#Homestead on Wednesday

[beccawise7]

Another one of my ideas of heaven. 💜🖤

[starshideurfics]

WiP Wednesday

Enjoy a sweet little excerpt from Build a Life with You chapter 6!

Joining his family, Steve holds Josie in place on the chair Eddie fetched her so she is tall enough to use the counter with them. He narrates all the steps they take, measuring out flour and milk, separating the eggs so Eddie can beat air into the whites, while Josie awkwardly stirs the yolks into the batter with a wooden spoon. Steve helps her to fold the whites in, giving them a fluffy batter for pillowy pancakes. “Good job, sweet pea,” Steve says softly, kissing her hair. “Now why don’t we let Daddy cook the pancakes and you and I can get the table set?”

“Yes, Mama!” She holds tight to Steve’s hand as she hops down from the chair, leading him to the sideboard to find plates and cups and napkins. Josie is careful with each place setting, and Steve guides her hands in folding the napkins. 

“What should we have with our pancakes?” Steve asks. “Maple syrup? Blueberry jam?”

Josie doesn’t take even a second to consider before shouting, “Jam!” and pulling Steve towards the pantry. 

The jam is all on high shelves; Josie loves every type of fruit and would eat an entire jar of the stuff in a single sitting if given the chance. The previous summer on a blackberry picking day, between the berries she received from Steve and Dustin, along with the ones she’d plucked from the bushes herself, Josie made herself sick from overfilling her little tummy. After that, Steve moved all the jam out of reach of little hands. 

Steve plucks down a jar of blueberry jam, along with a jar of strawberry-rhubarb for Eddie. They bring the jam back to set on the table, just in time for Dustin to come in the kitchen door, carrying the milk can and a basket of eggs.

[fiadorable]

My kid's school board is patting themselves on the back for lowering the millage rate for the first time in decades while still providing teacher raises (sorely needed raises, I fully support this!).

AND YET.

I have a permission form on my desk right now that says the performing arts program is funded 100% through parent donations, and would I be so kind as to donate money to allow my child to see a production of the goddamn Nutcracker. Also, would I be so kind as to donate extra money for those who can't afford the recommended donation?

(To be clear, this is not like the drama program at a high school, this is just, we would like to take your elementary kid to see the highschool orchestra play or bring a kid-friendly theater production to perform at the school).

My god, raise the millage rate so we can have educational experiences that don't take place behind a desk. Raise the millage rate so I don't have to deal with eight thousand microtransactions donation requests for my kid to have a well-rounded education.

Field trips, yes! Take my kid to a farm so she can pet a goat and smell fresh air. Take my kid to a planetarium, a museum, a public garden. Help me expose my kid to as many different ideas as possible.

This is the village, [Redacted] School Board. You are part of my village now, as mandated by the state. Help me educate my kid.

[daryltwdixon]

WIPS this week

One thing you should know about me is that I am impatient as hell. So we’re not waiting til Wednesday to post these babies.

please keep in mind tags may be added or changed as I continue writing these stories! can you tell I’ve been listening to a lot of Ethel Cain?

Do It For Dale

I do it for my daddy and I do it for Dale I'm doing what I want and, damn, I'm doing it well

one shot

Summary: As Sarah’s best friend, you’re determined to give her the perfect 21st birthday—even if it means going behind her grumpy old dad’s back. But when the night spirals and you end up stranded, you’re forced to call the last person you want to face. And once Sarah is asleep, he shows you exactly what happens to girls who misbehave. || smut MDNI 18+, cheerleader!reader, bratty!reader, overprotective!joel, grumpy!joel, college au, brattamer!joel, no outbreak || Inspired by Ethel Cain's American Teenager. "Do it for Dale" is a saying in memory of the nascar driver dale earnhardt who was known for his risky driving. basically 'take risks, make dale proud" the southern version of ‘you only live once’

That House in Nebraska

Where you told me even if we died tonight, that I'd die yours

mini series

Summary: In the time between when he took you to now, something changed. His hands grew gentler. Your fear turned quiet. And somewhere in the stillness, love kindled. || angst & fluff, potentially some eventual smut, Stockholm Syndrome, Pre-Boston QZ, slow burn, raider!joel, captor!joel, homestead || Inspired by Ethel Cain's A House in Nebraska

[skyrim-forever]

WIP Wednesday

Hi everyone it's that time again <3 Thank you to @silly-little-diary @saltymaplesyrup @sulphuricgrin @firefly-factory and @umbracirrus for tagging me :) Awesome to see your stuff!

I'm tagging @theoneandonlysemla @pocket-vvardvark @changelingsandothernonsense @dirty-bosmer @thequeenofthewinter @sanzas-reverie @hircines-hunter

@labskeever @ladytanithia @scholarlyhermit @captain-of-silvenar @friend-of-giants @lucien-lachance @pyre-of-pages @sunsettemplar @heavy-metal-dick @chiqita

I decided to go insane and embroider MK's Tribunal drawing, so far we got 1/3 done! Vivec desires to be many things and now they are embroidery :P

I've also got some writing done (special thanks to @sulphuricgrin @hircines-hunter and @captain-of-silvenar for our writing sprints <3). I had the idea for an OCxOC story set around the time of ESO, really it's my chance to play around in the world with some characters that are quickly overtaking my brain <3 Meet Odile and the (currently unconcious) Fish Mer under the cut:

Standing over the figure now, she would have thought him dead; his skin not unlike that of early decay, pale blue like that of bloat. Unfortunately, Odile was familiar with death, the way the flesh would double in size. However, he did not look bloated. Not at all. Aside from the pale, blue-gray hue of his skin, all other forms of decay were absent, the only injury she could see was a decent sized gash on his head, bruising around it. The initial shock of finding a body now wore off, the woman can see other features of him better, silver gray hair approximately shoulder length, pointed ears and an angular face indicating his was mer. Dunmer? She thought that could explain his skin colour, as well as the strange armour he wore. Various straps of somesort of leather across his torso, leaving most of it exposed as it only covered his arm with straps reaching to the other shoulder. He is very… fit. She shakes her head. Do not oogle the dead. She really should try and get out more. As her eyes gaze over him, accessing the situation she can see one only one boot on his foot; it too was a similar material, with bits of metal along the sole. The other was likely lost between wherever he came from and the shores of Blackwood. Whoever he was, and wherever he came from, the fellow did deserve a proper burial. As she goes to grab the body by the arm, bending her knees to adjust to weight, she considers if she should cremate him. If he was Dunmer then that would follow within traditional custom, even if the smell would be terrible. Any and all thoughts of this mysterious stranger's burial are tossed aside as she feels a faint beating while reaching for his wrist… he’s alive. 

The mer’s limp body returns to the marshlands as she tries to feel for a heartbeat, the gentle thud in his chest is stronger than the pulse, but not by much. An ear to his torso, Odile can also feel extremely shallow breaths. The healer had treated many ailments, one of the few in Cyrodiil who had been soaked in the blood of others having never held so much as a small dagger. However, she had never been on her own to save someone from death. Her mother had always been there, her mother who had over thirty years experience as a healer, some formal training but Nan was always the best teacher. But Mother is in the Imperial City, trying to earn them enough to last through the deep rains of the fall. And Nan  lay buried in the corner of the homestead, near where she would have put this mer. There would be no one to help, no one to ask for advice. For the first time Odile would have to do it all on her own, and she would not lose her first patient. 

[sophaeros]

arctic monkeys for q magazine, june 2011 (x) (x)

ARCTIC MONKEYS: Inside Alex Turner's Head

Words Sylvia Patterson Portrait John Wright

The day Arctic Monkeys moved into their six bedroom, Spanish-style villa in the Hollywood Hills, where the first-floor balcony looked over the patio swimming pool, they knew exactly what to do.

"From the balcony, you could get on t'roof and jump in't pool," chirps the Monkeys' most gregarious member, drummer Matt Helders, in his homely Yorkshire way. "We looked at it and said, That's definitely gonna happen. So by the end, we did a couple of 'em. Somersaults in t'pool, from the roof. At night time."

In January 2011, as Sheffield and the rest of Britain endured its bitterest winter in a century, Arctic Monkeys capered among the palm trees, eschewing hotels for a millionaire's Hollywood homestead as they recorded and mixed their fourth studio album, Suck It and See.

The four Monkeys, alongside producer James Ford and engineer James Brown, lived what they called the "American man thing": watched Super Bowl on giant TVs, played ping-pong, hired two Mustangs, cooked cartoon Tom And Jerry-sized steaks on barbecues on Sundays, had girlfriends over to visit, all cooking and drinking around the colossal outdoor kitchen area featuring a fridge and two dishwashers. Living atop the Hills, they could see the Pacific Ocean beyond by day, the infinite glittering lights of downtown LA by night.

Every day, en route to Sound City Studios, they'd travel in a seven-seater four-by-four through the mountains, via bohemian 60s enclave Laurel Canyon, blaring out the tunes: The Stones Roses, The Cramps, the Misfits' Hollywood Babylon. For the sometime teenage art-punk renegades whose guitarist, Jamie Cook, was once ejected from London's Met Bar for refusing to pay €22 for two beers, the comedy rock'n'roll life still feels, however, absolutely nothing like reality.

NICK O'MALLEY: "It were really as if we were on holiday. When we came back it's the most post-holiday blues I've ever had!"

JAMIE COOK: "It's hard to comment on that. It were just really good fun."

MATT HELDERS: "We always said, As soon as things like that feel normal, we're in trouble. But it's just funny. You might think it would get more and more serious as you get older but it's getting funnier. We've done four albums now and I'm still only 24, I'm still immature to an extent. So who cares?"

Alex? Al? Are you there?

ALEX TURNER: "Yeah, it were good times. But we were in the studio most of the time. So there's no real wild Hollywood stories. Hmn. Yeah."

Wednesday, 16 March 2011, Strongroom Bar, Shoreditch, East London, 11am. Alex Turner, 25, slips entirely alone into an empty art-crowd brasserie looking like an indie girl's indie dream boy: mop-top bouffant hair which coils, in curlicues, directly into his cheekbones, army-green waist-length jacket, baggy-arsed skinny jeans, black cord zip-up cardigan, simple gold chain, supermoon sized chocolate-brown eyes.

Almost six years after I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor became the indie-punk anthem of a generation (from the first of Arctic Monkeys' three Number 1 albums), and nothing prepares you for the curious phenomenon of Alex Turner "in conversation". Unlike so many of the Monkeys frenetic early songs, he operates in slow motion, seemingly underwater, carrying a protective shell on his back, perhaps indie rock's very own diamond-backed terrapin. The most celebrated young wordsmith in rock'n roll today talks fulsomely, in fact, only in shapeless, curling sentences punctuated with "maybe... hmn.. yeah", an anecdotal wilderness sketching pictures as vague as a cloud. He is, though, simultaneously adorable: amenable, gentle, graceful, and as Northern as a 70s grandpa who literally greets you with "ey oop?".

"People think I'm a miserable bastard," he notes, cheerfully, "but it's just the way me face falls." Still profoundly private, if not as hermetically sealed as a vacuum-packed length of Frankfurter, his fante-shy reticence extends not only to his personal life (his four-year relationship with It-girl/TV presenter Alexa Chung, whom he never mentions) but to insider details generally. Take the Monkeys’ Hollywood high jinks documented above: not one word of it was described by Turner. Before Q was informed by his other Monkey bandmates, Turner’s anecdotal aversion unfolded like this:

Describe the lovely villa you were in. AT: "Well... we certainly had a... good view."

Of what? AT: "Well, we were up quite high."

The downtown LA lights going on forever? AT: "I dunno. It was definitely that thing of getting a bit of sort of sunshine. Is it vitamin D? If you can get vitamin D on your record, you've got a bit of a head start. So we'd get up and drive to the studio."

What were you driving? AT: "Nothing... spectacular. But yeah, we'd drive up the studio, spend all day there and sort of, y know, get back. To be honest... we had limited time. So we spent as much time as possible kind of getting into it, like, in the studio.

So your favourite adventures were what? AT: "Well, they were really… minimal. We were working out there!"

Any nightclubs or anything, perhaps? AT: "You really want the goss 'ere, don't you?"

Yes, please. AT: "I could make some up. Nah!"

And this was on the second time of asking. It's perhaps obvious: Alex Turner, one of the most prolific songwriters of his generation (four Monkeys albums and two EPs in five years, The Last Shadow Puppets side-project, a bewitching acoustic soundtrack for his actor/video director friend Richard Ayoade's feature-length debut Submarine), is dedicated only to the cause – of being the best he can possibly be. He simply remembers the songs much more than the somersaults.

Throughout 2009, Arctic Monkeys toured third album Humbug – the record mostly made in the Californian desert with Queens Of The Stone Age man-monolith Josh Homme – across the planet. While hardly some cranium-blistering opus, its heavier sonic meanderings considerably slowed the Arctic Monkeys' live sets and on 23 August 2009, Q watched them headline the Lowlands Festival, Holland and witnessed a hitherto unthinkable sight – swathes of perplexed Monkeys fans trudging away from the stage. With the sludge rock mood matching their cascading dude-rock hair it seemed obvious: they'd smoked way too much outrageously strong weed in the desert.

"Heheheh, yeah," responds Turner, unperturbed. "That's your theory. You probably weren't alone."

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Turner's arm is now nonchalantly draped along the back of a beaten-up brown leather sofa. He ponders his band's somewhat contrary reputation…

"I think starting the headline set at Reading with a cover of a Nick Cave tune perhaps was a bit contrary. D'youknowhat Imean?! But to be honest, that summer, at those festivals, we had a great time. And I know some fans enjoyed those sets 10 times more. And you can't just do, y’know, another Mardy Bum or whatever. Because how could you, really?"

With Humbug, notes Turner, "I went into corners I hadn't before, because I needed to see what were there," but by spring 2010 he wanted their fourth album to be "more song-based" and less lyrically "removed". He was "organised this time", studied "the good songwriters" (from Nick Cave, The Byrds and Leonard Cohen to country colossi Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline), discovered "the other three strings" on his guitar, and wrote 12 songs through the spring and summer of 2010, mostly in the fourth-floor New York flat he shared with Chung before the couple moved back to London late last summer (the New York MTV show It's On With Alexa Chung was cancelled after two seasons). The result: major-key melodies, harmonised singing and classic song structures.

At the same time he revisited the opposite extreme: bands such as Black Sabbath and The Stooges ("we wanted a few wig-outs as well"); he was also still heavily influenced by the oil-thick grinder rock of Josh Homme, who is clearly now a permanent Monkeys hero. After four months' rehearsals in London, on 8 January the Monkeys relocated to LA for five swift weeks of production and Homme came to visit, singing backing vocals on All My Own Stunts. Tequila was involved.

"Tequila is probably me favourite," manages Turner, by way of an anecdote. "But it takes a certain climate... It's not the same... in the rain. Yeah. [Looks to be contemplating a lyric] Tequila in the rain."

Vocally, he developed the caramel richness first unveiled on The Last Shadow Puppets' Scott Walker-esque The Age Of The Understatement, finding a crooner's vibrato. "Everything before was so tight,” he notes, clutching his neck. "Probably just through nerves. That's just not there any more." Suck It and See contains at least four of the most glittering, sing-along, world-class pop songs (and obvious singles) of Arctic Monkeys' career: the towering, clanging She's Thunderstorms, the summertime stunner The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala, the heavenly harmonised title track and the Echo & The Bunnymen-esque jangly pop of closer That's Where You're Wrong.

Elsewhere, in typically contrary "fashion", there's preposterous head-banger bedlam (Brick By Brick, the rollicking faux-heavy rock download they released in March "just for fun", featuring vocals by Helders; Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair, and Library Pictures). News arrives that the first single proper will be Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair. Q is perplexed. Brilliantly titled, certainly, but arriving after Brick By Brick, the new album will appear to the planet as some comedy pastiche metal album for 12-year-old boys.

You've got all these colossal, summery, indie-pop classics and you've gone for... The Chair? AT: [Laughing uproariously] "The Chair! I'm now calling it The Chair, that's cool. Well for once it weren't even our suggestion. It was Laurence's (Bell, Domino label boss). And I were, Fucking too right! He's awesome. It'd be good to get a bit of fucking rock'n'roll out there, won't it? It's riffs. It's loud. It's funny."

If you don't release The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala as a single I'm going round Domino to kick Laurence's "awesome" butt. AT: "I think it'll be the next one!"

The record's title, meanwhile, could've been more enigmatically original than the un-loved phrase Suck It and See. The band, struggling with ideas due to the opposing sonic moods, invented an inspiration-conjuring ruse: to think of new names for effects pedals in the style of Tom Wolfe, Turner being long enamoured with the American author's legendarily psychedelic books The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby, "cos that just sounds awesome".

"There's the Big Muff pedal," he elaborates, "That’s the classic. I've got the Valve Slapper. And there's the Tube Screamer. So we came up with the Thunder Suckle Fuzz Canyon. And… wait till I assemble it in me mind… em… it'll come to me… The Blonde-O-Sonic Shimmer Trap. So we were going for summat like that."

A wasted opportunity?

"Nah. Because some of those things ended up in the lyrics anyway. Suck It and See was just easier."

Alex Turner, rock'n'roll's premier descriptive art-poet, still writes his lyrics long-hand in spiral-bound notebooks. "Writing lyrics is a craft that I've practised a bit now," he avers. "In me notebook it looks like sums. Theories. There's words and arrows going everywhere. There's always a few possibilities and I write the word 'OR' in a square."

For our most celebrated colloquial sketch-writer of the everyday observation (all betting pencils, boy slags and ice-cream van aggravations) the more successful he becomes, the less he orbits the ordinary. "I'm not struggling with that, to be honest," he decides. "In fact I'm enjoying writing lyrics much more than I did. Stories. Describing a picture. Um. There's quite a bit of weather and time in this one. Which is probably not reassuring. 'Oh God, he's writing about the weather.' Maybe leave that out!"

There are also some direct, funny, romantic observations: "That's not a skirt, girl, that's a sawn-off shotgun/And I only hope you've got it aimed at me..." (from the title track).

Some of your romantic quips, now, must be about Alexa. AT: "Right. Yeah. Definitely. Well... there's always been that side to our songs, when we weren't writing about... the fucking taxi rank. It's kind of inevitably... people you're with." [At the mention of Chung's name, Turner is visibly aggrieved, head sliding into his neck, terrapin-esque indeed.]

It must have been very grounding being in a proper relationship through all this madness. Because if you weren't, girls would be jumping all over your head. AT: "Em. Hmn. Well, of course that helps you to... I don't really know.. what the other way would be."

Does Alexa wonder if the lyrics are about her? AT: "Oh there's none of that. Yeah, no, there's no looking over the shoulder."

She must be curious, at least. "Maybe."

Did you ever watch Popworld? AT: [Nervous laughter] "Em! Now and again."

Did you ever see the episode where she helps Paul McCartney write a song about shoes? AT: "Ah, yeah I think so, maybe I did see that."

Well, if I was you, I'd have been thinking, "She's the one for me." AT: "Well. Yeah... maybe that would've... sealed the deal! Hmn. But maybe that wasn't when i got the ray of light. When was? Nah [buries head in hands]. I might have to go for a cigarette..."

Q can't torture him any more and joins him for a snout. Turner smokes Camels from a crumpled, sad, soft-pack and resembles a teenager again. As early song You Probably Couldn't See For The Lights But You Were Staring Straight At Me says, "Never tenser/Could all go a bit Frank Spencer…”

In January 2006, when Arctic Monkeys' Number 1 album Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not became the fastest-selling debut in UK history, inadvertently redefining the concept of autonomy and further imploding the decimated music industry (& wasn't their idea to be "the MySpace band", it was their fans': the Monkeys merely kick-started viral marketing by giving away demos at gigs), the 19- and 20-year-old Monkeys were terrible at fame. They weren't so much insurrectionary teenage upstarts as teenage innocents culturally traumatised by the peak-era fame democracy.

To their generation (born in the mid-'80s) fame was now synonymous with some-twat-off-the-telly a world of foaming tabloid hysteria where renown and celebrity meant, in fact, you were talentless. Hence their interview diffidence and receiving awards via videos dressed up as the Wizard OfOz and the Village People. Which only, ironically, made them even more celebrated and famous. (“That were a product of us just trying to hold onto the reins," thinks Turner today. "Being uncooperative.")

Q meets The Other Three one morning at 11am, in the well-appointed, empty bar of the Bethnal Green, Bast London hotel they're staying in (all three live in Sheffield, with their girlfriends, in their own homes). First to arrive is the industrious, sensible and cheerful Helders, crunching into a hangover-curing green apple. He has recovered from last year's boxing accident at the gym, which left his broken arm requiring a fitted plate. Now impressively purple-scarred, the break felt "interesting" and the doctor couldn't resist the one-armed drummer jest: "D'you like Def Leppard?"

Currently enjoying an enduring bromance with Diddy, he still doesn't feel famous, "it just doesn't feel that real, there's no paparazzi waiting for me to trip up." He and Turner, during the four-month rehearsals last year, became an accomplished roast dinner cooking duo for the band. "I reckon we could have us our own cookbook," he beams. "Pictures of us stirring, with a whisk."

O'Malley, an agreeable, twinkly-eyed 25-year-old with a strikingly deep voice and a winningly huge smile, is still coyly embarrassed by the interview process. A replacement for the departed original bass player Andy Nicholson in May 2006, he went from Asda shelf-filler to Glastonbury headliner in 13 months and still finds the Monkeys "a massive adventure". His life in Sheffield is profoundly normal – he's delighted that his new home since last October has an open-hearth fireplace: "Me parents had electric bars." He has also discovered cooking. “I’m just a pretty shit-hot housewife, most of the time," he smiles. "I cook stews, fish combinations, curries, chillies. I made a beef pho noodle soup the other day, Vietnamese, I surprised meself, had some mates round for that."

Recently, at his dad's 50th birthday bash, the party band, made up of family and friends, insisted he join them onstage "for ...The Dancefloor. So I were up there [mimes playing bass, all sheepish] and it were the wrong pitch, they didn't know the words or 'owt, going, Makin eyes... er..." He has no extra-curricular musical ambitions. "I'm happy just playing bass," he smiles. "I've never had the skill of doing songs meself. It'd be shit!"

Cook, 25, is still spectacularly embarrassed by the interview process. He perches upright, with a fixed nervous smile, newly shorn of the beard and ponytail he sported in LA: "Rockin' a pone, yeah, because I could get away with it." With his classic preppy haircut and dapper green military coat (from London's swish department store, Liberty), he looks like a handsome '40s film star. (Turner deems Cook "the band heartbreaker" and had a word with him post-LA: "I said to him, Come on, mate, you've got to get that beard shaved off. Get the girls back into us. Shift some posters.")

His life in Sheffield is also profoundly normal. He still plays Sunday League football with his local pub team, The Pack Horse FC (position, left back), remains in his long-term relationship with page-three-model-turned-make-up-artist Katie Downes and "potters about" at home, refusing to describe said home, "cos I'll get burgled".

A tiler by trade, he always vowed, should the Monkeys sign a deal, that he'd throw his trowel in a Sheffield river on his last day of work. "I never did fling me trowel," he confirms. "Probably still in me shed." He's never considered what his band represents to his generation. "I'd go insane thinking about it, I'm pretty good at not thinking about it… Oh God. I'm terrible at this!"

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Alex Turner is cloudily describing his everyday life. "I just keep meself to meself," he confounds. He mostly stays indoors and his perfect night in with Alexa is "watching loads of Sopranos. And doing roast dinners".

No longer spindle-limbed, he attends a gym and has handsomely well-defined arms – "You have to look after yourself."

Suddenly, Crying Lightning from Humbug rumbles over the bar stereo. "Wow. How about that? I was quite happy the other morning cos Brick By Brick were on the round-up goals on Soccer AM. It's still exciting when that happens. It was like Brick By Brick is real."

He spends his days writing music, "listening to records", and recommends Blues Run The Game by doomed '60s minstrel Jackson C Frank ("who's that lass?... Laura Marling, she did a cover recently), a simple, acoustic, deep and regretful stunner about missing someone on the road.

Lyrically, he cites as an example of greatness the Nick Cave B-side Little Empty Boat [from ‘97 single Into My Arms ], a comically sinister paean to a sexual power struggle: "Your knowledge is impressive and your argument is good/But I am the resurrection babe and you're standing on my foot."

"I need a hobby," he suddenly decides. "I'd like to learn another language." Since his mum is a German teacher (his dad teaches music), surely he can speak some German? "I know how to ask somebody if they've had fun at Christmas." Go on, then. "Nah!"

Where Turner's creative gifts stem from remains a contemporary rock'n'roll mystery; he became a fledgling songwriter at 16, after the gift of a guitar at Christmas from his parents. An only child, did his folks, perhaps, foresee artistic greatness? "I doubt it!" he balks. "Cos I didn't. I wasn't... a show kid." Like the others, he doesn't analyse the past, or the future.

"You can't constantly be thinking about what's happened," he reasons, "it's just about getting on with it." The elaborate pinky ring he now constantly wears, however, a silver, gold and ruby metal-goth corker featuring the words DEATH RAMPS is a permanent reminder of he and his best friends’ past. The Death Ramps is not only a Monkeys pseudonym and B-side to Teddy Picker, but a place they used to ride their bikes in Sheffield as kids.

"Up in the woods near where we lived," he nods. "Just little hills. But when you're eight years old they're death ramps." The ring was custom made by a friend of his, who runs top-end rock'n'roll jewellery emporium The Great Frog near London's Carnaby Street. Ask Turner why he thinks the chase between his writing and speaking eloquence is quite so mesmerisingly vast and he attempts a theory.

"Well, writing isn't the same as speaking," he muses. "Not for me. I seem to struggle more and more with... conversation. Talking onstage... I can't do it any more. Hmn. I'll have to work on that."

The ever-helpful Helders has a better theory.

"Since he's been writing songs," he ponders, “It seems like he’s always thinking about that. So even when he’s talking to you now, he’s thinking about the next thing that rhymes with a word. Even when he’s driving. We joke he’s a bad driver, his focus is never 100 per cent on what he’s doing. Which is good for us cos it means he’s got another 12 songs up his sleeve. I think music must be the easiest way for him to be concise and get everything out. Otherwise his head would explode.”

The Shoreditch.com photo studios, 18 March. Alex Turner, today, is more ethereally distracted than ever, transfixed by the studio iPod, playing Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, a version of I’d Rather Go Blind. Occasionally, he’ll completely lose his conversational thread, “Um. I’ve dropped a stitch.”

The first to arrive for Q’s photoshoot, he greets his incoming bandmates with enormous hugs (and also hugs them goodbye). Today, Q feels it’s pointless poking its pickaxe of serious enquiry further into Turner’s vacuum-packed soul and wonders if he’ll play, instead, a daft game. It’s called Popworld Questions, as first posed by someone he knows rather well.

“Oh, OK. Let’s do it,” he blinks, now perched in an empty dressing room. He then vigorously shakes his head, “Um…I’ve gotta snap back into it.”

Here, then, are some genuine “Alexa Chung on Popworld” questions (2006-2007), as originally posed to Matt Willis, Amy Winehouse, Robbie Williams, Pussycat Dolls, Kaiser Chiefs and Diddy.

Why do indie bands wear such tight jeans? AT: “Um. I supposed they do. They haven’t always. When we first were playing I was definitely in flares. You need to be quite tall to get the full effect, though. So, that's why this indie band wears such tight jeans, cos we've not got the legs for flares."

What makes you tick in the sexy department? AT: "Wow. Pass. What do I find most attractive in a woman? Something in the head? That's definitely a requirement. Well... Hmn. I'm struggling."

Tell us about all the lovely groupies. AT: "No!"

If dogs had human hands instead of paws, would you consider trying to teach them to play the piano? AT: "Absolutely. I'd teach Hey Jude."

How many plums d'you think you can comfortably fit in one hand? AT: "They're not very big. [Holds small, pale, girly hand up for inspection] It's a shame. Probably three. Diddy only managed two? Maybe not then. I can carry a lot of glasses at once, though. If they're small ones I can do four."

Are you cool? AT: "Not as much as I'd like to be. There's this clip where Clint Eastwood is on a talkshow and he gets asked, Everybody thinks of you as defining cool, what d'you think about that? And he gets his cigs out, takes one out, flicks it into his mouth, lights it and says, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Here, Turner locates his Camels soft-pack and attempts to do a Clint Eastwood. He flicks one upwards towards his mouth. And misses. Flicks another. And misses. "Third time lucky?" He misses. "I'll get it the next time." And succeeds. "Hey. Fourth time. Don't put that in! So there you go. I'm four steps away from where I wanna be."

Thank you very much for joining me here on Popworld, here's my clammy hand again. There it is, let it slip, hmmn. You can let go now. AT: "OK! Were you a Popworld fan, then? It was funny. Cool. What were we talking about, before?"

Blimey, Alex. What must you be like when you're completely stoned out of your head? AT: "Stoned? What d'you mean, cos I seem like that anyway? Yeah. A lot of people... tell me I'm a bit... dreamy. But I like the idea of that. Of being somewhere else."

Two days earlier, Turner had contemplated what he wanted from all this, in the end. Many seconds later he gave his deceptively ambitious answer.

"I just wanna write better songs," he decided. "And better lyrics. I just definitely wanna be good at it. Hmn. Yeah.”

—

RUFUS BLACK: AKA Matt Helders, on his ongoing bromance with Diddy

Matt Helders has known preposterous rap titan Diddy since they met in Miami in 2008. “He goes, Arctic Monkeys! Then he said summat about a B-side and I was like, He's not lying! I just thought, This is funny, I'm gonna go with this for a while." Last October Diddy texted Helders, suggesting he play drums with his Diddy Dirty Money band on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross, to give his own drummer a day off. “I were bowling with me girifriend at the time. In Sheffield, on a Sunday." On the day of recording, says Helder, "We had a musical director. That were one of the maddest times of my life. Next day Diddy said, Why don't you just stay? Come along with me. So I went everywhere with him." Diddy had "a convoy of cars" and made sure Helders was always in his. "He'd stop his car and go, Where's Matt? You're coming with me! So I'd get in his car. Just me, him, his security, driver." Diddy, by now, had given him a pseudonym - Rufus Black. "He kept saying, I don't wanna fuck up your image. And I'm, I don't think it's gonna do me any harm!" He stayed in Diddy's spectacularly expensive hotel. Some weeks later, Helders almost returned to the Dirty Money drumstool for a gig in Glasgow. "But we were rehearsing in London. I were like, I might come, how are you getting there? And he were like, Jet. Jump on t’jet with me. But I had to stay in Bethnal Green instead.”

Love’s young dream: Diddy (left) with Helders

[whimsyfaes]

HELLOO! Can you please do Thomas sharpe x a mystic reader like one who’s sort of like a fortune teller but warm spirited head canons please😊

Ethereal Connections

• You have become quite the talk of the town in Cumberland, the small run down homestead a sore eye in the busy streets. But nevertheless, even with its ghastly appearance you have had the honor of receiving many customers eager to either have their fortunes told, or perhaps speak with a deceased loved one. You took pride in your work, letting the spirits of the world beyond become your canvas. & you, the artist.

• It was only then that a mysterious Baronet would come to your door, asking if he could have a moment of your time. He seemed troubled, the dark circles under his eyes an indication that he has been battling something for quite some time. But of course you would take this on, your hands clasping around his clam ones as you began your reading. It was then that you saw EVERYTHING, every horror that had been dealt, every REGRET he had felt. He came here for solace, & to perhaps express his deepest apologies to the victims under him & his sister's antics. Who were you to judge a man who wanted to change? Here, it was a place of healing.

• Every Wednesday afternoon became a routine to the both of you, contacting the spirits from beyond. You can physically see the weight remove from his shoulders, his eyes beginning to find that spark again. The ghosts had accepted his apology, knowing that his mind was corrupted by the darkness of his sister's plans. They had moved on with a sense of new beginnings, telling you both that this place beyond our existence is everything you could imagine it to be, but better. It had brought relief.

• You knew something was wrong when he hadn't come to your shop in quite some time, only then to find out about the Allerdale Hall incident in the local newspaper. It was as if a knife had gutted you from the inside out, tears staining your tarots as you mourned the loss of his presence. This would NOT be the last time you speak to him however, able to connect to the astral plain with little effort. It was then that you saw him in your mind, a pale apparition of himself with a smoke of crimson flowing from his cheek. It was then that you would reach out to him every night, & every night you found comfort in each other.

Some headcanons -

• Thomas would often bring his favorite inventions as gifts in gratitude, making sure that every visit there was something new to show you.

• After each reading, the two of you would find yourselves talking for hours of anything & everything. It was so easy to indulge in conversation with him.

• You had gifted Thomas his very own tarot card reading set, a beautiful black velvet design.

• Each visit you found each other to feel a connection between the two of you, growing fond of not only his company but his aura as well. It was only a matter of time that you had begun to sprout romantic feelings towards him, & he the same.

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

@steddieangstyaugust Day 14 - Wordy Wednesday: Lake

i’m challenging myself to keep all these at either 127 or 1,270 words each, see day one for more of an explanation!

The last time Eddie visits his Uncle Wayne, he meets a mermaid.

He’d gone under the water to fish up a bright coral pink rock he’d spotted from above, and happened to glance up, looking out into the lake from under the surface, only to meet a pale face dotted with what looked like freckles.

Inhaling the clear lake water, sputtering as he stands, the pale face joins him above the surface.

“He–” another cough, “Hello…?” he greets, questioningly.

The face only studies him further, looking him over from head to toe. 

Eddie squats back down into the water, it’s much colder above the surface now that he’s used to the water’s chilly temperature.

A bright shimmering blue tail skims past his knee.

“Wow! You’re a mermaid!” he says, astonished, finally noticing the rest of the boy’s freckled torso just under the crystal clear water. “I’m Eddie, what’s your name?”

“Eee–” the boy frowns, “Eeadding?”

Eddie points to his chest, “Ed-dee.”

“Edddeee.”

“Yeah! I’m Eddie,” he points to himself again, “You are…?” points to the mermaid (merboy?)

“Ssst–” his face scrunches, he squeals some sort of noise under his breath, “SteeEEE–” He cuts himself off again, shrinking from the pained look on Eddie’s face.

“Sorry, that was just loud.. Is it Steeee…” Eddie wracks his brain, “Fin?” He completes the only name that comes to mind, wincing at ‘fin’ being the only syllable he possibly could’ve imagined while in the presence of a literal finned person.

Maybe Stefin giggles, lifting his tailfins out of the water.

Eddie grins back, “Stee-fin?”

Even More Possibly Stefin nods, a sharp-toothed grin stretching from ear to ear.

“Well Stefin, wanna help me look for rocks?”

Together, they scour the shallows of the water behind Wayne’s cabin for hours

They fill the whole grocery bag Eddie’d been toting around with him by time Wayne calls for him at sundown.

“I’m leaving for home tomorrow,” he tells Stefin, not knowing that would be the last time he’d ever see his friend, telling the beautiful creature “I’ll see you next year though! We come back at least once every summer, promise.”

The merboy had smiled so brilliantly at him, the freckles Eddie had just then realized were tiny blue scales shining in the evening sun. He didn’t want to leave.

But he had to. Eddie left.

Elizabeth got sick.

Al got arrested. 

And in the time between the state of Tennessee gaining custody of him and being placed with Uncle Wayne permanently, Wayne sold his little homestead, settling in a two bedroom trailer in the heart of Indiana.

He understands it all now, of course, Wayne making the decision to move where he knew he’d have consistent work year-round was a necessity, but that first week, an already confused Eddie had asked after only a couple days in the trailer when they’d be going home to the lake.

“I don’t live there anymore Teddy. Live here now, in Indiana.”

“But what about the cabin?”

“Sold it, kiddo. Bought this place instead.”

Eddie’s eyes welled up for what felt like the zillionth time in a month. “But what about the stove? What about the bonfires? What about all the rocks I haven’t found?” What about Stefin? He thought to himself.

“Now son–kiddo, s’alright! We can always plan a trip to the UP if y’wanna.”

“Back to the cabin?” Eddie had asked, hopeful.

Wayne shook his head, “Probably camp at McLain instead.”

“That’s on Lake Soupier?”

Wayne snorts, “Yah bud, s’on Superior.”

Eddie took a moment to consider it, then nodded resolutely. “Okay Uncle Wayne.”

They never went back up to Michigan, let alone all the way up to the UP.

The first summer in Indiana was the only time Eddie asked.

“Sorry kiddo, can’t swing it this year. Maybe next time.” Wayne had said, and Eddie watched.

The whole rest of summer, into the fall, especially in the winter, the red-stamped envelopes would stack, then disappear whenever they would go into what Wayne liked to call ‘broke mode’.

Clearance aisle canned goods, store-brand everything, sandwiches packed into brown paper bags with little else.

Eddie grew up, failed his senior year once, twice, managing things the third, and leaving Hawkins for Chicago, hoping to make it big somewhere, somehow.

He manages to, but not in the way he originally thought, falling into club ownership after the man he’d been working for passed, leaving his business to Eddie.

Wayne gets sick when Eddie’s only 28; he drives down to Hawkins and stays with him about a month before he’s gone.

Eddie goes back to Chicago one Uncle short, goes back to work.

A week after Wayne is cremated, a notification pops up in his inbox. An alert he doesn’t remember setting.

Eddie grins, “You sneaky bastard.”

Wayne’s cabin and surrounding acreage have come up for sale.

It’s not even a thought, there’s no decision to be made. Eddie offers over asking and gets the keys handed to him on his 29th birthday.

He’s still a part owner of his club, gets a check every month that pays the mortgage, but his new day to day consists of fixing the cabin, wandering in the woods, and strolling along the shallows of Lake Superior, looking for rocks.

One day, while walking north along the shore, he stumbles across a hidden little alcove.

The rock face juts in from the shoreline, behind a trickling waterfall. It’s not huge by any means, but it looks like someone’s already came by and carved the sand here away, making a knee-high pool that connects the rocky face of the shore with the lake.

He skirts around the little pool, walking along a narrow strip of sand to the sparkling waterfall.

A shocked scream is yanked from his throat as soon as he peers into the alcove properly though, because there, doing a very astute impression of a dead fuckin’ body, is a merman, leant casually back against the wall of the cave Eddie’d just approached from, snoozing away.

The creature whips its head around at Eddie’s yell, teeth bared and a hissing screech slithering out from between his lips.

“Holy Shit! You’re a—”

The merman stops hissing, “Eddie?”

Eddie blinks at him. “Jesus H. Christ.. Stefin?” The blue tail, the shimmering freckle-like scales, the still horribly beautiful face. “You’re real.”

“You’re back— real?” Stefin asks, incredulous, “You didn’t think I was real?”

“I was a kid with an astounding sense of imagination, sue me.”

Stefin rolls his eyes, “Figures why you never came back to see me.”

Eddie blinks at him again, “What? No! No, I couldn’t! My mom— my dad– Wayne— It’s a long story, okay?”

Stefin harrumphs, sitting back against the stone wall. 

“I still can’t believe this, I always thought I’d imagined you.”

“Well you didn’t.”

“Yeahh, I can see that now, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Wha— nevermind, So, how’ve you been?”

Stefin’s head lolls around, he had to’ve just rolled his eyes. He stands up, “Why do you care? You’ll probably just leave again.”

 “No, I bought the house my uncl—” Hang on, what?

Stefin shoves past Eddie to hop down onto the sand, avoiding landing on his feet in the water.

“You’re walking.”

“Amazing observation skills.”

“You’re naked.” And super hot, holy shit. Eddie averts his eyes politely.

“Again, very astute.” He grabs a bundle of cloth, pulling on a pair of shorts.

“How— Can I take you to dinner?”

“Why.” He pulls a shirt on over his head.

“To explain properly. And also because I missed you.”

Stefin turns, looks him over. His gaze softens minutely. “Sure. I’d like that.”

MY FIRST MER!FIC!! HALLELUJAH!!

also, this kinda got away from me, so it's really only light angst 😅

see the collection on ao3!

[direwombat]

tagged by @lilywatt for wip wednesday and @carlosoliveiraa for a six sentence share so far this week. you're getting more than six sentences with this one tho.

here's a snippet from the beginning of chapter 2, picking up just after she nailed jakey between the eyes with the butt of "his" rifle because she overheard him watching the news and her name and and an old mugshot were put onscreen.

This house — what she thought was an abandoned cabin out in the boonies — was the first sign of safety she found since she started running. And wary as she was of accepting a stranger's help, when he lowered the rifle and offered her food and a hot shower, she'd been too hungry and miserable to say no. It wasn't until she trailed him up the stairs that alarms started going off in her head. The man who fed her was conspicuously absent in the family photos lining the wall beside the staircase.

She should have done the smart thing and ran while he thought she was showering. Should have clambered out the window she broke to get inside and try her luck with the next decrepit looking homestead. But then she heard her name on the news, and in a blind panic, she knocked him out with a gun that may or may not actually be his.

The same gun she's holding in her hands, anxiously turning it over while she tries to figure out why she didn't just kill him like she did all the others.

He groans, brows pinching together as his eyes crack open. The nylon ropes securing his wrists to the living room's radiator slide over the pipe he's tied to. For a moment, his head lolls, too heavy for his neck to hold, before he musters of the strength to lift it. He blinks at her, slackjawed and bleary, before his piercing blue gaze sharpens predatorily.

The chair's leather creaks as she leans back and she points the gun at him. "You ain't look like a Leroy," she says, tossing a framed photo of a balding, portly old man—the one who actually shows up in the majority of the pictures adorning the walls and mantle—to the ground in front of the man. "Who are you?"

A smirk splits his face, sharp and toothy. Devilish. "Well, back in Georgia they call me the Barnyard Butcher," he drawls, "but my FBI file calls me The Cook."

She can't help the incredulous lift of her brow. "You for fuckin' real?"

The man's grin only widens.

Jesus Christ. A fucking serial killer.

She ought to kill him.

But her finger makes no move to curl around the trigger.

"Scary," she deadpans. With narrowed eyes, she tilts her head to the side and she thrusts the barrel of the gun forward in a gesturing motion. "What do you call you, then?"

yes, yes, i know that canonically jacob and the cook are two different characters. i don't care tho. it's my au. i do what i want. bonus wip music wednesday because i've added a few songs by halestorm to the playlist for this au. picking this one in particular because it's very much where her head is at at the beginning of the fic

taglist (opt in/out)

@lasersinthejungle, @voidika, @buggknife, @cloudofbutterflies92, @josephseedismyfather

@tommyarishikages, @florbelles, @fourlittleseedlings, @wrathfulrook, @harmonyowl

@ivymarquis, @cassietrn, @strafethesesinners, @trench-rot, @miyabilicious,

@g0dspeeed, @inafieldofdaisies, @josephslittledeputy, @adelaidedrubman,

@finding-comfort-in-rain, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @strangefable, @simplegenius042 and anyone else wanting to share a wip they're working on!

[courtingchaos]

Violence Ad Nauseam

Gator Tillman x Fem Reader

Series Master List

A/N: Would you all like some actual story to go along with the smut chapters? Finally getting into the meat of this after months of being stuck on it. This is going to feel a little out of order with the next two chapters, mainly because those were written first but this bridged a gap I had in my conflict so have at it. This is the tinder to start the bonfire (and also to show off Roy, the world’s biggest bastard). Hope you enjoy, PLEASE read the warnings everyone!

Warnings: Violence, assault (Roy hits reader), depictions of injury, descriptions of injury, talk of violence.

18+ NSFW No Minors

A quiet afternoon on account of the brothers going off for lunch leaving just you in your corner and your father in the house. You saw him through the kitchen window when you stepped out to ask Ty something. He hovers just around the sink so you know he’s cooking, rinsing off the cranberries or breaking down some bird. Wednesday nights mean Family Meetings and when you’re done out here in the garage with this new dash wiring you’ll go in and quietly help him make your mother’s linzer tart.

Between the solder you pinch to the newly stripped wires and the radio droning at the side of your head, it takes you longer than it should to realize the rest of the noise has quieted. Suddenly it isn’t just four brothers gone but the whole homestead seems to have taken off, or at least run away from the heavy footfalls that almost echo in your workspace.

“What are you working on?” Roy’s deep voice is clear without the ring of metal work in the background.

You don’t look up from your work, especially not for him. “Custom dash.”

“Is that for you?”

“You know it isn’t.”

His laugh is anything but jovial, a thin ice pick that hits your spine wrong. You finish with your wires, tucking them back into their casing, before you turn to look at him smiling at you. It’s flat and doesn’t reach his eyes, a startling match to someone else you know. “What do you need?”

“Just came to talk.”

“Father’s in the house. You can talk to him.”

“I already did.” His footsteps seem measured in the last few feet he closes between you two. Those green eyes seem to darken the longer they look down at you, his distaste for you never more apparent. You hazard a look past him towards the open, empty bays and confirm you’ve been left for the wolves.

“There’s not much I can help you with.”

“Oh I beg to differ.” Suddenly he’s reaching for a folding chair leaned up against the wall. Opening it and motioning for you to sit with a wide open palm. “Have a seat sweetheart.”

Your heart pounds in your chest hard enough to crack ribs. “I’d rather stand.”

“I’d rather you sit.” Those eyes turn hard with a glint in the florescent work lights above. “Please.” Again he gestures at the open seat and you stall just a little too long. He grabs your bicep and yanks you forward to stand in front of the chair. “Sit. Down.”

There’s no one out here now. Your phone sits on your workbench, plugged in and on silent. The radio still sings out low and the garage remains quiet like it was the dead of night. So you sit and you swallow the vitriol that rises in your throat because you know when you’re outnumbered.

Roy nods his head when you do as asked and leans back onto the thick wooden worktop, arms crossed too casually across his chest. “You’ve been doing a little research I hear.”

“I do a lot of research, you’ll have to be specific.” You stare up at him with your best poker face, trying hard to leave the disgust out of your features.

“Don’t play fucking stupid.”

“I’m not.” You blink too much as your nerves start to flood in with his sharp tone. “I’m the brains around here, remember?” Licked lips end up bitten lips and you can see him watching all of your nervous energy bleed out into the open. “If Father didn’t know then-“

“I found that P.I. you hired. The one out of Biloxi.” He watches you still suddenly. “Hm. Clearer picture now?”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice to not betray you. Roy is a pain in your ass but he’s a dangerous one, something better left alone until it decides to leave you be. You’ve poked him before with your words and your blatant disregard for his need of Gator but now he has you cornered in silence.

“He sang quite the tune when it came down to brass tacks. Showed me the file on Gator first and then little ol’ me.” He clears his throat. “What are you looking for, bookworm?”

You open your mouth but he railroads you, talks right over your explanation because he didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to know about you looking into Gator and finding the hidden rot, the long trail of familial deceit that spanned from the gulf to the frozen plains Roy inhabited.

“You think you know it all don’t you? Think you can just do what you want because you think you’re smarter than everyone around you?” He stands to his full height, hands dropping to hang at his sides. “You’re sticking your nose in the wrong business.”

“He deserves to know.”

“Deserves to know what? That his father is running the same game down at home?” He scoffs at you. “You think he doesn’t know what kind of family he comes from?”

“He doesn’t know about you.”

“And what about me?”

You let your schooled features fall when you realize Roy thinks this is all about his money. “Does your brother know?” You feel bold when you lean into your question. “You two seem awfully close. Is that what you’re afraid of? Him finding out or you loosing money?”

There’s a dawning look on his face when he finally gets it.

“Does your brother know he raised your son or are you only keeping that secret from Gator?”

The air is heavy with every deep breath you and Roy take. He stares down at you staring defiantly up at him and the hollow chuckle from deep in his throat makes your skin crawl.

“You think he’s gonna believe you?” Roy leans down slow to get level with you, crouches in front of you with a creaking knee and violent look in his eye. Only a foot away and you hate how much you can see of Gator here; in the anger and the slope of his nose.

“I don’t lie to him.”

One thing about Roy is that he isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. It’s a common misconception because he has a posse behind him willing to do his bidding but in the right circumstances, ones like these with no prying eyes or ears, he sticks his hands right into the muck.

He moves faster than you think someone of his age should, especially with that loud knee, but knuckles wrap into the front of your jacket before you know what’s happening. He’s stronger and taller than you and he hauls you up fast, the chair collateral that gets kicked to the wayside by his boot. Your heels drag for just a moment before your back hits the side of the car you’ve been working on hard, wind knocked out of you while Roy gets in your face.

“I don’t care what kind of shit you’ve been pullin’ with him but I don’t play fucking games.” He shifts you up the door so you’re on tiptoes and supported by just his massive fists. “You’re fucking with things you have no idea about.”

“Then why don’t you enlighten me?” It’s strained out of you with your collar twisted up. Even pinned up against a car you still feel the need to goad him, especially when he’s this worked up. “Is it just about money with you or are you afraid of being responsible for him too?”

Roy pulls away for a moment, faltering enough to let you slip down almost onto flat soles. Your laugh is shallow too when you watch Roy’s face contort into a scowl.

“I’m warning you.” His voice doesn’t waver in anger. It’s flat like the look in his eyes.

“And I’m telling you-“

You hear the crack before you fully register what’s happened. The clap of an open palm that sets your face on fire and snaps your head sideways, brain rattling around in your skull. It takes a moment before you feel the sharp pain in your jaw and realize you can’t clench your teeth. It hangs unnaturally while you slide to the floor heavily, legs tangled under you while you try to make sense of what’s happened.

“You ain’t telling me shit.” He spits down at you, confused on the floor. “Look at me.” He demands but your vision swims and the pain surges into nausea. You couldn’t turn your head even if you wanted to but all your whimpering sends Roy into a further rage. He bends down and grabs your jaw roughly, twisting you sideways to look at him all while you scream in the back of your throat. His fingers dig into the hinge of your jaw and you howl louder with the pain he inflicts.

“I have no reservations with you.” He holds your face tighter and you cry, hot tears that spill over and down your flaming cheek. “I don’t care about whatever pedestal that boy puts you on, you start nosing around in my business?” He shakes your head and the edges of your vision darken momentarily. “I’m gonna put a fucking end to it.” He drops you suddenly and you barely catch yourself from hitting cement. His legs are all you can make out of him while you try to cradle your jaw and you watch him move away from you to your bench. “You’re gonna do whatever you want because you’re too smart for your own good, right?” He shifts things around that you can’t see, sends them clattering before you notice his boots in your peripheral again. “Right?!” He yells down at you and makes you jump before you try to shake your head no. “Well don’t lie to me, darlin’.”

“I’m not.” Only it comes out slurred and half formed from your numb lips. Roy clicks his tongue at you before he crouches next to you again only this time you flinch and that makes him smile.

“Look,” he squints at you holding your face together and trying to look him in the eye with all the disgust you can muster, “go ahead and call one of your brothers.” He tosses your phone on your lap. “Tell them what happened.”

You shake your head again.

“No?” It could almost be concern that he flashes you but you know better. “Gonna keep this to yourself?”

You nod almost against your own will.

“Like your little findings too?” His voice is soft like he’s trying to calm one of his horses. It has the opposite effect on you though, that roiling nausea replaced by rage in your gut. You nod again though, tears still falling freely down your face.

“Good girl.”

If you could spit at him you would. He stands gingerly to avoid his knee popping and you watch him walk away a few feet before he turns back to you. “Now I’m gonna head back up to the house, let your father know I’m done out here.” He checks his phone before giving you one last look, gesturing at his own jaw. “Should get that checked out.”

[tennessoui]

wip wednesday (early cause im offline tmrw)

When the dust settles, Obi-Wan is surprised to find himself still standing.

It takes all of him, he thinks, the end of the war. It takes everything he has.

He used to wonder, in a distant, nebulous way, what it would feel like in the aftermath. How his life would return to the routines he held before Geonosis, if the cadence of Temple life would feel strange and unfamiliar to him after so long spent in the trenches. If he would miss the sound of his men behind and around him, the steady stream of words and laughter and presence of others, at all times, surrounding him.

It’s only when the dust settles, when the first grains of sand whip through the arid desert air to sting his eyes, that he realizes that every time he ever allowed himself to think about the end of the war, he’d always assumed that they would win. He had never truly thought they would be defeated. That the Jedi Order, the Temple itself, so strongly entrenched in the galaxy and in Coruscant and in Obi-Wan’s world view, were capable of falling.

He had cautioned others against the same assumptions the moment he heard them. He had warned his own padawan to not look too far into the future, to not plan too much for the war’s end. He had told many people—clones, civilians, holonet reporters, other Jedi—that it was dangerous to think of the war as something they would inevitably win. Nothing was inevitable, especially not victory.

But he realizes now, only now, only as he traverses the desert on the back of a stolen eopie, wearing robes still smelling so strongly of volcanic sulfur that his eyes are stinging with reactionary tears, that he’d thought. He’d always thought. 

He’d never really considered…this.

This aftermath, where he is still standing on shaking legs and everything that he has ever cared for in the world has become ash, has become the dust settling around him.

Everything he has ever known and loved and fought for has slipped through his fingers. When the dust settles, when he looks down at his hands, he expects to find them empty.

Instead, there is a baby in his arms.

And he knows—he knows intimately how much damage these hands are capable of. What hurt these hands can inflict even on those he loves. Loved. 

He knows, as the homestead rises up in the fading light of the two suns, that these hands should not cradle this baby. Not the son of the man he has murdered. Not his brother’s son. Not his padawan’s. Not Anakin’s.

He knows the babe is safest here on this farm in the care of this couple. He knows he must leave the child with them, to raise and love a thousand times better than he is capable of. He has tried before. He has failed one Skywalker already.

He knows. 

And he can’t. He cannot let him go.

While the Galactic empire rises on one side of the galaxy, the dust settles on the other and Obi-Wan Kenobi looks down at the babe in his hands and realizes that he cannot let him go.

Not another Skywalker.

[plague-of-insomnia]

WIP Wednesday: Sebardagni Post-Apocalyptic Domestic Sickfic AU

I know no one cares about this idea aside from me, but this is the first thing I’ve been able to write in months, and I really fucking need the escapism of Sebastian having two men taking care of him even when the world has fallen to pieces.

I have a few scenes for this written I may end up posting on AO3 later, but for now, enjoy this scene.

The concept for this AU is this: the world ended a few years ago, and Bard, Agni, and Sebastian have been surviving together. Sebastian is chronically ill, so he and Agni mind the homestead while Bard goes off on excursions for supplies. It’s not an easy life, but overall, they’re happy.

~#~

Sebastian balanced carefully. The forearm crutches Bard had fashioned for him fit better than anything he’d managed with since the world collapsed and meant he wouldn’t do just that onto the floor—even if his muscles were weak.

He’d finally managed a few hours’ sleep, exhaustion and one of Agni’s herbal treatments helping to ease his breathing long enough to dream.

And what a dream it was. He couldn’t wait to hurry out of the small bedroom they shared in this tiny mountain cabin and tell Agni about it. As bittersweet as it was, it had felt so wonderfully real, he could almost ignore the perpetual tightness in his chest.

“Agni! Agni!” Sebastian cautiously eased the door open.

The cabin was cozy, a main room with a fireplace, kitchen, and sitting area, a bedroom and bath, and a cellar Sebastian couldn’t access—too many stairs— where they stored food for the winter.

The fire illuminated the room as Agni worked. From the way the orange sun had colored the bedroom, Sebastian suspected it was evening, which would mean Agni would likely be busy prepping their dinner.

Things had been harder lately, since Bard had been gone for weeks now—73 days, exactly, not that Sebastian had been counting—but they made do. Agni wasn’t as skilled a huntsman as Bard, but between their garden, preserved stores, chickens and goats, they managed. Agni had to coax Sebastian more often than not to eat as it was, so he barely dented their food stocks.

“I dreamed Bard came home and he found me medicine, and—“ Sebastian’s voice cut out immediately as he realized he heard Agni speaking to someone. And then he saw him. “Bard?”

The man was perched on a stool at the kitchen island, looking ragged and thinner than Sebastian remembered, but very much not a dream or a ghost.

“You’re alive?!” Sebastian’s eyes filled and he pushed himself to move as fast as he possibly could, dropping his arms from his crutches so he could throw them around his lover. “Agni and I were worried you were never coming home.”

Bard’s strong arms supported Sebastian in their embrace so he wouldn’t lose his footing, enjoying this connection. He smelt like tobacco and sweat and days out on the road, but more than anything, like hope.

Sebastian didn’t even care if Bard hadn’t been able to find any medicine for him. He was just so relieved he began to sob as weeks of emotions he’d been damming up broke free.

“Hey, hey, you’ll make your breathing worse. I’m all right. I missed you both and thinking of getting back here to you kept me going. You know I don’t die easy.”

Sebastian’s legs ached, and Bard sensed his growing instability and helped him sit down beside him. A moment later, Agni set a steaming mug in front of him. The frothy liquid was green. Another one of his herbal concoctions?

“It’s matcha. I lucked out.” Bard scratched his cheek. “Got caught in a bad storm a couple towns over and took refuge in a partly burned-out old asian market. I moved some shelves to help create a barcade and found a whole supply of the stuff that had been overlooked by scavengers.”

“The caffeine will help your breathing,” Agni said with a warm smile. “It’s not medicine, but it was a good find.”

Sebastian tried not to frown as he took a sip. It was bitter, but Agni had added some of the honey from the bees he kept to sweeten it. He didn’t want to ruin their happy reunion by suggesting, again, that maybe it was time Agni and Bard moved on and left him behind. He was too frail to travel, and Bard was having to spend more and more time on the road, detouring farther and farther from their home base in order to find any medicine to help ease Sebastian’s symptoms.

Even before the world fell apart, Sebastian had been ill. But after, the stress and lack of medical care meant his condition had deteriorated significantly, and if they hadn’t found this cabin by chance, he knew he probably would have died years ago.

Sometimes, he wondered if that would have been better for both Agni and Bard, even if he kept his mouth shut as he listened to them talking, Bard regaling some of his adventures while Agni finished prepping their food.

They’d have rabbit stew tonight, thanks to Bard’s catch, and Sebastian cherished the warmth of the mug in his hands as he tried to enjoy the limited happiness of this domestic snapshot.

He did like it here, in their little cabin. The woods shielded them from most of the horrors of the dying human world, and the fresh, dry air eased his breathing some. He loved their little home and garden, and enjoyed helping Agni with the animals when he was well enough to venture outside. He thought, despite his illness and the reality of their new world, he might be content, if Bard didn’t constantly have to put his life at risk for Sebastian’s sake.

Sebastian shivered as one of Bard’s coarse hands played with his long hair, curling a strand around a finger.

“I missed you both so fucking much,” he said. Sebastian could see the fear in those blue eyes, that he’d probably worried he might not make it back, or that by the time he did, only Agni would be waiting for his return.

~#~

Reblogs appreciated as always!

Liked this? You can see more of my writing on AO3.

[friend-of-giants]

●●WEDNESDAY WRENSDAY●●

Or WIP Wednesday, hehe. Tagged by @umbracirrus and @vervayyn!! And, tagging @theoneandonlysemla (i know you said you dont have anything today but tagging you anyway lol) @sheirukitriesfandom @labskeever @pocket-vvardvark and whoever else wants to join! I still don't know who the heck to tag, if you want me to tag you just lmk.

This is from an upcoming chapter, in which Shor's Stone was destroyed by a dragon. Wren is forced to come out of retirement and hunt it down, and though she's pretty hardened, there are still some things that get under her skin.

Wren mouthed a silent prayer to the lost souls then turned away, a vile mixture of fury and disgust and disappointment rising within her.  The ashes still damp from the rain stuck to her boots, squelching with each step as she made her way toward Teldryn, who was busy inspecting something near the blacksmith's forge. 

“We're too late,” she hissed, the words laced with fury.  Teldryn looked up from the forge, whose cold embers now spilled from its busted walls, like something huge and heavy slammed into it.  “We could have saved these people!”

“We didn't find out about this ‘til last night, after the attack already happened.  There's nothing we could have done.”  

“I know, but…”  An unpleasant tremor shook her body, and for a moment she willed herself not to fall to her knees and scream.  “We knew one was nearby.  The Khajiit knew about it and changed their trade route.  Teldryn, there was a child in that house, a godsdamned baby!”  She pointed a trembling finger in the direction of the burned homestead, as if to tell him to go look for himself.  Her throat tightened as she stared up at his concealed face, at the angry purple blotches that colored her cheeks that shone back in the reflection of his goggles.  “I could have stopped this!  I could have-”

“Shhh.”  He laid his hand on her shoulder, surprisingly steady in the wake of what he was witnessing.  “I know, it's… not easy to know you can't save everyone.  But we need to keep our heads, alright?  Focus, and let's kill this worm.”

She reached up and grabbed his hand, shifting it to cup her cheek.  The feeling of his warmth through his glove was comforting, and he took the opportunity to pull her against him in a tight, albeit brief embrace.  The simple gesture was enough to rejuvenate her, and with a newfound strength she parted from him, her spirit and blood now raging to conquer this rampant beast.  It was the least she could do to avenge the innocent lives it had taken. 

But first, to find it.

Focus.

[gallawitchxx]

weekly tree wednesday 🎄✨

i was tagged by so many holiday honeys to do both weekly tag wednesday & decorate my tree! & of course i will: remember to tag your post with #Shamey Tree Party 2024 so everyone can send you messages!

thank you to @lingy910y @mmmichyyy @jrooc @stocious @energievie

@creepkinginc @palepinkgoat @femboymilkovich @sgtmickeyslaughter @doshiart

@heymrspatel @thepupperino @iansw0rld @deedala @spookygingerr

@catgrassplantdad & @blue-disco-lights SHEESH I LOVE YOU ALL SO HARD!

- - - - - -

first things first: 🎄✨ leave a message on my tree 🎄✨

- - - - - -

next up:

name: bee bee eight

age: thirty-two

shower or bath: i'm a bath bitch, bayybeee

weirdest snack you've had recently: hmmm... maybe thanksgiving leftovers? but that's not very weird.

favorite food right now: i have been munching on kettle corn lately & it's sooo goooood

favourite song this week: little chaos by orla gartland

what're you reading right now? fic-wise i have been reading back through where the feigned wind falls by @ianrightsonly because @blue-disco-lights mentioned it in the fic club discord & i'm never strong enough to resist those idiots to lovers! book-wise, i just finished stay another day by juno dawson for the gallabitches book club!

first association when you hear shameless: oh my god, i can't believe that showtime show brought me my best friends.

random gallavich thing you have: i have a blue sweatshirt with mickey, ian & mandy playing video games from s1 on it!

favourite band right now: now, forever, always - MUNA!

do you have any holiday 🎄parties 🕎 coming up? yes! there are two next week that we're invited to: the first at a friend's & the second at my guncle's! oh & my friends & i are doing a white elephant sometime soon too!

any you actually want to go to? i do want to attend them all! but it's tbd because of my silly little broken body.

do you like this time of year or hate it? i used to like it a lot more, i think? things have gotten messy as plans & traditions & homesteads have changed. but i love being cozy, love gathering with buds, love eating good food, love festive decorations & lights, & i LOOOOVE bad christmas movies!

favorite thing this time of year: speaking of bad christmas movies, i love to lay around & watch them with my wife! we always laugh so hard & play fun little games where we try to guess the plots based on the posters. it's fun!

- - - - - -

tagging @wehangout @mybrainismelted @ohkate @lupeloto @vintagelacerosette

@whatthebodygraspsnot @gardenerian @howlinchickhowl @iansfreckles & @crossmydna (happy birthday!!) to play or make a tree if you want! if not, i'm sharing my christmas cookies with you! xx

[justinssportscorner]

Anthony Castrovince at MLB.com:

Major League Baseball’s embrace of the Negro Leagues is now recognized in the record book, resulting in new-look leaderboards fronted in several prominent places by Hall of Famer Josh Gibson and an overdue appreciation of many other Black stars.

Following the 2020 announcement that seven different Negro Leagues from 1920-1948 would be recognized as Major Leagues, MLB announced Wednesday that it has followed the recommendations of the independent Negro League Statistical Review Committee in absorbing the available Negro Leagues numbers into the official historical record. "We are proud that the official historical record now includes the players of the Negro Leagues," Commissioner Rob Manfred said. "This initiative is focused on ensuring that future generations of fans have access to the statistics and milestones of all those who made the Negro Leagues possible. Their accomplishments on the field will be a gateway to broader learning about this triumph in American history and the path that led to Jackie Robinson’s 1947 Dodger debut."

Gibson, the legendary catcher and power hitter who played for the Homestead Grays and Pittsburgh Crawfords, is now MLB’s all-time leader in batting average, slugging percentage and OPS and holds the all-time single-season records in each of those categories. Gibson is one of more than 2,300 Negro Leagues players -- including three living players who played in the 1920-1948 era in Bill Greason, Ron Teasley and Hall of Famer Willie Mays -- included in a newly integrated database at MLB.com that combines the Negro Leagues numbers with the existing data from the American League, National League and other Major Leagues from history. “The Negro Leagues were a product of segregated America, created to give opportunity where opportunity did not exist,” said Negro Leagues expert and historian Larry Lester. “As Bart Giamatti, former Commissioner of Baseball, once said, ‘We must never lose sight of our history, insofar as it is ugly, never to repeat it, and insofar as it is glorious, to cherish it.’”

[...]

Why are the Negro Leagues being added to the historical record?

Essentially, to right a wrong. It certainly was not the fault of Black baseball stars such as Gibson, Cool Papa Bell and Oscar Charleston that they were forbidden from participating in the AL or NL, and recognizing the Negro Leagues as Major Leagues is in keeping with long-held beliefs that the quality of the segregation-era Negro Leagues circuits was comparable to the MLB product in that same time period.

[...]

Which Negro Leagues will be included in the official record?

There are seven, and they operated between 1920 and 1948. The reason for the starting point is that attempts to develop Negro Leagues prior to 1920 were ultimately unsuccessful and lacked a league structure. And 1948 was deemed to be a reasonable end point because it was the last year of the Negro National League and the segregated World Series. After that point, the Negro League teams and leagues that had endured were stripped of much of their talent.

The seven leagues are as follows:

• Negro National League (I) (1920–1931) • Eastern Colored League (1923–1928) • American Negro League (1929) • East-West League (1932) • Negro Southern League (1932) • Negro National League (II) (1933–1948) • Negro American League (1937–1948)

Major League Baseball is recognizing the stats of 7 different Negro Leagues between 1920 and 1948 into the record book. This comes almost four years after the league announced that the leagues would be classified as Major Leagues.

See Also:

Yahoo! Sports: Negro Leagues statistics to be officially integrated into MLB historical record

[starryeyedagony]

WIP Wednesday

and like with everything recently I am late but I was dithering over whether to share or not because I don't know *cough*vulnerability*coughcough*judgement etc....BUT! do one thing every day that scares you and this terrifies me so blame @vehksfingerguns this is just a little vignette of my Vigilant of Stendarr Savion and one Val Serano

“What on the entire face of Nirn could you have ever done that you aren’t proud of? Because if you, my fine healer, aren’t good enough then what hope is there for someone like me?” The question was asked jovially, with Val’s usual biting humor, but there was a glint of something heavier in his bright green eyes. Something desperate, like he was begging for an answer to a question so big he couldn’t even articulate it.

“I don’t remember my family very well because this happened when I was very, very young but our homestead was torn apart by a group of rogue mages. Like the ones we’ve been clearing out of all the abandoned forts and towers. I ran. The voices in my head told me to hide so I hid, and then I ran when they told me to. I made it all the way to the safety of the Hall of the Vigilant, but I left them all to die. And now I don’t even remember their names. I had a father and a mother, a sister and a brother, and they probably all ended up some sick necromancer’s personal experiments.”

One golden brow arched up, his voice coy and a little teasing, “now who’s talking to daedra? Woah, hey, I’m sorry. I was just teasing!” The apology immediate when they younger man finally lifted his head, unbound golden hair trailing into dark eyes as stricken as Val himself had ever felt. The guilt and agony written across his finely carved features made the former pirate’s heart clench in his chest. “I’m sorry. But you were a child, Savion. What could you have done?”

“The same as that boy on that merchant ship. I could have fought, I could have stayed and Vigilant Branson never let me forget that.” Now it was his turn to apologize at the flash of hurt in Val’s eyes that was buried as quickly as it had appeared. But he had seen it. “I’m sorry. That was cruel of me, but it also doesn’t make it any less true. I was worse than useless. I was a coward and I have spent every day of my life trying to correct and make up for that cowardice.” He dropped his head once more, looking at his hands hanging between his knees.

“Who was Vigilant Branson?”

Savion’s heavy shoulders lifted and sank with the weight of the softly shuddering sigh that escaped him. “He was my mentor at the Hall. He made his opinion of me known from the moment I stumbled on to the grounds. He regularly took our Keeper to task over allowing me to stay because what is a child going to do? Particularly a daedra touched child? He took charge of me and trained me and even took me to the Imperial City for magical training when my powers outstripped his and he could no longer contain me himself. He tried so hard to rid me of my demons. Gave me discipline and direction and yet,” shaking his head ruefully, a bitter little smile curling up the corners of his mouth, “yet I was still happy when he died.”

“I can hazard a guess at what containing you and trying to rid you of your demons entailed,” Val growled, his voice holding more anger than he’d intended to let slip out. He understood the code Savion was speaking in. He did it all the time himself. Direction, discipline, the nice ways of saying he got the crap kicked out of him every time he stepped out of line. And Val could imagine that stepping out of line with a Vigilant of Stendarr happened all too easily and frequently. It made his blood boil, thinking about things that had happened to him happening to Savion who had so freely and effortlessly saved his life and gave him the Oblivion blasted time of day regarding anything.

“Heh, yeah. Not too different from punishment on an Imperial naval vessel. Just a bit more religion and condemnation to Coldharbour.” Savion’s return was breezier than usual, attempting to joke and lighten the mood between them as Val’s face darkened like a thunderhead. Some switch had been flipped in that head of his and Savion was a little grateful for the ability to refocus his attention on his friend rather than his own misery. And send a tiny, delicate thread of a Calm spell reaching out to soothe Val, smoothing over his very ruffled aura and causing him to look over at the Vigilant with one golden brow arched. “Really?”

Only to receive a slight shrug in response. “I do it to myself all the time when I start to think too hard about things and I start making the same face you are right now.”

“What face? I’m not making any faces.”

“You are definitely making a face. An angry face, dare I say, and we both know how adversely that is going to affect your complexion.”

Val scowled again, voice thoroughly aggrieved, “why are you this way? I’m trying to return the favor and be supportive and a good friend, blah blah blah. And here you are, trying to ruin it. Ungrateful. Truly though, I’m sorry you had to go through any of that.” Standing up so he could reposition himself next to Savion, bumping their shoulders together affectionately, “I have to be honest though. I am struggling to picture anyone who could think you were daedra touched. I’ve seen you in action and you are probably the first person I have ever known who just straight to a daedra’s face tells them to stuff it. Not even bat an eye at what was being offered. I know how you feel about books and learning too and you just spat directly in Old Eyeballs’, well, eye and turned your back on all that knowledge. Do you regret it? Not learning what he might have been able to tell you about being Dragonborn? Alduin? The Elder Scrolls?”

Each item made the decision seem foolish on its face, and Savion truly searched his feelings on the matter, every chord in him humming with peaceful clarity. Shaking his head gently, he looked over at his golden friend, brown eyes warm as melted chocolate. “No, I don’t. I intervened to save you from all of that self flaggelation and self loathing being weaponized against you. I know you chose the specific memories because you were already familiar with their pain, but that doesn’t mean you need some vindictive deity constantly twisting that knife. You knowing that and being free of that pain is worth more to me than anything Hermaeus Mora could ever offer. Yes, he has infinite knowledge but the price is too high. Not when I can learn the same things another way. A harder and more time consuming way, yes, but anything worth doing is worth doing well, right? Besides, I don’t like shortcuts. Shortcuts are how people get hurt and I am mortally tired of that happening. Even if people choose it for themselves. We’ll just have to go on more information hunts,” offering up that last with a smile, trying to shake Val out of the slight stupor he seemed to have fallen in to.

“How do you do that? Just...not care about an easier path? Not want something for yourself? Even though Eyeballs could have confirmed your theory about your mother? How can you stand not knowing? That would drive me absolutely mad.”

Savion sat in silence for a long moment, thinking about Val’s questions. “I don’t really know,” would come the final reply. “It could be how I was raised, everything Branson taught me, but I don’t really know. Other people and their well being have simply always mattered more to me. Seeing others happy and well has been my greatest joy since I’ve been able to recognize it for what it is. I think it’s my own selfish little desire to just be able to be a part of the process. So no, everything I do is not as altruistic as it seems. I am still satisfying some part of myself with my actions and choices.” More of that deep seated shame would shadow his words, some of the light leaking out of his eyes as the moral gravity of that statement fully settled on him.

“Hey! Hey! Don’t you do that,” grabbing hold of Savion’s chin and making the other man look back up at him. “That is the least selfish thing I have ever heard in my entire life. Believe me, I know selfish, and that is the absolute last thing you are. Don’t you dare beat yourself up because you’re happy for other people. That’s patently absurd and I won’t have it. Captain’s orders.” Still maintaining his grip on Savion’s chin, green eyes boring into brown, Val’s voice lowered to a vehement whisper, “I have lost count of how many times you have saved my ass and asked for nothing in return. How many times you’ve encouraged me and didn’t abandon me even though I could see on your face how much whatever I was saying at the time bothered you. I promise I am not going to let you fall into the same pit you helped me climb out of.”

Savion sat as still as a stone, not even daring to breathe as Val berated him, the other man’s final words making his eyes prickle with the beginnings of tears.

“Aw, come on, don’t do that either. Get it together, man,” Val whined at him, even as he reached up to dab at the corners of Savion’s eyes with the cuff of his soft cotton shirt.

“The embroidery is scratchy,” would come the sniffled reply and watery smile before drawing a deep, centering breath and doing the exact same thing he had done to Val earlier: casting a small calming spell on himself so he wasn’t being unnecessarily emotional. The small working was even more effective when bolstered by Val’s withering look.

“It’s silk thread. It can’t be scratchy, you bastard.”

“Valerius, my dear friend, your vanity knows no bounds.”