#He has a low brow that gives him this permanent glare that I didn't get a picture of

[shwoo]

My parents and brother got a cat earlier this year, and my mum ended up naming him Snorpington Fizzlebean. She's never played Bugsnax, and I'm not completely sure how this happened.

My mum posted in a group chat about naming him, and I was too tired to respond, but my sister suggested Snorpington Fizzlebean, saying that she stole that from my favourite game. The cat's dark grey, so if I hadn't been tired, I would've suggested Alegander Jamfoot instead, which is also a great cat name.

Later, in person, my mum called the cat Snorpington once while talking about him, so I later texted her the following:

Because you referred to this cat as Snorpington Fizzlebean The Third today, he is now Snorpy to me, in my head. The covenant is sealed. It cannot be unsealed.

She replied with "🧐🤨", and then his name was just Snorpy forever. I didn't even meet him until like a month later, and he spent most of the time inside his cat tree.

I think if you post about a pet, you're supposed to include a picture, so here:

...Okay, fine. I'm housesitting for my family at the moment because they're going to the coast for a few days, and didn't want to put Snorpy in a pet boarding place, so here's a slightly better picture I took just now.

When my mum was asking my sister and I to housesit, she phrased it as "But we've got Snorpy to think about." That's a... very coincidental way to put it.

[syneilesis]

[fic] Grading papers

Grading papers

Ikemen Prince | Part of Cybird University 'verse | Chevalier Michel x Reader | T | 905 words ao3 link

Home slippers on, you pad towards the living room to discover Chevalier on the couch, reading glasses on, a paper on his hand and a stack of the same beside him, wearing the most remarkable frown you have ever seen in the entire time you’ve known him. The ends of his brows are so pulled down that you’re afraid that they’ll be stuck there permanently. Not that his scowling face is ugly, of course, but he’s just as beautiful if not more when smiling.

A/N: I mentioned this once before, but I wanted to write a self-indulgent college/university AU for ikeseries. It's just going to be a low-stakes writing exercise, to de-stress from the major fic projects (i.e., novelist AU, ocean water fic, Kanetsugu fic). Reader will always be (unless indicated) of unspecified gender. I will write for other characters too, when the mood strikes.

The first fic for this verse is, of course, about Chevalier 😂 I don't know how to write fluff; this is the extent of fluff I can write lmao. Also, sorry for the corniest ending – I didn't know how to end the fic lol

The apartment is quiet when you open the front door, dim but with enough light at the end of the hallway for you to see a pair of oxfords arranged neatly on the top of the shoe rack. A smile creeps onto your lips without your bidding, soft warmth spreading from your chest, which tempts you to just shake off your own shoes. You refrain from the urge, knowing that he wouldn’t be amused about it.

Home slippers on, you pad towards the living room to discover Chevalier on the couch, reading glasses on, a paper on his hand and a stack of the same beside him, wearing the most remarkable frown you have ever seen in the entire time you’ve known him. The ends of his brows are so pulled down that you’re afraid that they’ll be stuck there permanently. Not that his scowling face is ugly, of course, but he’s just as beautiful if not more when smiling.

You place your bag on the adjacent couch, your eyes never leaving him. “Is it their arguments this time?”

Chevalier doesn’t spare you a glance; he encircles something in the paper with the fountain pen you’d gifted him five years ago. You’d agonized over what to give him for his birthday at the time. Chevalier’s the sort of person who has everything, and you were desperate to make a good impression that you resorted to consulting Clavis of all people.

In the end, you decided on something elegant but useful.

“It’s obvious that this one didn’t read the assigned cases,” Chevalier says after a few moments. Then he immediately clicks his tongue and underlines a whole paragraph.

You peek into the paper, and have to suppress a wince. The margins are filled with comments, the body peppered with copyediting symbols – it’s a bloodbath. Silently you send a thought for the poor student who’ll receive that paper next week.

“Could’ve been worse,” you say, circling around the couch to approach him from behind. “They could’ve inserted another Please marry me after I graduate Professor in the essay. I still remember the exact moment Dean Sariel’s blood pressure rose.”

That had been an interesting week. Everyone in Chevalier’s department knows that despite his cold and ruthless personality, he’s still a popular professor in the university. Students have to fight each other to get a slot in his courses. His ice-prince reputation doesn’t deter them in the slightest. You suspect that some students fail his course on purpose to retake it next year. When asked about it, Chevalier would just glare, frown, and roll his eyes.

One had been bold enough to insert such sentence in their essay. You were there the moment Chevalier read the words. It was like watching a critical scene in slow motion: his eyebrows shooting up, eyes blinking twice before widening, glasses sliding down his nose, expression slack; then, as if flipping a switch, his face rippled into an offended scowl, storming out of the apartment and marching straight to the dean’s office. You’d been worrying over what he’d do, so you scrambled after him.

(The day Chevalier returned the papers, he made the class go through the most excruciating recitation known to man. Some didn’t survive, some returned a changed person; even today alumni and seniors still talk about That Incident in whispers, as if Chevalier has eyes and ears everywhere [which: possible].)

Chevalier ignores you and continues to grade the paper. In the years you’ve been together, you’re already used to his cold tendencies. Although he’s not an affectionate person, you can feel his love in other ways.

You press your hands on the backrest, flanking Chevalier’s head. “Why didn’t you ask your TAs to help you with grading?”

“There was no need. I can finish this tonight.”

Very efficient, very competent. Very grumpy. You grin at the crown of his head.

“If you need moral support –”

“I don’t.”

“– then I’m just here, at your beck and call.”

There’s a minuscule pause, fleeting, and if it wasn’t for your proximity you wouldn’t have noticed it. But you did, and that reassures you to proceed with your plan.

Your hands slide down to his shoulders, encircling him. Chevalier gives no indication of resistance or anything at all, so you press further, bending down to bring your face near his. Playfully, you say, “How about I give you a kiss on the cheek, for motivation?”

You tilt your head to do so, but in a surprise twist, Chevalier turns his head so your lips smack against his. You blink, caught off-guard. His eyes are bluer through the lens of his glasses, his forehead smooth and absent of creases.

He moves slightly for a better angle then closes his eyes, nibbles on your lower lip. When he retreats, Chevalier wears a look so smug you can’t do anything except to laugh helplessly and fondly.

“Did that motivate you?”

“Hardly. You just have to stay and keep trying.”

You grin at that, your heart brimming with such affection for this man. “Guess I should,” you say, unable to keep the softness and warmth in your voice.

Chevalier transfers the stack of papers to the coffee table as you settle beside him, leaning on his shoulder while he goes back to the essay. He snakes his free arm around you, pulling you firmly against him, and then it’s back to being quiet again.

Quiet, but warm.

⇼

Endnotes:

1. I wasn't able to include it in the fic, but you (reader-chan) work at the ministry of foreign affairs. You met some years ago because the ministry consulted Chevalier about something related to his expertise (he's a professor of International Relations, with specialization in int'l law). You worked directly with Chevalier, and the sincerity and diligence with which you conduct your work had made an impression on him.

2. Chevalier currently supervises three graduate students, one of whom Clavis annoys regularly.

3. Once, Chevalier crossed swords with Professor Kenshin from the history department (they're both kendo/fencing enthusiasts). It was the talk of the campus for a whole month. It even made the front page of the student newspaper.

4. After reading that please marry me professor essay, Chevalier stormed into Sariel's office and announced that he was going to fail a student for not taking his course seriously. Sariel had to convince Chevalier that there's a better way to handle the matter; thus, The Recitation Incident came to be.

5. You and Chevalier have been living together for three years now.

[magalidragon]

making music | a Jonerys AU | fic tease

a/n: Bêcha thought I forgot this one? LOL Nope, just working on it here and there. It will be longer than I thought of course. So here’s a tease to part 1 up soon!

Once again, turning the corner, she almost stepped straight into a busker only this time a trumpet player, and when she knelt down to pick up the coins that had fallen out of a flatcap set on the cobblestone, she heard a low chuckle, and a heavy Northern accent, her blood going cold.

"You just can't help yourself can you?"

"I'm sorry I..." She whipped up, glaring. She shouted. "YOU!"

Jon chuckled, leaning against the brick wall, a foot propped up behind him, his other stretched out, and a trumpet loose in his fingers. "Me." He rolled his eyes, but still smiled. "You want a piece of my gig here or what? That why you keep stepping into my payment?"

She glanced at the cap, noting there were only a few stags; he had way more as a guitar player. She smirked up and straightened. "Maybe you should stick to strings then Mr..."

"Snow," Jon said, lifting the trumpet up. He blew into it, fingers fast on the keys, the tune upbeat, jazzy. Someone walking by tossed in a dragon coin. He finished the snippet of a song she thought she might have recognized as a twist on a famous Essosi opera aria, and had gathered a few other admirers, including, she noted, some young women who giggled behind their hands and ducked their heads coquettishly, trying to catch his attention.

It was the music that held her attraction-- although he did look good standing there in his all black attire, hair pulled from his face, his strong forearms on display. She spied some tattoos peeking out from under the rolled cuffs and one on his inner wrist, a series of musical notes on a scale. She frowned, wishing she could see it closer, wondering what song held such importance to him he wanted it inked to his skin permanetly. Or maybe, was in his mind during a drunken moment and now was inked permanently. Could be anything.

He finished the song, the crowd gathered applauding. He swept the trumpet aside and bowed, moving towards the case while people dropped coins and other things into the flatcap. Several of the women dropped phone numbers. Dany remained standing, waiting for them to disperse and Jon to collect the money. "Do they not pay you enough?" she asked.

He chuckled, unfolding the bills and darting a glance upwards through his dark curls. "They do. This is for something else." He pocketed the money and shoved the cap into the side of the padded trumpet case. He quickly cleaned out the trumpet, wiping down the gleaming brass, dragging the cloth through the valves to dry it, and set it into the velvet lining.

Dany waited and caught his attention when he stood, slinging the case over his shoulder. "Are you first cello?" she asked, wanting more information. He was the only one she knew now from the sympthony, she wanted to get as much information as possible. Especially if they were to play together.

He nodded. "Aye."

"But you also play guitar and trumpet?"

"I play a lot of instruments."

"Yeah so does everyone," she scoffed. They all said that. Viola players claimed they could play violin and vice versa. Guitar players claimed they were also proficient in banjo and ukelele sometimes. Anything for the résumé. She rolled her eyes. "There's a difference in maybe playing something and being proficient in it."

Jon eyed her sideways, chuckling. "Alright, I'm proficient in a lot of instruments. And you?"

"Four."

"Let me guess."

She grinned. "Go ahead." He'd never guess.

Jon ticked off his fingers. "Violin."

"Duh."

"Guitar."

She wrinked her nose. "Yes."

They turned a corner; she had no idea where he was going, somehow she was stuck to him like a magnet, unable to tear away. He patted his pockets, searching for somethng, and removed a pack of cigarettes. He smiled sheepishly. "Bad habit."

"Terrible habit, especially for someone who plays a brass or woodwind instrument," she chided.

He lit the cigarette, pocketing the lighter with a flick of his fingers. She spied a wolf etched into the side of the silver Zippo. He paused at a corner, studying her a moment. She shifted, oddly uncomfortable with the x-ray-like gaze. His irises were gray, a peculiar color. They shimmered, reminding her of the ash on the cigarette or else storm clouds. He blew a stream of smoke out to the side, gesturing with the cigarette. "Piano."

She grit her teeth. Eyebrow quirked, she shrugged. "Alright. Yes."

"I've got three. How many more guesses do I get?"

"One more, I told you I play four."

Jon kept his gaze on her, once again giving her the x-ray once over. He narrowed his eyes and smiled wide. "Harp."

Her mouth dropped. What...how...WHAT!? "You cheated!" she exclaimed, at the same time he burst out laughing. He dodged the fist she flung out to smack at his shoulder, this perfect stranger, but she was positive he deserved it. First for chastising her when she completely accidentally stepped into him, then for his comments after her incredbile audition, and now well, for whatever was happening with this. She glared at him, simultaneously impressed he got them right and also annoyed.

Now he laughed. "How did I cheat? I didn't know you until like three hours ago."

"But you did," she realized. He knew her real name. Could have been a good guess, but she tried vrey hard to keep the lives separate. So how did he know?

They were still walking. She realized they were approaching a nondescript old building, stone and worn, with moss growing on the side from the healthy amount of humidity King's Landing endured. There was a large olive tree out front, providing shade over a fountain of a series of wolves chasing each other. They stopped near the entrance to the small courtyard, his fingers idly running down the strap of his trumpet case, his cigarette almost worn down to the filter.

He flicked off some ash, drew in a last pull of it, and stubbed it out, tossing it into a trash can. He smiled again, but it didn't meet his eyes. He tapped her case. "Violin, easy." He gestured to her fingers. "You have piano hands, calluses on your wrists, your black and white outfit, probably what, teacher too?" She scowled, refusing to acknowledge he was right. He carried on. "Guitar because that was actually just a guess."

"And harp? How'd you guess that?" she demanded.

Jon blinked, shrugging. "You're a Targaryen."

Her jaw set. "Yes," she ground out. She arched her brows, silver bouncing up to her hairline. "Which I would kindly request you keep to yourself."

"You should probably hide your eye color then."

"I could just be Lyseni or Valyrian otherwise."

"You have your mother's face," he said. He continued, her shoulders drawing back at that, surprised. He smiled again. "And Rhaegar Targaryen was one of my first music teachers. I know a Targaryen and I know he has a little sister and well, Targaryens are the only harp players that actually make it a worthy instrument to learn." He grinned wider. "I'll give you a hint. One of the instruments I do not know how to play is harp."

Rhaegar's student? Her mother? Harp? What? There were questions swirling around in her mind, before she could ask him to clarify. He walked by her and to the fountain, dropping some of the coins in it and then depositing his earnings into a box near the entrance to the building. He tipped his fingers to his temple, saluting her. "See you around Daenerys Targaryen. Or Dany Storm. Which do you want me to call you?"

"Dany," she whispered, unsure what to make of him.

He nodded, smiling. "Dany." He turned, walking off and reached into his pocket, removing a harmonica, lifting it to his lips and humming off on it as he wandered away, out of sight.