it.

She went by chance to walk in the same wood where she met Riquet with the Tuft, the more conveniently to think what she ought to do. While she was walking in a profound meditation, she heard a confused noise under her feet, as it were of a great many people busily running backward and forward. Listening more attentively, she heard one say:–

“Bring me that pot,” another, “Give me that kettle,” and a third, “Put some wood upon the fire.”

The ground at the same time opened, and she saw under her feet a great kitchen full of cooks, kitchen helps, and all sorts of officers necessary for a magnificent entertainment. There came out of it a company of cooks, to the number of twenty or thirty, who went to plant themselves about a very long table set up in the forest, with their larding pins in their hands and fox tails in their caps, and began to work, keeping time to a very harmonious tune.

The Princess, all astonished at this sight, asked them for whom they worked.

“For Prince Riquet with the Tuft,” said the chief of them, “who is to be married to-morrow.”

The Princess, more surprised than ever, and recollecting all at once that it was now that day twelvemonth on which she had promised to marry the Prince Riquet with the Tuft, was ready to sink into the ground.

What made her forget this was that when she made this promise, she was very silly; and having obtained that vast stock of sense which the prince had bestowed upon her, she had entirely forgotten the things she had done in the days of her stupidity. She continued her walk, but had not taken thirty steps before Riquet with the Tuft presented himself to her, gallant and most magnificently dressed, like a prince who was going to be married.

“You see, madam,” said he, “I am exact in keeping my word, and doubt not in the least but you are come hither to perform your promise.”

“I frankly confess,” answered the Princess, “that I have not yet come to a decision in this matter, and I believe I never shall be able to arrive at such a one as you desire.”

“You astonish me, madam,” said Riquet with the Tuft.

“I can well believe it,” said the Princess; “and surely if I had to do with a clown, or a man of no sense, I should find myself very much at a loss. ‘A princess always keeps her word,’ he would say to me, ‘and you must marry me, since you promised to do so.’ But as he to whom I talk is the one man in the world who is master of the greatest sense and judgment, I am sure he will hear reason. You know that when I was but a fool I could scarcely make up my mind to marry you; why will you have me, now I have so much judgment as you gave me, come to such a decision which I could not then make up my mind to agree to? If you sincerely thought to make me your wife, you have been greatly in the wrong to deprive me of my dull simplicity, and make me see things much more clearly than I did.”

“If a man of no wit and sense,” replied Riquet with the Tuft, “would be well received, as you say, in reproaching you for breach of your word, why will you not let me, madam, have the same usage in a matter wherein all the happiness of my life is concerned? Is it reasonable that persons of wit and sense should be in a worse condition than those who have none? Can you pretend this, you who have so great a share, and desired so earnestly to have it? But let us come to the fact, if you please. Putting aside my ugliness and deformity, is there anything in me which displeased you? Are you dissatisfied with my birth, my wit, my humor, or my manners?”

“Not at all,” answered the Princess; “I love you and respect you in all that you mention.”

“If it be so,” said Riquet with the Tuft, “I am happy, since it is in your power to make me the most amiable of men.”

“How can that be?” said the Princess.

“It is done,” said Riquet with the Tuft, “if you love me enough to wish it was so; and that you may no ways doubt, madam, of what I say, know that the same fairy who on my birthday gave me for gift the power of making the person who should please me witty and judicious, has in like manner given you for gift the power of making him whom you love and to whom you would grant the favor, to be extremely handsome.”

“If it be so,” said the Princess, “I wish with all my heart that you may be the most lovable prince in the world, and I bestow my gift on you as much as I am able.”

The Princess had no sooner pronounced these words than Riquet with the Tuft appeared to her the finest prince upon earth, the handsomest and most amiable man she ever saw. Some affirm that it was not the fairy’s charms, but love alone, which worked the change.

They say that the Princess, having made due reflection on the perseverance of her lover, his discretion, and all the good qualities of his mind, his wit and judgment, saw no longer the deformity of his body, nor the ugliness of his face; that his hump seemed to her no more than the grand air of one having a broad back, and that whereas till then she saw him limp horribly, she now found it nothing more than a certain sidling air, which charmed her.

They say further that his eyes, which were squinted very much, seemed to her most bright and sparkling, that their irregularity passed in her judgment for a mark of the warmth of his affection, and, in short, that his great red nose was, in her opinion, somewhat martial and heroic in character.

However it was, the Princess promised immediately to marry him, on condition that he obtained the King’s consent. The King, knowing that his daughter highly esteemed Riquet with the Tuft, whom he knew also for a most sage and judicious prince, received him for his son-in-law with pleasure, and the next morning their nuptials were celebrated, as Riquet with the Tuft had foreseen, and according to the orders he had given a long time before.

@superkingofpriderock @princesssarisa @mademoiselle-princesse

[professorsparklepants]

The Discworld second gen au that's been bouncing around in my head:

Young Sam. Ankh-Morpork's first son. Looks exactly like you'd expect from a zygote whose DNA only decided between "big fat aristocrat" and "short skinny bastard" by way of fist fight. Amiable and agreeable, with a spine of steel and a tendency to hop cabs because he thought he saw an interesting species of bird.

Princess Esmerelda Margaret Note Spelling of Lancre. Known as "Baby Esme" in Lancre, "Spells" to the girls she went to boarding school with, and "Peggy" only on her own imagination. (Peggy isn't a name for princesses). Went to school in Quirm at her father's insistence, and is now considered too snooty for Lancre and too odd for Quirm, so she's struggling to find a place to fit in. Determined not to be a witch, despite her natural talent, because witches aren't allowed to muck about politics and she enjoys the mental exercise. Takes after her mother, with hair she keeps cropped short like a dandelion and a figure like an eleven year old boy who's spilled peas down his shirt.

Princess Matilda Rose of Lancre. Decided to be a witch and marry Pewsey Ogg when she was four and will not take no for an answer. Because of this, she's a very promising witch.

Prince Tom John of Lancre. The future king, named after his uncle. Quiet but creative, and cries with his mum when the baby birds they found in the garden die.

Dearheart von Lipwig. Clacks heiress. Dresses to be noticed so that everyone is looking right at her when she opens her mouth. Has good ideas and knows it, which unfortunately no one can begrudge her for because they are actually good ideas. Hates "the de Worde boy" with every fiber of her being, which is why she spends every party they both attend doing nothing but argue with him.

John von Lipwig. Goblins rights activist and union advocate. Quiet and unassuming and radiates trustworthiness. Makes his mother proud and his father wonder where they went wrong.

William Wynkyn de Worde. Unfortunately known as Wynkyn. In behavior and appearance every inch Sacharissa's son, except for his tendency to dress like a vampire. Combined with the extremely obvious family name, it's started a few rumors. Started planning the page spread for his wedding to Dearheart von Lipwig when he was seven years old, and has been continuously prodding her to figure out if she actually likes him or not ever since.

Some people claim the Duchess of Sto Helit secretly had twins with the part-time anthropomorphic personification of time, but no one has ever met them.

That's...what I got

[erebvvs]

μπλε λουλούδια.

❝ flowers of carnage, flowers of love...

after centuries of emotional rollercoasters you would think nothing would impress him – yes, him, an empath, a person whose sensations could make him quiver to the core. of course erebus enjoyed the lack of excitement, but chihan wanted to feel – sometimes he could not. but then, then he met him. him – a beautiful flower waiting to be cared for. him – so marvellous, he moved like a songbird. him, him, him. chihan was helplessly smitten with the stranger he saw dropping by his coffee shop. well, the ownership of the place was questionable at best. chihan did not remember buying it, he just woke up one day with this gorgeous store – and he did not complain. it was probably the best thing erebus ever did – whether he wanted to, or not.

but the location is far less important – maybe a little important. you see, the way the blue light hits his face is fascinating, chihan would stop and stare breathlessly. he was a work of art, and chihan wanted to touch him, he wanted to sculpt his features, make him immortal. and his heart would flutter every time he would look at him accidentally. he was always focused, lost in his task – chihan saw him draw, write notes, and study. he guessed he was a student, otherwise why would he spend so much time there? the shop was pretty popular among the younger generation – the chill vibes, the neat aesthetics, and the amiable service. chihan would usually watch over, make sure everything is in check – only rarely did he let people see him. but when they did, they were never disappointed. chihan was a pretty cheery person, always smiling, always polite. now his twin was a different story – yes, that is how he managed to get away with it. naming erebus his twin was almost disgusting – chihan’s self-loathing was getting in the way a lot of times. nevertheless, erebus has always been rude. and when he was out, the shop was not cared for – maybe it was for the best. however, erebus has been dorment for a while now. a long enough while to allow chihan to fall helplessly in love with a complete stranger.

do not get him wrong, chihan was definitely a hopeless romantic – but he has subdued any intense emotions, erebus was particularly hateful towards love. but this time – there was something about this particular boy that just made chihan act recklessly, made him almost believe he was normal. how much he wished he were – if erebus did not exist, if. erebus was there, chihan just ignored him – the part of him he hated so much. his entire attention was on the stranger, his every breath was to see him, his every smile was for him, he was dedicated to an imaginary cause. maybe it was what helped him stay in control for so long – maybe this was the cure.

❝ may darkness never catch your breath...

anyways, chihan’s eyes could not leave the table next to the window – how splendid the light hit his face, warming his features, colouring his hair, brushing his fingers. chihan clumsily slid his elbow across the bar, successfully hitting an empty cup, almost dropping it on the floor. one of the waitresses gave him a concerned look, he just smiled at her. this was it – he had to make a move. months, months he has been staring and nothing more. he never made any sort of move – if you disregard the extra drinks he has been sending and paying for from his own pocket. it was the least he could do, he was shy – he felt younger, at least a few centuries younger. suddenly, his mind was eighteen – he never experienced peaceful teenager years. he dreaded all that bundled up emotion, because erebus fed on it greedily. but this was positive, this was the best thing that happened to him in a very long time.

with all his might, he dropped the shy act. it was time, it was time, oh hell. chihan took a deep breath and picked his order, telling the waitress that he can deliver it himself. she gave him a knowing look, but he disregarded. he moved carefully, every step he took was painful – he could feel the air leave his body the closer he got. he has never been this close – and, he felt dizzy. the scent, it was so alluring, it made him float for a second. he could not put his finger on it, but somehow it made sense. he almost expected it – it felt like home. he was so nervous, his hands started to tremble – but he pulled himself together fast. he wanted to seem confident, confidence is attractive, right? he took a deep breathe, and placed the cup on the stranger’s table. he bit the inside of his cheeks so hard, it was a wonder he did not start bleeding immediately. he cleared his throat to announce his presence – how he hated to disturb him, he looked so peaceful, ethereal. he was so surreal – chihan could not believe he was alive. it felt like a dream.

“you’re a regular, so this is on the house,” chihan said in his scottish accent, that only got stronger over the years. he kept it simple, and his voice did not tremble! but his muscles were so clenched, he hoped he did not look constipated. he smiled – maybe a little too lost, dreamy. he did not want to leave, but he felt bad for invading someone’s privacy, he was not nosy. he turned on his heels and his lips curled up so much, he probably looked insane. that was all it took to make him happy. and his heart started beating so fast, he would not be surprised if everyone could hear it.

--- ( @afarit​ )

[boredroo]

A Messenger pt. 4

Summary: The Council has heard of the names that have reigned down London; the Frye twins have evidently brought upon a change for the better good against the Templar’s tyranny, but order must still be kept.

You have been sent by the Council to evaluate the two sibling assassins, report what is must and maintain control where it must be maintained.

Pairing: Jacob Frye x Reader

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3

[][][][][][][][]

The sun filtering through the glass window feels warm, but not too warmly as it must be if you were actually outside. You’re rather content, really, spending many hours in the moving train, interviewing and interrogating the people residing, or just resting within. Sometimes you are poring over notes of the Piece of Eden Evie has been so very devoted in searching for as well.

You’ve talked to the Assassins’ contacts who can be found from time to time lingering around the compartments, aside from Frederick Abberline who is of the Scotland Yard, so understandably he won’t spend much time here as the others. 

Ned Wynert, for example, is an amiable fellow who doesn’t ever mind your company and is always happy to answer whatever inquiries you have. Then, there’s Clara O’Dea, the child that has taken upon herself to lead other unfortunate children of the streets. And with her, truthfully, you find it more... difficult to even keep any sort of eye contact with. She has noticed this, the intelligent one she is, and has decided for both of your sake to stay away from you as long as she could help it—You remain indifferent to this, perhaps even relieved.

...She reminds you too much of a certain someone after all. And you refuse to have that familiarity, that... pain hold you back from your responsibilities.

But now, you focus on a different second party of yours; Henry Green smiles politely, kindly at every question you have. He is rather helpful for your part, having made observations and notes of his own on the Frye twins, though you can’t help but notice that...

“...Mr. Green, are you afraid of me?” you ask after a moment of consideration. He never looks you in the eye, you’ve noted.

Henry startles at this. “Uh, w-well...” He recollects himself, smiling a strained one. “You are a rather... authoritative person, I must admit. But I mean no disrespect, of course-”

You nod. “Not at all. But I do worry how you’re taken to Evie if you possibly find her intimidating as well.” The Frye sister is a definite nightmare to those who cross her, and so you can’t help but be curious.

Henry splutters in shock. “(Y/N)...! What are you saying?!”

His cry comes to you as a surprise. “I apologise, I didn’t mean to offend-”

“You’ll have to excuse me, (Y/N),” he rushes, walking past you in a manner of someone escaping from getting caught red-handed.

...Did you say something wrong? You never expected that Henry, someone as collected and professional as himself could ever put up such a display, and yet-

You hear a small laughter from behind.

Turning around, your notebook in hand...

“Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Frye.”

“And to you as well,” he winks as he tips his hat slightly, leaning comfortably against the wall not far from where you stand. Has he been there long? 

You’ve come to a realisation not long before this—that, as of late, you sometimes discover him in the periphery, watching you, your interactions, your routines, and only announcing himself quite later than what is appropriate. If not, he would be out there, surely setting fires to carts and carriages and doing the complete opposite of what his smart sister is doing.

“Very smooth there, what you did with Henry. Very subtle,” he smirks, coming to stand near you.

You purse your lips. “I didn’t mean any harm-”

“Of course you didn’t,” he’s come to stand nearer, having you look up to him, to that unchanging confident smile of his. “Just forget about Greenie, he’ll get over himself.”

“Greenie...” you couldn’t restrain an amused smile of your own, though you manage to avert your eyes away before you’re caught. You never notice the curious grin Jacob wears towards you.

“So, (Y/N),” Jacob rests his hand on your shoulder—you can’t help but freeze at the sudden, almost intimate gesture. “How are your reports so far? Surely you’ve seen just how much I am capable, and might I say, quite handsome?” He leans in playfully, complacently grinning.

You make a show of attentively going through your book with a hard, serious gaze, before forcefully snapping it shut. “Not a single bit,” you deadpan.

Rather than retaliating, he only stares, and laughs lightly right after, looking away delicately. His rather... gentle reaction has you frowning in confusion, but you cough the thought away.

“On a more serious note, I do think you of a capable assassin. You’re better than me, and many others I’ve known, that is obvious,” he looks briefly surprised at that. “But a little pinch of wisdom and careful planning would carry you even further. Alike to your sister and father.”

There, he groans.

“I’m telling the truth,” you insist, but he waves his hand in disinterest. 

“Okay, let’s not ruin the moment, yes?” he sighs exasperatedly. ...What moment?

You’re tempted to ask, sate your puzzlement but at his seemingly soured mood, you barely manage to hold your tongue.

“I was actually going to ask, (Y/N), if you wanted to tag along with me today,” Jacob says.

“Doing what?”

“Just a bit of extermination work, you know...” he snickers. “From those pests.”

He’s inviting you to work in the field with him?

You cock an eyebrow, hesitant. “Why?”

“Why not?”

You couldn’t prepare a ready answer for that, and Jacob grins in satisfaction in response.

“This is more of an opportunity for you to evaluate me, wouldn’t it?” He emphasises the ‘evaluate’ part, making you fidget in reluctance. Heat as if sears through where his hand is still touching your shoulder, and you feel your stomach churn for no good reason. Could he be using some sort of a... fear tactic on you?

“That is true, Mr. Frye,” you begin diplomatically, “But I never expected you to actually want to be evaluated. I admit, my reports on you are quite diminutive compared to your sister’s.”

His voice then sounds much closer than you expect, smooth and almost soft, like a whisper into your ear, “Then there’s no reason to say no, am I right?”

You look towards him, juggling the bundle of tangled words you have no idea how to string coherently. His eyes are bright as they lay against yours, and you suppress the urge to gulp.

“...Very well.”

The change is immediate; he pulls away briskly and slaps the small of your back. You’re almost hurled forward from his eager strength.

“Splendid! It’s a date then,” he beams, already making way towards the exit of the train.

“I-It is?” You mutter incredulously under your breath.

He doesn’t deign to answer, only catching your attention to show the meeting place on the map on the wall, along with sharing with you the designated time.

“Why aren’t we going together?” you ask before he could leap out.

Jacob scoffs. “Now, now, shouldn’t we take this slowly and steadily?”

You’re close to pulling your hair out and scream in frustration. What does that even mean?!

With a cheery wink, he removes his hat in bidding farewell, before leaving the train entirely.

...You really don’t understand the work which is Jacob Frye, and you aren’t sure whether you will ever, to be frank.

***

Meow.

You look up from your sketch in black ink, frowning at the cat sitting in front of your crouched self.

“Did you change positions again?” You grimace at the feline, refraining a weary sigh. She blinks blankly in response, and naturally goes to bathe herself, not exactly requiring any privacy from your eyes.

Your forehead scrunched up in dismay, you flip to the next page, beginning to doodle from scratch yet again, simply because the damned adorable cat refuses to stand still and let you bask in all her glory without giving you such a hard time. You suppose you’re drawing a cat licking her underside now, if that’s what she wants...

“...Now that’s what I call a masterpiece,” a voice comes from right behind you, and you scream.

As you scramble to stand upright, your notebook and pen slip out of your grasp and you’re a hot fumbling mess trying to catch them multiple times. And when you have, you whirl around, gaping to see Jacob standing there. You quickly brush down your clothes in a desperate act to appear... anything that you weren’t just seconds ago.

The hard twitch of Jacob’s lips brings you despair. You’d prefer if he’d just laugh all he wants, but instead his attempt of suppressing a surely wide smile is a gigantic blow you have to take to your pride and honour.

There’s a pause, just briefly as he seems to look you up and down, arms against his chest, until...

“Hello,” he slowly greets, the single word tinged with so much hidden meaning, so much mockery and amusement that you might as well have taken damage just from that.

“...Hello, Mr. Frye,” you answer, quieter. His smile cracks for just a second before he promptly nods, putting up a serious face, but failing utterly.

You really can’t take this any second longer. “You were late,” you say, almost accusingly. “You were late, so excuse me if I had to-”

“Woah there, settle down,” he says, raising his hands mid-air as if in surrender, “Not my business, yeah?”

“Indeed,” you almost sag in relief. “Thank you for understanding-”

But then he snatches your book out of your hands, immediately flipping through to land right where your horrible doodles are. Panic rams into you like a horse.

“F-Frye!”

“Wow, look at this one,” Jacob is now laughing without control, more than enjoying your masterpieces. “Art imitates life, as they say.”

“Frye, come on!” You struggle against him to take your book back, but he avoids you deftly. You’re not an artist at all, you were simply trying to fill the time, time that he himself made for coming later than the appointment you’ve decided on, but now he’s being childish! And you’re really just embarrassed about all of this...!

“Hey, that’s you, see?” He even shows the cat what you’ve drawn, which the latter finds interest only momentarily, too self-absorbed to care.

“Jacob!” You demand, and finally you’re able to get your hands back on your book after what feels like an hour of struggle. Jacob takes a step back, admitting defeat, but that stupid grin of his still won’t go away.

You’re huffing begrudgingly as you shove your items into your satchel, that when you’re done, you don’t allow Jacob to speak at all and instead push a finger against his chest, making him recline another step back.

“You’re insufferable!” You shout in frustration. He seems unfazed, and so you do it again, pushing him with your whole hand this time.

But he catches it with his own, holding onto your wrist, that when you try to retract back your hand, he doesn’t let you. You grit your teeth, snapping up angrily, only to fall back—almost fall back when you catch sight of his expression.

...Why is he looking so endearingly at you like that?

You frown, so furious, so... confused. You don’t understand what it is he’s trying to do, what he wants from you.

...It feels too long before the... strange atmosphere finally fades. He doesn’t let you go still, but he does slip something into your hand.

“Here,” he says, voice abnormally quieter than usual.

“Huh?”

In your grasp now, is something you’ve seen before. In fact, you recognise it immediately—

“This is... a grappling hook?” You question, looking over it at the same time. Jacob hums in confirmation.

“Thought you’d need one if you’re going to stay with us, really helps out in the long run if you’re not planning to scale every single building in the city,” he elaborates.

...He expects you to stay long with them?

The grappling hook, or the rope launcher as you can identify it both ways, is a tool specific for the use of the twins, and only the twins. Even Henry doesn’t own one, if you recall correctly. At least, not one that was specifically asked to be made, not like this one that Jacob is giving you.

“...Is this why you came late?” You ask. Jacob shrugs nonchalantly.

“Might’ve. I would’ve brought you to see Aleck as well, but mad scientists are busy men, it seems,” he says with a chuckle. “Perhaps next time.”

“...Thank you,” you barely manage to say, still a bit too caught off guard, and honestly, winded after that... silly, unprofessional little interaction between the two of you—You didn’t exactly expect this at all.

“Really, thank you,” you repeat, more genuinely this time. You look up to him, wanting to say more; Thank you for thinking of me, you try to say. ...But you can’t, you aren’t able to.

He doesn’t respond immediately, simply staring back at you in silence. But he breaks into a smile afterwards, then casually pats your arm.

“Don’t mention it,” he starts, and with a more mischievous smile, “Take it as... compensation. For laughing at your beautiful drawings.”

Your face falls. “I don’t usually draw, alright?! Like I said, you were late and I was bored-”

“Yes, yes,” he chuckles, his tone as if consoling a child. You’re still trying to prove whatever the point it is you’re making as he urges you to walk, both of you walking side by side to your next destination.

“No, really. If anything, those were impressive works considering I never pick up drawing or painting.”

“Of course, (Y/N). And I’m sure those cats will prove helpful for your reports to the Council.”

...And at that, you could only fall silent.

——

Aaaaaaaahhhh I think the relationship moved a bit too fast in this one but I kinda can’t help it :’) It’s supposed to be longer, but had to cut it here and save the follow-up for the next part. Thanks for reading, really appreciate the likes guys! 💖💖💖

[iamkatehardy]

At Last (Kray Twins x Reader) - Chapter 2

Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of violence

Author’s Notes: I’m Sorry it took me so long to update, I promise I’ll try to do it more frequently, and spice things up in Chapter 3!

Your feedback is always appreciated, whatever your opinion is <3

You can find Chapter 1 in my Masterlist ❤️

You had been working on Esmeralda’s Barn for some time. The Krays were more than just your bosses; the employers-employee relationship was quickly replaced by a warm-hearted one. Little did they know when they hired you that it would be a hell of a ride.

Before your Première on the club’s stage, you refused to stop working on the bar; you wanted to perform the tasks you were originally hired to, until the minute you’d receive their definitive order to stop and become exclusively a singer.

Reggie had told you an infinite amount of times that it was completely ok if you decided to engage in your rehearsals only and leave the bar, but you politely declined hid offer every single time, you wanted to prove your value on stage first. Besides that, working cleared your mind from your problems, and spending more time in the club meant you were safer.

After long hours of work in the bar, and putting everything in place for the next night, you’d finally rehearse. You’d spend hours on end composing and arranging songs meticulously, until your fingers were sore, your voice showed some hoarseness or your eyes were so puffy you couldn’t keep them open any longer.

Reggie’s marriage was definitely on the rocks, so he spent a lot of time on the club as well. Sometimes neither of you left until the sun was up. He spent most of his time alone in his office, upset with the situation and with himself, wondering where he went wrong with Frances. Before his sadness and rage consumed him from within, he’d come to sit at his usual table with a drink on his hand, to watch your performance, trying to set aside his problems for a while. You knew what it meant when Reggie’s bright eyes turned red, and you knew he didn’t deserve any of that, considering what you knew from his way of being.

One day you just couldn’t take it anymore, he had been too amiable and considerate with you for you to stand to see him that miserable. You came down the stage and reached out for him, putting your cold hands on his shoulder.

“I know I have no right to intrude in your life like this… But I really can’t help it; I absolutely loathe seeing you like that, Reggie…”

“And I can’t help feeling like this (Y/N). You don’t know the weight of a failed marriage…”

“Actually, I do, more than I’d like to…” – You rubbed his shoulders softly. – “And if you want to cry, or talk, you don’t have to do it on alone, I am here to dry your eyes…”

He looked up at you in surprise, and then hugged you by the waist, laying his head on your stomach; you ran your fingers through his slightly messy hair, protectively, as he just let tears flow freely.

You wouldn’t mind spending hours comforting him, if that would have any results. You had no idea why would a relationship with a man like Reggie be doomed; all you could see in him so far was only good.

Your instinct to protect the twins, perhaps because they protected you as well was something else. You treated Ron with endless love and patience, as if he was an adult-sized baby , which seemed to work, because he actually listened to your advice and became very fond of you. With Reggie it was different, you adored him from the depths of your heart, and you had started to develop feelings for him; the more you tried to avoid it, the more it grew inside you. His friendship was probably all you were going to get from him, and though it wasn’t nearly what you wanted, having him near and being gifted by his smile would have to be enough.

The day you’d officially make your debut in the Esmeralda’s Barn finally arrived, and a mixed of different feelings washed over you. You were nervous, excited, frightened, happy and a bunch of other things, all in equal proportions. As you sat in the dressing room, getting ready, you thought about singing for Reggie, the very thought of him made you unwind. Sometimes you wondered if he had the ability to read minds, because he had just showed up behind you; you saw his reflection in the mirror.

“How sneaky, Mr. Kray! I didn’t hear you coming in.” – You laughed, putting your earrings on, observing him through the mirror.

“Well, that was my goal. I wanted to surprise you.” – He stepped closed.

“Or causing me a heart attack maybe…” – You glared at him and then shrugged, giggling and turning on your chair to face him.

“I just wanted to wish you good luck, though I’ve been told many times that talented people, like yourself, don’t really need it my dear.” – He delivered you a gorgeous bouquet, with about a dozen delicate scarlet roses.

“Oh, thank you Reggie, you’re such a sweet! How did you know they were my favorite?” – You touched them carefully, smiling excited.- “My suspicions are now confirmed, you read minds! They are beautiful!”

“Not nearly as beautiful as you are.” – He smiled, taking your hand and kissing it gently, then planting a kiss on your forehead, letting his lips rest there for some seconds. – “You’ll sweep people off their feet!”

“Always so charming…” – A blush crept up your cheeks and you put the flowers in a vase with water.

“I better go now; I really want a front-row seat.” – He winked and then left.

“Oh Dear Lord, why do you do this to me?!” – You looked up at the heavens, asking for help. – “I’m married; HE’S married and loves his wife so much… Just, no.” – You slapped yourself lightly, to wake yourself up from your fantasies. After taking a sip of a drink that Teddy brought you earlier, you inhaled sharply, before going on stage.

The moment had come, this as your final test before the club’s birthday. Everyone had high expectations on you, and you didn’t want to let them down, especially the twins.

Fighting your demons, you faced the crowd, swallowing hard; Reggie gave you a warm reassuring smile; Ron gave you a nod, his own way of trying to raise your spirits; and Teddy, being his usual crazy self, clapped enthusiastically. Their support meant a lot.

From the moment the first note of the song was played, everything faded from your mind, the good, the bad, everything. Well, everything but a special someone. For a moment in time, there were only you, the melody and the words that slowly wrapped and mended your soul, just the kind of therapy you needed. Just you, and the love coming out of your lips on the form of a song. Your performance didn’t let any of your friends down, neither the people in the club, who gave you a standing ovation. You felt absolutely overwhelmed by their positive reaction and courtly bowed. You didn’t even think of the unwanted attention this night could bring you.

Ron immediately got up, coming forward and offering you his arm. You smiled, linking your arm on his and walked with him to the table, in order to celebrate your success.

“Do you think you could teach me how to sing? I’d like that.” – He looked at you with curious eyes.

“We can arrange that, yes.” – You smiled and rubbed your thumb on his cheek.

“That was fucking amazing.” – Teddy clapped and gave you a sly smile. – “Come on, today is the day, say it!”

“Yes, it was amazing indeed.” – You chuckled.

“ Ah ah ah ah ah! No, you forgot that magical adverb of intensity: fucking amazing.” – He made his priority since day one to make you say or do something that wasn’t lady like, so he was dying to hear you swearing.

“You’ll never give up, will you? Cheeky little thing.” – You rolled your eyes biting your lower lip. “Fine. It was fucking amazing, and I fucking loved it.” – You shrugged and laughed.

After some drinking and mingling, someone brushed past you, but you couldn’t see his face, just feel a familiar smell. You felt a chill down your spine, a crippling bad feeling, but the night was going so great you decided to ignore it. It was probably just your anxiety kicking in.

Reggie mingled with some clients for a while, but he was dying to talk to you, so he came to hug you, whispering in your ear.

“I am in awe (Y/N).” – His warm breath in your ear made you close your eyes for a second. – “Absolutely thrilling, love. What you did back there was pure magic, and t just confirmed my huge will of having you performing on the club’s birthday, and all the upcoming nights, for the matter. If you don’t get better proposals, which after tonight is a strong possibility.”  - He kissed the top of your head and then held your hands on his, caressing them.

“Your offer is the only one I’ll be considering and accepting, I like it here very much, thank you for the vote of trust.”  - You raised his hands to your lips and kissed them softly.

After socializing with them for a while, you started getting tired, so you headed to the dressing room. Arriving there you noticed another bouquet lying in the dressing table. The white Lilies resembled the ones you used to have in your house, the ones your husband always brought you, to compensate you for the harsh beatings. There was a card, a black R written on the front, you thought maybe it was Ron’s, to convince you about the singing classes, so you smiled and grabbed the card. When you opened it, you completely froze.

“I’m thrilled to see you again, my beloved wife. Knowing that you are, and will always be, mine, makes me the happiest man on Earth. We’ll be together soon; Together until death do us part. – Raymond”

It could have been a bad joke, but no one knew about Raymond, and it was his handwriting. You dropped the card and looked all around you, grabbing a silver letter opener in case he was around, and you started hyperventilating. The thought of him being there, where you thought you were safe, completely freaked you out, and his final words in the card didn’t help.

Reggie noticed your absence, so he came to check on you. Seeing you absolutely in shock, he got worried sick. He approached slowly and took the letter opener out of your hand.

“(Y/N)?” – He caressed your arm gently.

“He’s going to kill me.” – Your eyes were wide, your face showing pure horror, tears streaming helplessly down your cheeks, a lump in your throat. You couldn’t even make a sound.

Reggie didn’t understand, you hadn’t talked to him about Raymond.

“He… He was here, he’ll come after me.” – You stuttered, looking around.

“Who was here, darling?” – He wrapped his arms around you, and tried to understand the motive for so much distress. You held on to him for dear life.

“My husband. This time he’ll kill me” – You sobbed.

Reggie was confused when you mentioned a husband, you never did before. He covered your salty cheeks with kisses.

“No one will hurt you (Y/N), I would never allow such a thing, yeah?”

“You don’t understand, he was here, in this room…” – You picked the card and shower him.

He analyzed the card, rubbing a thumb across his lips, in deep thought.

“It won’t happen again…” – He lifted his eyes to you. – “I promise you, I’ll be alert and no one will hurt you. I am here for you, always.” – He enveloped you in his arms again, bathing you with his warmth and his comforting smell, his arms protective when wrapped around the vulnerable woman in front of him. – “Listen, you are one of the most delicate, yet powerful woman I’ve met. You deserve to be unconcerned and happy, and I’ll take care of that, yeah darling?"

“No… He just won’t stop, no matter what. He loves to see me terrified; he loves to have me begging, while he’s beating the shit out of me. The terror and despair feed him.Believe me, I’ve learned the hard way that next time that possessive psychopath won’t stop until he kills me, you read what he wrote. He thinks I’m one of his belongings, one he vents his anger on, when things don’t go as planned, until he snaps and ends my life.” – You laid your head in his chest, sighing, desperate.

The bruises on your face and wrists on the very first day you met were now explained. His blood was boiling, at the thought of someone hurting you that way.

“Trust me (Y/N), I won’t let anything happen to you, ever again. I’ll be watching you the whole time in here, I’ll be taking you home myself, I’ll stay with you if needed… Whatever will make you feel better, love.” – He stroked your hair, and he made you forget about the world outside, as you melted in his arms.

The following days were everything but easy, the thought of Raymond being around, or coming after you were daunting. There was a maniac waiting to strike and you didn’t know if you, or Reggie, could do anything to help it. It made you feel uneasy.

Reggie informed Ron about the situation, honestly he thought your husband deserved whatever Ron-style treatment his brother would give your him ,if he caught him anywhere near you.

He took care of you himself though, always aware, and ready to bail you out of any harmful situation. You complicated his mission, because you insisted you’d keep living your normal life, working and singing as usual.

This whole situation made Reggie forget about his own problems, his main concern was now his need to ensure you were safe, he couldn’t quite put his finger why, but right now you came first.

[ur-mom-kayn]

Happy Father’s Day

A little story about Vergil and Nero. DMC 5 Spoiler are included!

Several months passed after that 15th of June. After Dante and Vergil jumped into the underworld to cut the Qlipoth tree and close the gate from the other side, Nero took over the business meanwhile. Together with Nicoletta Goldstein, he traveled from A to B to root out the remaining demons in Red Grave City, so that the city became habitable again. Trish and Lady also helped out and took orders from Morrison to secure the rental of the Devil May Cry. The situation is pretty much normalized. While the ladies always ordered pizza, Nero preferred Kyrie's homemade. No delivery service is better than her. Fortunately, Fortuna was not far away from the others, so Nero always got home in the evening.

A big disadvantage had Dante's disappearance. Nero had far too many women around him. One was enough for him. He desperately needed male reinforcement again. Since he learned that he has a family, he was all the more eager for it. Unfortunately, immediately after he found out, he lost both family members. It was strange to feel something like yearning for a man who had missed all his development as a man. Vergil really deserved the award for the worst father of the year. First, separate his son's right arm and then disappear into the underworld.

All his life he lacked male role models. Credo was the only one who could show him to be a man. But even he had to find out for himself. Nero had little choice but to fight his way through life and find his own way. Looking back, he is very happy that he became a man on his own. Neither his father nor his uncle is suitable for a role model. Nor their dealing with conflicts or with women suits Nero. They fight like children and try to kill each other. Not to mention that they indiscriminately sleep with women and cannot remember their names the next day. Such a man Nero didn't want to be and he is not. Unlike the idiots, he loves and honors his girlfriend. For her, he would run through hell and take on any torture just to save her. Kyrie was his sun and at the same time the person who keeps him on the ground. She never asked questions about his job and distracted him from everyday stress. Her voice was that of an angel, even though she didn’t have the same musical taste as him, he was her biggest fan. In his eyes, she was just perfect.

...

Right now he was sitting at the dinner table with Kyrie, happily feeding her casserole. She had cooked too much again. Today, the house was exceptionally empty. No Nico, Trish or Lady. Everyone came to visit them constantly. Today, however, the couple remained under themselves and that was a good thing. Sometimes the others were just exhausting. While Nero was stuffing his stomach, Kyrie was preparing more things. "Honey now sit down for a while. I can not eat any dessert here anymore. I'm already overwhelmed enough." "But you need the energy. You have to become big and strong, after all," Kyrie joked. "Very funny. Now plant yourself and eat with me. Otherwise, it'll be cold." "Give me another 5 min." Nero let it to discuss with her. When he decided to continue eating, the doorbell rang. "Kyrie? Are you expecting visitors?" "No, but do you still want to look?"

Since the incident in the garage, Nero has been extra careful while opening doors. He could easily refrain from losing limbs again. As he remembered this incident, he looked into the face of the man who had put him in this position. "V-V Virgil? I mean, father? What are you doing here? How did you get out of the underworld?" "No hello?" Nero remained speechless for a while. He did not know exactly how to handle the unexpected visit. If Dante stood in front of him, he would have stupidly flogged and messed with him. But with Vergil was not so much fun.

"Yeah sure. Hello. Do you want to answer one of my questions now?" "One thing I can actually answer for you and that’s why I am here. I think my last visit was not very enjoyable. Also, I had no idea that I have a son. I just followed the energy of Yamato and everything else did not bother me a shit. Can you understand?" "No, I can not. I'm not going to cut a stranger's arm off just because he has the Red Queen. That's stupid." "We have different views. But whatever. At first, you did not care. I did not want to have anything to do with you or otherwise have a family connection. But the longer I was in hell with Dante, the more he told me about you. I became curious and had become friends with the idea of owning a son. Do not get me wrong. This is not supposed to be a reunion here. I just want to meet you as long as you feel like it."

He definitely did not expect that. Slamming the door in front of him did not work, but pretending that nothing had happened felt wrong. Nevertheless, Nero overcomes himself. "I can not leave now. There is still a pile of a casserole on the table and someone has to eat it, otherwise, my girlfriend will be uncomfortable. So if you do not already have plans, you can really join this time." "Thank you for welcoming me with open arms," Vergil answered, just walking past Nero into the house. "Hey! No jokes about that." Nero closed the door behind them and showed him the way to the kitchen.

The first thing he noticed was Kyrie, who was also preparing a cheesecake. Hopefully, Vergil behaved towards her. "Hey, Nero. Who brought you there?" Kyrie approached Vergil and looked closer into his face. "Dante? No. But the face is so similar. Ehm, I'm glad to meet you. I am Kyrie, Nero's girlfriend." Amiable as she was, she sincerely extended a hand to Vergil to greet him. Vergil looked puzzled at first but took the handshake like a normal person. "The pleasure is mine. I'm not Dante, but his older twin brother Vergil and the old gentleman of the boy next to me." Nero could see clearly how Kyrie froze a little bit. I hope she did not turn now. "Did I say something wrong?" "No, I think she did not prepare to meet her future father-in-law. Come let us sit." Nero went ahead and sat down. Kyrie fetched dishes for Vergil and then sat next to Nero, where Vergil sat in front of him.

"So, is it really that far, or are you not engaged?" Confused, Kyrie and Nero looked at each other. "Ehm, we never talked about the possibility of a wedding. We are still relatively young. That was more of a joke than serious earlier." Nero said visibly nervous. He did not want to say anything wrong and annoy Kyrie. She smiled confidently and hooked on Nero's right arm, which was the normal human arm at the time. "Nevertheless, I was somewhat surprised to meet the other son of Sparda out of nothing. I'm basically overwhelmed with your family history. "Vergil looked skeptically at Kyrie. "How is that meant?" "Well, you should know that Kyrie believes in a religion where Sparda resembles a deity. The fact that she was allowed to meet Dante was an ‘honor’ for her, and when it came out that I'm practically the grandson of Sparda, that brought the cask to overflow." Nero had to smile over it again and again. "Hey, do not make fun of me. What else is left to us humans than to hope for a savior?", Justified his girlfriend. "Sry, it's funny. You know me as a human. Then we come closer, suddenly I am a demon and save your life, we become a couple and a long time later you find out that you are in fact with the grandson of your Almighty together. That's just the funniest thing I've ever heard." "Yeah, but I love you for your personality and not for your roots." "I know, I just wanted to joke you." Nero patted Kyrie on the head as if she were a good kitten. He realized that she was blushing slightly.

Vergil watched the spectacle and began to eat. Nero stopped annoying Kyrie and also continued his meal. His girlfriend recovered and smiled happily. "And does it taste good? May I bring you something to drink?" "It tastes excellent. Haven’t eaten anything so good for a long time. I do not want to cause you any trouble, but a glass of water would be just right." Vergil was surprisingly polite. Nero did not know this side of him. Basically, he did not know him. So far, he was only allowed to see the bad side. That he had good, he dared to doubt strongly. But right now he seemed like a gentleman to him or maybe that was just his style for appearing well with women. Anyway, Kyrie seemed quite flattered and brought Vergil his drink. "Thank you". he replied as he took the glass.

"So I just ask again, what's Dante doing?" Nero asked curiously. "Hm? This idiot? Well, he's definitely with his girls and eating pizza." "So you did not fight any further and returned home together?" Vergil grinned and shook his head lightly. "I think it would be a lie if I said that we had not fought each other. Of course, we hit each other's heads at every opportunity. But as soon as a horde of demons arrived, we switched focus. We have agreed that it is much fun to fight, as we end it by death." "Then you have settled your dispute?" "Postponed," Vergil answered curtly. Nero was satisfied with the answer. He would not get out any more.

For a while, nobody spoke a word. They ate quietly and exchanged eye-to-eye contact from time to time. "Hey honey, it would be alright for you if I go for a walk with Vergil," Nero broke the silence. "Of course. As long as you only get well and well home, I do not much care what you do." "Thank you for your confidence." Nero leaned into Kyrie and kissed her gently on her cheek. Then he got up and brought his plate to sink. Vergil wanted to do it like him, but then Kyrie stopped him. "Let me do that. Just amuse you both. ", She smiled at him. Vergil then left the dishes and went out of the door. Nero quickly grabbed his weapons and joined him. "Where should we go?", His father asked him. "No clue. The main thing is that we are among us.", He countered. "Does your girlfriend bother you?" "No. I just do not want her to hear me speak real talk. I tend to give one or two bad words. She knows that I am like that, but still I try to avoid it." "You realize that she is a saint." "Of course! She is way too good for me. She is such a great person and I... am a monster. Often I have to listen to why Kyrie is ever with such a guy like me. "

Vergil laughed amused. "She loves you. What does it itch you, what others think of your relationship with her? Should not you just be interested in her opinion?" The two men just walked down the street with no apparent goal. "Yes. Ultimately, I'm only interested in her opinion. Which is also why I try to be a better person and curse less. Oh, what am I talking about, I'm not even a human." "But you are. I only slept with human women, if I recall correctly, and I myself am half human. Demon or not. Your actions characterize you and not your race. My dad was a demon too, but was he evil? I do not think so. The same goes for you. You have a healthy sense of justice." "Was that a compliment?" Nero questioned. His father only shrugged his shoulders.

"Maybe you are right. What about you? Are you evil? "Vergil raised an eyebrow in question. "That is, I think, a matter of opinion. I do not want to answer the question." "You basically do not like answering anything. Come on. Let's have a drink, maybe I'll finally find out what kind of man my father is." Nero feels like in a cat and mouse game. He had to tickle information out of Vergil and he does that only by telling things about himself and only giving Vergil his reaction to it. Annoying as he found. "Do you drink alcohol?" Vergil asked. "No, but I can start with that. And you?" "I never say no to good scotch. But compared to my brother, I behave more than a nun." Nero laughed uncontrollably. He knew for sure that Dante liked to let it crack as soon as he had a little money. Or he ate full of Strawberry Sundae. "Honestly, I'm more worried about his fast food consumption. A miracle that his body is still in good condition." "In fact, it has its advantages to be a demon. I've stopped counting how many times we put a sword in our guts. Do you have a number?"

Nero really had to think. It was definitely countable. "So once in the strange laboratory of Agnus. The sword was 20-30 cm wide. Was a little fucked by it. Fortunately, the broken Yamato was in the background and I instinctively repaired it and used it to get out of the shit. The other times were already you in our fight on the tree." "So you say you repaired my sword?" "Seems like that." Vergil put his hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye. "Then I have to thank you. Thanks ..." He quickly removed his hand and entered the pub, where they stood for a few seconds. Right at the entrance, the two were looked awry. Immediately Nero drove to the counter and told the innkeeper that they were devil hunters. The innkeeper gave the guests a hand signal, so they all calmed down. "Apparently you often go with your weapons in such places.", Vergil remarked. "Not really. But as a devil hunter, you'll always look wryly when you run bloodied through the streets ... Two double scotches, please." Nero ordered.

The innkeeper looked closely at Nero. "Boy, sure you're of legal age?" "That's fine. I am his father." The innkeeper said nothing and handed them their order. "Thanks," Nero said to him. "Why?" Vergil asked, startled. "Because you called me your son. I thought I meant nothing to you." "Would we sit here otherwise?" Vergil snapped. "Yes, but I thought that you would just want to get to know me. And I also want to get to know you. So, what are you doing in your spare time? Except arguing with my uncle." "Not much. I am very well read. I enjoy spending my time in libraries and broadening my horizons. Because knowledge is power. And what are you doing, other than Dante's inheritance?" "Not much either. I like to screw and work on my van. But otherwise, I spend my free time with my girlfriend."

"And what are you doing together, except to fuck." Nero could not quite grasp that he called things by their name. He took a long sip of scotch, so his throat burned from the inside. "I ... would you please not use the word fuck when it comes to my girlfriend? She is my sanctuary. I do not want such words to be associated with her." "Okay, I'm revising my testimony. What are you doing besides love?" "No idea. Chilling? I mostly listen to her singing and smile at her. I know that sounds pretty boring." "You do not have to impress me. I can understand, if you slaughtered demons all day long, that you want to be quiet in the evening, then. I am no different. I mean, I really just read books, besides my argument with Dante. So just stay honest."

Somehow he was right. Whether boring or not. That's how he was. And Vergil also seemed to be a boring person privately. Maybe they had similarities, except for the look. Nero looked around the bar and saw some free billiard tables in the corner. "Hey, have you ever played pool billiards?" "In the youth, it's one or two times. Want to challenge me? Are you aware of the rules?" "Pff. I've done Dante several times already. Let's get the place mixed up." Nero drank the rest of his drink and put money on the counter so it was enough for him and his dad. Together with Vergil he went to one of the tables and exchanged his sword for a billiard Cue stick. "Who's supposed to kick off?" Vergil asked. "Age before beauty." Nero joked. His father did not let him say that a second time and started for the first shot. With a certain elegance and a degree of finesse, he pushed a whole bullet into the hole, leaving half for Nero. "Tch. Beginner luck," he mocked. "Oh really? And then what about this." Vergil started again to play the brown ball over the gang. As if that were planned, the ball landed again in the hole. "Played because of times in the youth. You're doing it professionally." Nero felt like Vergil wanted to bamboozle him.

He could not poke the next shot. The balls were so unfavorable that the master Vergil could do nothing more. "Now show what you have on it." For Nero, it was not a big challenge when the white ball with half and the hole formed a straight line. He punched in with ease. Then he tried with a push both the pink and the green ball. With luck and a bit of skill, he succeeded. "Wow. It really was not from bad parents." "Funny how you praise me and make yourself a compliment at the same time." Both grinned for a brief moment and then played on. The duel was consistently very close. They played 2 rounds, in each of which one could take the victory. As you know, in this family they always stopped as soon as they drew. "Those were good games. Should we repeat that." Nero could not believe what was just coming out of Vergil's mouth. He really wanted to meet with him again? Not a bad idea in itself, just what were they now. Buddies or father and son. Somehow, Nero wanted both. "Yes, sure. You know where to find me. What are you going to do now?" "I do not know. Make me smarter, so I find new ways to go to my brother's bag. That's the way things are. Exercising will also be an option. In a week I meet again with Dante on a fight. We will probably do that more often. If you feel like it, we can fight again. It's really fun." "Thank you for including me in family traditions." "Of course. After all, you belong to the family as well," Vergil said, putting an arm around Nero's shoulder and pulling him closer.

He would never have thought it possible to experience such a father-son moment. Even if it was an invitation to a bloody battle. But that was the way his family was now. Devils under themselves. "Alright. I'll come next week, too. But I do not need any preparation." "If you think so ..." Vergil broke the half-hug and fastened Yamato back on his hip. Nero put the Red Queen back on and did not really know what to do. "And what are we going to do now?" "I'll better put you to bed now." "You're 20 years late for that," Nero joked. Together they left the place and sat in the direction before they started to move. Meanwhile, it was already dark and it showed a clear starry sky. Nero just did not know what to say. For one thing, he had now met his father, but somehow not. But maybe that would change in the future.

Just as the silence was almost unbearable, demons appeared out of nowhere. "Luckily, and I thought the city was really so boring," Vergil commented. "Fortuna? You should have been here two years ago. There was an overload of demons. I had to work overtime to get the city halfway clean." "Too bad I missed the fun." Both drew their swords and plunged into action. Nero felt a lot of pleasure in sharing his passion with his father. Vergil was really extremely strong. Nero did not manage the Yamato as he did. He could theoretically still learn a lot from him. However, he still wanted to go his own way and develop independently. After wiping out all the demons, Vergil had to smile. It was hard to judge the smile, but he looked proud. But why? Not on Nero, is it?

They continued on their way until they stopped at Nero's house. That was probably the unpleasant part of every date. Only that it was not a date, but introductory drinking. Nero did not open the door directly but hesitated a bit. He was torn what he should do now. The situation was shitty, but he decided to follow his heart. He took all his courage and just hugged Vergil out of nothing. "Thank you, Father." It felt strange. It was also embarrassing. He just hoped for a reply so it would not be so embarrassing. After a brief sigh, Vergil answered, "No. I should thank you for being such a good son. I'm sorry that I was not there for you. You deserve a better life, but you can not choose it. And ... I think I could not have done better. You have become a great man. I am proud of you my son." As he spoke these words, Vergil returned his hug. They enjoyed the closeness for another 5 seconds before they dissolved the hug. After that Nero got the keys. "Oh yeah, should you tell somebody about here, you know what I'm supposed to do." Vergil threatened. "I would like to keep the last part to myself, father. So I'll say goodbye now. Kyrie could now take some attention from me. Ah yes, do you want your book back?" "No, keep it. You do not have anything else from me. See you next week at Devil May Cry, son." They smiled briefly again until they turned and started walking again.

[gotatext]

yo, im not gonna lie guys, im super drunk, so this bio is like.... completely ocpy and pasted but;.... pls plot with me..... im so excited to bring this baby here.... i feel it is the perfect place to write her and i hven’t had the chance to in so long ..... love me..... and greta........ please im so excited this is back, last time i played jack..... n willow??? i think....... maybe archie too...... dont even remember...... who i fuckin played..... but i was here...... and queer..... loud..... and proud..... god this dumb bitch needs to sleep.....

GRETA O'DRISCOLL

20. born in marfa, texas. luvs wearing gingham print dresses and cowboy boots. vert into art and pornography, and particularly the combination of the two. wants to do a PHD on gender studies and female autonomy in porn.

( kristine froseth | she / her | cisfemale ) hey, you hear ( young lady, you’re scaring me by ron gallo ) playing over on the ( rv lot ) ? that’s where ( greta o'driscoll ) lives! i heard they moved in from ( marfa, texas ) exactly ( four months ) ago. they’re very ( zealous ) but also pretty ( erratic ). maybe that’s why davie keeps calling them the ( libertine ). starlit is full of people, but this ( 20 ) year old is really going to liven things up around here! ( nora | 23 | she / her | gmt )

personality: easy-going, deceptive, manipulative, self-reliant, profound, amiable, nihilistic, self-serving, laid back, independent unmotivated, self-corrupting, charming, lazy, impulsive, alluring.

likes: art, music, philosophy, DC comics, arcade games, candyfloss, fish and chips on the beach, deep red lipstick, marijuana, dogs, Kate Moss, late-night strolls, chemistry, suspenders, cigarettes, herbal tea, gallows humour, cold coffee, long showers, brown eyes, tchaikovsky, dr. seuss, DJ sets, magnolias.

dislikes: bananas, coffee, mental mathematics, children, misogyny, the imaginary future, literature, Wes Anderson films

muse tag

pinterest

aesthetics: a bubble of pink gum on chapped lips, mom jeans, a beaten up pair of adidas, strawberry laces, knee-highs, chapped lips, split knuckles, bruises you try to cover with concealer, stick and poke tattoos, sleep caught in your eyes on a lazy afternoon, alien conspiracy theories and sci-fi paperbacks, doc martens with fraying laces, the red string of a thong peaking out purposely from jeans, a rucksack permanently packed for the move, a streak of red across your lips, roller blades, cut knees, not eating your greens, smiling with a mouthful of blood, feet pounding the earth until your soles bleed crimson, sleeping in a cherry lip balm and scrunchies to keep the wild locks from your eyes.

cliffsnotes on biography

 - she’s called greta (under witness protection), and she’s a serial dater. she’s incredibly restless and doesn’t settle. before she came to seattle, she’d lived in 8 different cities in 3 years. born into a single-parent house with two older sisters so always surrounded by women and as a teenager she often let boys walk all over her bc she just craved male attention  -   every place she goes, she becomes a new character, someone who’s a figment of her imagination, as if each city is repertory theatre and she’s a character actress, so as a result everyone from her past views her as a completely different person depending on when she met them.   -   she’s been involved in a series of destructive relationships because when people discover she’s not who she pretends to be she often gets explosive and defensive.  -   (tw gun) she’s now under witness protection and moved to connecticut because she shot a previous boyfriend in self-defence and his family are trying to have her done for murder, but she got tired of being moitored so is now even on the run from the police / her faked identity.  - easy to get along with (provided you don’t anger, provoke or question her too much) because she WANTS your character to be entralled by her and will do whatever it takes to win them over. she wants everyone to love her   -  big into sports. big into gender politics. big into art. does a lot of art installation pieces to do with female and queer bodies. massive feminist. low key quite scared of powerful men bcos of her ex. wants to start a female only lesbian commune. big fan of the honey bee.

full biography

trigger warnings: drugs, domestic abuse, gun.

you never meant for it to happen. you’d heard the stories, of girls who let their man walk all over them, and thought to yourself “i’ll never be one of those girls…” the kind that eat low-fat yoghurt and drink slim fast to shred a few extra pounds because he said she was getting round in the tummy, or the ones who spent their evenings tied to a kitchen sink drinking wine while him and the boys played poker, wishing god, if only I could get out of here. not you, not you raised by strong women, four bright shining beacons. single mother with her hard-as-nails attitude and her stony glares, elder sisters (twins) one ginger, one blonde, one doctor, one lawyer, both determined to take a bullet to the brain and a hammer to the patriarchy before they let a man touch them without asking. you were always so inferior, so insecure and small, like a bird (like a sparrow) with blonde plaits down your back sucking tropicana whilst your bosom buds sucked dick, their lips permanently ripe with stories of their sexual exploits, fake tan and glittered nails whilst you sat in the unbroken egg of virginity wondering what it was like to be loved. one day you found out. 

lily milligan’s parents gone and a free house for the night, bottles of ouzo and tequila swiped from your mother’s liquor cabinet thinking she wouldn’t know (she always knew) your legs, hardened from pep squad, slut dropping on a kitchen table because the boys thought it would be fun to get the quiet girl drunk. you’d never had a sip before that night. band t-shirts, denim shorts and the split soles of rotten converse that you refuse to let go of, you still clutched with both hands to your youth, but in a tube top now (borrowed from alice carmichael who had a sister in college) and a short tennis skirt, your feet not in trainers but in thigh-high boots. uncomfy as hell but lily said you needed to look sexy. you didn’t know if you wanted to be sexy. you didn’t know what kind of girl you were, if you were even a girl at all. but robbie looked at you like he knew exactly who you were, like he knew you better than you knew yourself, and his lips had the pink cupid’s bow of a movie star, and his hair was dark locks, curling like a mane. his hands were soft, and suddenly on your waist, and after three more shots his lips were on yours and his name was the only sound in your head and on your lips as you lost it in lily’s college sister’s bedroom beneath the glare of a T-Pain poster. you bled for what seemed like hours, his hand still in yours, kissing on the sofa as truth tellers and daredevils continued to spin a bottle of unprecedented youth. you thought it was love. robbie was the one. he loved you, you knew it, how else could someone be so soft? but soon he grew bored, scrunched up your paper heart and set it alight. then came the tears, the hatred, the ‘fuck robbie, in fact, fuck all boys.’ and that you did.

you were known for being easy. any boy could be yours for a night, as long as he promised to love you for those few short breaths and pants before you cried yourself to sleep. you felt poisoned, but poisonous as well, as if by ensnaring these young boys you were gaining power over them, and not the other way around. soon it started to work. they’d want more, but you’d deny them it, sick of sucking off silly schoolboys, they’d call you a tease, a vixen. maybe you were, but you couldn’t help but want older men. you got the history teacher first time, him bending you over his desk to sneak a hand up your tennis skirt as the after-school clubs carried on next door, unawares. love didn’t exist, not for you. it was nothing but a game for pretty young girls to play, bubble gum in their canines and a hand tugging at the hem of their cheer skirt.

there was so much anger inside of your small body, ‘beware of boys and their hook-like words’. hockey helped. there was something formidable about the feeling of a stick like a weapon in your hands and the thwack it made against thighs in the heat of a scrum - “slipped, sorry!” - you’d utter with a snakeskin smile, millicent quinn knowing that you’d hit her on purpose because she shagged robbie at that party last week. she couldn’t prove it, cobbled acne on her forehead turning green with disgust. ben came into your life like a car crash. two years your senior, with a baseball jacket and shoulders like a god. he became your personal hero. on the pitch, he was lethal. together, you could bring anyone to their ruin. each day after last period he’d be waiting in his car. you’d leap into his arms like a girl-half starved, love me, love me, love me, your heated kisses the envy of every junior girl. he was yours for three blissful years, utterly yours, and you were his, his star-spangled girl, and he was your knight - you were both the same, playing games, always difficult to predict. it was a shock to all when he proposed, high-school sweethearts find love in south dakota.

the engagement was a bittersweet affair; three months – you barely out of your gingham print skirts and into a graduation gown, him, a surly quarterback towering above your sisters, cigarette at his lips and a scowl like a fart in a lift. they hated him. so did you. but you were eighteen and in love, and he fitted the cookie cutter mould. everyone wanted him, and you had him. you had him and you were happy, happy, happy, and he loved you. he said he’d give you the world, anything you wanted hand-picked and given to you. instead, he gave you a jack russell terrier and a flat you couldn’t swing a cat in, wallpaper peeling like the rotten bits inside of you, the bits that only he knew. and you got tireder and tireder of the sad excuse of a life he’d picked out for you, him out doing god knows what to pay the bills, and you dancing on tables to pave your way to stardom, and this was love, this was real, until the shine wore off and your fresh-faced, dimple-cheeked cheerleader facade faded and the ugliness started to reveal itself, the whining, the petulance, the sharp-tempered cruelty, the mind games, the need to always win, win, win. he was dull, he was boring, he was nothing like the boy the girls had said he was and no chiselled six-pack could hide his lack of anything remotely interesting, your patience wearing thin until it snapped like rubber, a rucksack on your back, running shoes on your feet and the joint bank account emptied into your eighth grade birthday wallet.

you built your small fortunes working the casinos of sioux falls, a crimson dress and an attitude to match. bookish archie with his little dipper freckles was fun for a month before he became just as dull and dreary as the rest. a three-hour bus and you were in minneapolis, bright eyed and bushy tailed, fresh meat ready for the pickings. a hostel here, a friendly co-worker’s sofa there as you made what you could by taking off your clothes and shaking your ass like you were back in pep squad, doing what you did best. you met your fair share of creeps, and soon it was back on the road to escape a wide-eyed stalker and a restless itch for more. milwaukee, chicago, you made the roads your own. log cabins and lodgings, and the occasional motel, a beaten up pick up truck purchased at a scrap merchants – you got a few miles out of it before it bit the dust, and when you finally set it alight after nights spent lounging across the driver’s seat, a parka tucked over you as a duvet, you were sad to see it go. you’re nomadic by fault, never attaching to place, people or things, creating a new personality in every place you go like a character actress; each town is a different repertory theatre, and you’re the star. a compulsive liar, you even fib about your own name, to some you’re ellen, nineteen, bookish, a law student who likes smoking and cosmos. to someone else you’re rita, you’re twenty-five and look young for your age, like smoking, comics and fucking in public places.

in the bright lights of michigan, you found charlie, sweet charlie, too good for you, though you let him spoil you while he thought you were the small town girl of his dreams. next came abigail, who was fun until the jealously kicked in, and then luke, gorgeous luke, dangerous, exciting, who despite his temper, despite the fights, despite bruises down your spine and your teeth marks on his arms, loved you with the strength of a wildfire. there was destruction in your wishbones, a savageness from the field, from the pitch and now somehow in his arms, you were godly. he was cruel, he was careless, and he refused to fall at your feet like so many other boys had, which only you made you want him all the more. you were rage incarnate. you hated him so fiercely you thought you might kill him, so he played the only card you wouldn’t predict; proposed.

the house you shared was a backstreet flat in detroit, you make your name as a downtown singer while he foots the bill with pills. they have a drug for anything these days, to dull the senses, to pick them up, to drive you to insanity or pull you out of the madness hole. the two of you live like criminals on the run (you never told him that you were, living out your days as the enigma he wanted you to be), you with your voice like caramel and fishnet legs. you were his and his alone until his hand was at your throat and the gun was in your hands screaming at him to stop, stop, stop, until a bullet stoppered his brain, crimson staining linoleum as you cast yourself out like lucifer. self-defence was decreed the moment they saw your violet neck, black tears and headlight eyes and mind screaming red, red, red like the pom-poms you shook so willingly in school and the insides of his skull. you were gone, and “you” was born, renamed “greta”, boxed, shipped-out, and next-day delivered to vegas where under witness protection you were a student, blank slate, fresh-faced in a place where no one knew your name, doing what you always did and starting again.

[ughkeery]

two strangers learn to fall in love again | steve harrington

request: hey! i was wondering if i could request a college AU where you meet steve and become super close? bonus points if the reader is like half asleep and bumps into him the first time they see each other! the rest is up to however you wanna make it :)

word count: 3.6k

warning(s): none tbh

a/n: this was extremely fun to write so thank you to whoever requested this??? there’s not much else i can say since i don’t wanna spoil anything so... hope y’all enjoy!

You’re not sure what’s worse about the guy living underneath you: his horrible taste in music, or the fact that he plays it loud enough for the entire building to hear.

“Does the guy in Room 202 listen to anything other than Journey lately?” You ask, half-venting and half-expecting an actual response from your roommate, Lisa. The two of you are on your respective twin beds, pretending to study for finals until midnight strikes because that’s when the two of you vowed you’d call it a night and go to bed.

“Who?” Lisa mutters, although her eyes are still glued to the textbook in her lap.

“Room 202.” The term rolls off your tongue with such disdain that Lisa looks up at you in surprise.

You’ve never actually met him, but you’ve passed by his dorm here and there on your way to a few parties. Each time he was blaring the exact same contrived, top-forty-hits type garbage that you’ve recently come to know more and love less.

You didn’t mind it so much at the beginning of the year - back when Room 202 only rocked out on the weekends and you weren’t in the dorms very much to begin with. But now that it’s been happening nearly every night for the past month, he’s on your very last nerve.

“How do you know it’s not a girl?” Lisa wonders, amused by your exasperation.

“Because, what kind of self-respecting woman would hang Van Halen posters on the outside of her door?”

“Yeah, thank God he moved on from his hard rock phase.” Lisa closes her textbook and tosses it aside. It’s only 10:30, but you’re too distracted and angered by the sound of Steve Perry’s voice to call her out on it.

You fall into your pillow with an overly dramatic sigh, watching your breath ruffle the pages of your Biology notebook resting on the bed beside you. 

“My mother was right. I should’ve never signed up to live in a co-ed dorm.”

Lisa rolls her eyes. “Have you talked to the RA about it?”

“Four times,” you mutter.

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs. “I just figure that if it pisses you off so much, you would have no problem knocking on his door and telling him to keep it down.”

Your fingers, which have been absently flipping through the pages of your Biology notes, come to a stop as you ponder over Lisa’s suggestion. She knows how much you dislike confrontation, but you would be doing the entire dorm a service by being the one to finally make Room 202 shut up once and for all. Perhaps it would be worth it.

“Winter break is in a week,” You say, justifying your nervousness more to yourself than Lisa. “What’s the point?”

“Winter break is only a month long. Once we come back in January, you’ll be back at square one.”

“True. And who knows what kind of shitty music will come out by then?” 

You sigh, slouching further into your bed as Room 202 makes the audible switch from Journey to Phil Collins. Better, but not great, you think.

“Still, I don’t think it’s the best idea,” you continue. “No reason to make any enemies around here, even if it’s with the jerk in Room 202.”

“Whatever. He can get away with it if he wants to,” Lisa says with another shrug. “I hear he’s pretty hot.”

You press your lips together, not from lack of agreement, but because you know that if you get too wrapped up in this conversation you’ll spend even less time studying for your Biology final than you already have. Although you’ve never met the guy, Lisa likes to insist that his rumored good looks make up for his terrible music taste.

You think it’ll take a little more than that. You want to get an actual apology out of him, you decide.

“Fine,” you say after a few moments of silence between the two of you. “I’ll go first thing in the morning.”

As it turns out, morning rolls around more quickly than you initially expected. By the time you’ve reached the peak hours of moonlight, you’re so elbow-deep in stacks of graded quizzes and highlighted notes that you fail to realize just how late it is - that is, until Lisa rolls over in bed with a sour look on her face.

“Go to sleep, Y/N,” she whines, squinting at the yellow light illuminating from the tiny lamp on your desk. “It’s two in the morning.”

“You realize that if I don’t get at least a B on my Biology exam, I’ll fail the course, right?”

“You realize that if you keep me up all night, I’ll kill you, right?”

You roll your eyes, knowing that if you weren’t so overworked and tired you would probably laugh at Lisa’s comeback. Despite how long you’ve spent repeatedly going over the material for your final, there are still some things you’re still completely clueless about. You can’t afford to stop - especially not when your exam is only in six hours.

Leaning back in your chair, you cast a sideways glance at the laundry basket next to your bed, which is currently filled way too far over the edge with socks and sweaters that are threatening to tumble out. With all the studying you’ve been doing this week, getting your laundry done hasn’t even crossed your mind. 

Other than the kitchen - which is all the way downstairs - the laundry room would be a nice change of scenery for you to study. It would also ensure that you actually have a clean outfit to wear tomorrow.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” you announce, pushing your chair out from your desk, “and hopefully I’ll have all the organelles of the cell memorized by then.”

You can’t hear Lisa’s response muffled into her pillow, but judging by her tone, she’s on the brink of sleep and probably doesn’t even care. You quietly sort out the sweaters you get the most wear out of to wash, grab your Biology supplies, and exit your dorm.

Perhaps it’s the wave of pure exhaustion hitting you, but as you wander down the dimly-lit hallway towards the laundry room, you can’t help but think that you’re in an entirely different place. The dorms - quiet and nearly pitch-black - are almost like a different reality at night. The only other times you’ve been outside your own dorm room this late have been on your way back from parties across campus, full of alcohol and subdued laughter caused by your group of friends.

Get it together, Y/N, you inwardly tell yourself, rounding the corner at the end of the hallway. 

Although, you don’t get very far beyond that. Just around the corner is someone else walking in the opposite direction. The minute you two run into each other, you lose your balance and fall flat on your ass.

“Ouch,” you exclaim, unwilling to speak above a whisper so that you don’t awaken any of the sleeping co-eds in the rooms on either side of you. If you were feeling up to it, you would not only speak at full volume, but you would probably also smack the guy that you’ve just run into because damn, that really hurt.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” the guy asks.

“Yeah, I’m -”

Okay, you finish in your head, although for some reason the word fails to leave your lips as you look up at the boy. You don’t use this word lightly, but he is, without a doubt, the most attractive person you’ve ever met. He’s clearly in his pajamas - sweatpants and a t-shirt displaying your school’s mascot - but that only makes him all the more dreamy. You can’t help but feel insecure in your own exhaustive state as he looks right at you, eyes bright and smile contagious. 

The cute stranger gives you a smirk that is somehow polite and incredibly endearing. Still bent down in front of you, he holds his hand out, inches from your own. “C’mere, let me help you up.”

Meekly, you slip your hand into his and let him pull you up, rising to your feet with a sigh of relief. Somehow, you managed to keep a steady grip on your Biology supplies and bag of laundry throughout your fall. You clutch them even closer, a defense mechanism under this guy’s impeccably charming gaze.

“I’m Steve Harrington,” he introduces, “and I promise that knocking over pretty girls at two in the morning isn’t one of my main hobbies.”

You tell him your name, and he repeats it back to you amiably, rolling it around in his mouth like it’s familiar to him. The sound of your name being recited from his lips makes you blush like a little girl on the playground interacting with her crush. Thankfully, it’s too dark in the hallway for Steve to notice the hint of pink in your cheeks.

“So, Y/N,” he says, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “What’s a girl like you doing out of your room so late? They have rules around here, you know.”

You grin. Why did I have to meet this guy when I look like an actual zombie?

“My roommate threatened to murder me in cold blood if I didn’t take my studying elsewhere,” you reply, gesturing to the Biology textbook cradled in one of your arms. “How about you?”

“My buddy Scott lives on this floor. He was letting me borrow his Algebra notes,” he explains.

“Ah,” you say coolly, pressing your lips together. “So… what are your main hobbies, Steve Harrington?”

He laughs and runs a hand through his hair. You watch him do so, afraid that he will mess up his perfectly-styled ‘do, but his hair somehow retreats back to its original state afterwards. If it were socially acceptable, you would probably ask him what kind of hairspray he uses.

“Well, right now, failing school seems to be something I’m good at - although, it’s not a hobby I particularly enjoy.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Hence why I needed to borrow Scott’s notes.”

“Scott Miller?” you clarify. Steve nods. “Yeah, he’s in my English lecture. I think he’s the only person in there who’s read every single book. He’s really smart.”

“Scary smart,” Steve agrees, another smile grazing the corners of his lips. “You seem pretty smart yourself.”

“I do?” You blink, unable to keep your eyes from widening.

“Yeah, I mean - a girl willing to sacrifice a good night’s sleep for the sake of school? That takes some willpower. You must be some kind of badass.”

If it were possible, you would blush even harder. You mimic Steve’s stance, leaning against the wall, unable to tear your eyes away from his friendly gaze. 

“Not really,” you respond sheepishly. “I wouldn’t be doing it if I weren’t so afraid of how my parents would react if I were to fail Biology.”

“But you won’t fail,” he insists, taking a step closer to you. “Lots of other people would, but Y/N Y/L/N? She’s not a quitter.”

Steve smirks again, and under the hazy light attached to the high ceiling above you, you’re able to make out the dark freckles adorning his face. You aren’t sure why he’s being so nice to you, or why on earth he has to be so damn cute, but you definitely know one thing for sure: you don’t want this conversation to end.

You take your bottom lip between your teeth, unsure of how to respond to Steve in a way that doesn’t make how much you’re taken by his words so obvious.

“Anyways,” Steve says after a few moments of silence, although to you it felt like hours of staring into each other’s eyes. Your heart sinks as he continues.

“I, uh, won’t keep you. Looks like you have a big night ahead of you.” He eyes the items in your hands, smiling softly. “Laundry, Y/N? Really?”

“What can I say? I like to multitask.” You laugh softly.

Steve sets his hand on your arm, big enough for his fingers to wrap around it. But he doesn’t do that - he just gives it a small squeeze, which makes your heart want to burst.

“See you around?” he asks quietly, letting go of your arm as effortlessly as he had held onto it seconds ago. 

You swallow the nerves in your throat, nodding, wanting to ask him to buy you an ice cream or take you to a party or just keep talking so you can hear his voice, impossibly comforting for someone you barely know. But for some reason, you can’t muster up the courage to do any of those things until Steve has disappeared down the other end of the hallway.

Your laundry doesn’t get done, and neither does your studying. As calming as Steve Harrington’s words were, the minute you came to terms with the fact that you were alone once again in the dark, dreary hallway, you grew more tired than ever. Passing Biology was important, but in order to do that, you needed a decent amount of sleep for your exam.

However, stuck in a haze over your conversation with Steve, you realize not long after you come back to your dorm that you’ll be unable to focus on anything else - including sleep. In fact, you’ve just managed to force your eyes close and drift off before your alarm clock goes off at seven, signaling the fact that you only have one hour until your exam is set to begin.

“Ugh!” you exclaim, pushing your head underneath your pillow.

Lisa, who has clearly experienced the pleasure of a full-night’s sleep, leans over and turns off the alarm. “Morning, sleepyhead,” she greets, hopping out of bed. “Have fun doing all that laundry last night?”

“Five more minutes,” you whine to nobody in particular, squeezing your eyes shut even tighter. You hear Lisa exit the room - presumably to take a shower - and you can feel yourself drift off again. However, that lasts all of ten seconds when another noise - one that is even more annoying than the sound of your alarm clock - fills your ears.

Van Halen.

Room 202.

“Son of a bitch,” you say with a groan, rubbing your hands over your face until you’ve forced yourself awake. It’s probably the lack of sleep, but Room 202 seems to be playing his music more loudly than he ever has before. The sound of an obnoxiously high-pitched guitar solo echoing throughout your room makes you want to cry, scream, or both.

Instead, you angrily kick the pile of blankets off your freezing legs, change into the only clean clothes you have left, and march downstairs. You probably look like an absolute wreck right now, but if you don’t get as much sleep as you can by the time you need to show up for your exam, who knows what else will happen to your already deteriorating mental health.

You manage to follow the sound all the way to Room 202’s front door. Without hesitation, you begin pounding on the door, eagerly hoping to put a stop to all of this once and for all. 

“Hey!” you scream.

But Room 202 doesn’t seem to hear you. The sound of a screeching guitar continues, as unpleasant as ever. You bang your fist even harder, aiming right for Eddie Van Halen’s face on the poster attached to the door.

“Hey!” you scream even louder. “Open up!”

The volume on the song decreases, but not by much. You can see footsteps moving underneath the crack in the door.

“Give me a sec!”

You sigh, placing your hands on your hips impatiently. The song is eventually cut off, and the door swings open just enough for Room 202 to fit through.

But when the guy opens the door, it’s not the rugged, mullet-sporting douchebag you pictured living in Room 202 all this time.

It’s none other than Steve Harrington.

“Hey there, Y/N,” he greets, blinking the sleep and confusion from his eyes.

“Um,” you squeak, unable to form any words through your bewilderment.

“As pleasantly surprised - and somewhat creeped out - as I am that you found out where I live, can I ask what the hell you’re doing here so early?”

Steve seems unphased by your astonishment, or maybe he’s just as tired as you are and doesn’t notice. Still, it has to be fairly obvious that you’re freaking out right now.

“Um,” you say again, trying to look over Steve’s shoulder. “I was… looking for your roommate?”

Maybe the other guy that lives here is the one that plays such awful music each night, you try to reason with yourself. However, that theory is quickly shot down.

“Well, you’re not gonna have any luck.” He chuckles and steps aside, revealing just one bed next to a desk even more cluttered than yours. The layout of his dorm is identical to yours, except that where the other twin bed would be is a fully decked-out turntable with what looks like dozens of records haphazardly thrown on the shelf underneath. Laying face-up on the bed is a worn copy of Van Halen’s latest album.

This can’t be happening. You haven’t had any sleep. You’re delirious. This isn’t real. 

There’s no way the Steve Harrington you met last night is the same person you’ve been badmouthing since the beginning of the year.

“I live in a single dorm,” he explains, watching your eyes glaze over his room with an amused smile. “Y/N, if you wanted to come see me, you don’t have to act all coy about it.”

“That’s… not why I’m here.” Steve’s face falls slightly. You realize that you’re standing an awkward distance away from him, but for some reason you can’t will your legs to move even an inch. “I, um…”

You look up at him finally, making eye contact for the first time since the two of you met less than five hours ago. You can tell he’s confused - brows and lips pushed together in an endearing pout - and you can’t really blame him. He probably thinks you’re some kind of stalker; that you followed him back to his room earlier this morning just so you could come over a few hours later.

“Y/N, are you okay?” he says, putting your racing mind to a halt. He cracks the door open a little more, glancing over his shoulder. “Like I said, I’m happy to see you and all, but I need to get ready for -”

“What are you doing tonight?” you blurt out, surprising yourself more than him.

Steve rubs the back of his neck, eyebrows raised in curiosity. “Uh… nothing, I think. Why?”

“We should go record shopping.” You glance at the stack of records in his room again. The majority of them are names you wish you didn’t recognize. “There’s this place right off campus that my friend Holly works at. They have great music. We should go. Do you wanna go?”

Steve laughs. “Well, you see,” he starts, following your gaze over to his pile of records, “I would love to hangout, but I already have lots of music. Maybe we can do something -”

“More,” you say, forcing a smile onto your lips. “You need more.”

Steve chuckles at your assertiveness, although if he knew why you were asking him to hangout in this way, he probably wouldn’t find it too amusing. “Well... alright then. Record shopping with Y/N. Sounds like a blast. Wanna meet me back here at six?”

“Better make it eight.” Steve looks at you questioningly. “I have lots of sleep to catch up on.”

“Holy shit, Y/N. Holy shit.”

Later, when it’s nearly midnight and the two of you have just gotten back from sharing a milkshake at the local diner, you’re laying barefoot on Steve Harrington’s bed. He lays right beside you, shoulder pressed against yours, staring up at the ceiling in wide-eyed bewilderment. 

The album you’re playing right now was one of the many albums you insisted that he purchase, much to his chagrin. However, now that you’re an hour deep into listening, you can tell that Steve has changed his mind.

“I always skip Bowie when he comes on the radio, but this? I didn’t know he made stuff like this.”

He inches his head onto the edge of his pillow - the one you claimed the minute you came in. You tilt your head towards him, laughing at his expression.

“Told you,” you say. “He’s incredible.”

The two of you fall back into your usual silence, listening to the sound of David Bowie’s soothing voice idle on Steve’s turntable. After flying through your Biology exam and taking a much-needed nap, you had awoken incredulous to the idea that you had somehow asked somebody like Steve Harrington on a date earlier that day. 

That is, if angrily pounding on somebody’s door and close-to demanding them to buy music with you counts as a date.

“This is fun,” Steve says, clasping his hands together and resting them on his stomach.

You smile in surprise. “It is?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve never done this sort of thing with a girl.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, propping your head against your hand.

“Like… We’ve been laying here for almost an hour now, and the two of us have barely said anything. But it’s like we don’t have to because I feel like I already know so much about you, you know?”

You do. The minute you met Steve, his attractiveness and charm immediately stood out to you. But now that you’ve spent hours with the boy, cracking jokes in a record shop and playfully arguing over which milkshake flavor is the best, you feel like you know him better than anyone you’ve met since the beginning of the year.

“Yeah,” you whisper, toying with a loose thread on Steve’s comforter.

“How come we’ve never run into each other before?”

You shrug, unsure if his question is rhetorical or not. “I don’t know. I wish we had.”

Steve rolls onto his side, dark brown eyes burning holes into yours the same way they typically do. “Me too,” he says quietly.

Slowly but surely, Steve slips his hand into yours. You don’t say anything, just lean your head into the warmth of his shoulder as you wrap your fingers around his, wishing that you had confronted the obnoxious guy from Room 202 a long time ago.