#I cannot beat anybody at chess

[theia-eos]

100% me anytime I am trying to write anyone strategizing anything, but especially Soren Fire Emblem.

[leverage-ot3]

even MORE notable moments from The Queen’s Gambit Job

Sophie: No, no. I did not steal that necklace in Cyprus. It was Venice. How could you forget that? It was carnevale. The masks, the gondola chase...

Nate: Venice. The green dress.

Sophie: You do remember.

Nate: Only the details that matter

nate ford, sly motherfucker

- - - - -

Sterling: You ever been to Kazhistan?

Nate: Yeah. 2006. Mostly sand and terrorists. Not an ideal vacation spot.

- - - - -

(Eliot, Parker and Hardison stand next to one of the chess tables. Eliot stops Parker from hitting a chess timer)

Eliot: Stop playing with stuff.

Parker: I wanted to hit it.

Eliot: Don't hit it.

Hardison: Man, it's so great to see all these athletes in their prime.

Eliot: Where the hell do you see athletes?

Hardison: They're ev--man, the Olympic committee recognizes chess as a sport.

Eliot: This is a sport?

chaotic parker and eliot

also eliot stfu it’s nerdy but literally it’s canon that you play chess so you have absolutely no right to talk

- - - - -

eliot LOVES to fuck with sterling and we love to see it

- - - - -

Sterling: So, you think it's okay to risk my informant.

Eliot: Sterling, as far as I know, your informant's another lie.

Sterling: Still don't trust me.

(Eliot looks at Sterling and chuckles)

- - - - -

Nate: Wait, wait. Yeah, yeah. That's it. That's exactly it. Livingston is always the first into the elevator and into the vault. There's got to be a way for the security system to know when it's Livingston and when it's not. It's a weight-and-gait authenticator.

Hardison: The floor panels are pressure-sensitive, and they're also programmed to identify an individual's weight distribution.

Sterling: And walking patterns. We have one installed at the data center at Interpol and another at the Hockney exhibit in Luxembourg.

Hardison: It's also in the Pentagon, in the inner ring.

Sophie: And so it's all determined by Livingston's weight?

Hardison: No, no, weight distribution measures where the mass is in the body, not how much mass there is.

Eliot: It's like a fingerprint. Anybody but Livingston gets on that elevator or the vault floor, and the alarms go off.

- - - - -

Nate: We know what security system's protecting the weight, so all we got to do is hack into it.

Hardison: Okay, let's get one thing clear here. When you say "we," you really mean me. And what do you mean, just "hack into it," Nate? I don't know what this thing is. Never seen it before in my life. How am I supposed to hack it?

Nate: I mean, that's a very good question, Hardison. I'm sure you'll have it figured out by tomorrow. Good luck. (pats Hardison on the arm and leaves)

eliot smiling at the exchange because he’s a little shit

- - - - -

Hardison: Yeah, now, these are the grandmasters, Nate. Okay, you're good but not that good.

[Chess Tournament Room]

Nate: Ah, I beat you every time, Hardison.

Hardison: Maybe if you let me use the Vulcan rules like I'm accustomed to... I mean, you're stingy with it, Nate. You're real stingy.

nate and hardison sometimes play chess in their free time ?

also HARDISON CAN ONLY WIN PLAYING CHESS IF HES USING THE VULCAN RULES WHAT A DORK

- - - - -

all of parker’s outfits in this episode are adorable, but I ADORED her cute lil French photographer outfit

- - - - -

(Eliot is still watching the Kazhistani through binoculars)

Sterling: Let me get this straight, 'cause I'm having a hard time believing this. You're telling me you think he acted alone.

Eliot: That's not what I said, is it? I said I don't think that there was only one bullet. Where did you get this coffee, man? It's horrible!

Sterling: Coffee's fine. If there was a second bullet, that means there was a second shooter. Otherwise, he fired a Carcano bolt-action twice in less than two seconds, which simply cannot be done. You do realize that, on a topic where nobody agrees on anything, you picked the one thing, the only thing which is not up for debate! Simply humanly impossible!

Eliot: I did it. (chuckles and takes drink of coffee)

Sterling: Bollocks.

Eliot: You'd be surprised what people can do when they're properly motivated. Seriously, did you put something in this? (smells cup)

Sterling: Your file says that you crawled 3 miles through a sewer to kill the head of Al-Qaeda in Yemen, but the coffee is a problem.

- - - - -

(through the binoculars, we see the Kazhistani talking on a cell phone)

Eliot: We're gonna need the parabolic.

Sterling (grabbing binoculars): No, I got it.

Eliot: You--unless you can read lips, we're gonna need the parabolic, all right? (grabs binoculars) They're speaking Arabic.

Sterling: You'd be surprised what people can do when they're properly motivated. (grabs binoculars)

- - - - -

hardison catching parker and them giggling? adorable.

- - - - -

Parker: Just they feel really weird.

Hardison: Oh, don't worry. You'll get used to that. And this (gestures to a mat on the floor) is "Dance Dance Revolution."

Parker: You're into that?

Hardison: No. I'm, it's just for recreational, for cardie--it's-- Look, the pads are programmed to analyze your gait and match it to Livingston's gait. But... (turns to type on the computer) I've broken his down into seven key time frames. Basically the same system you'll encounter in the vault. So, you ready?

Parker: Ready to try.

Hardison: Okay.

Program: Are you ready? Let's go. (obnoxious music plays)

Hardison: I'm sorry. I couldn't, uh, I didn't have time to kill the voice on it. I-it's all good. Just go ahead.

- - - - -

Program: Dance fail!

Parker (rushes toward computer): I told him to stop yelling at me!

Hardison (catches Parker): Hey, hey! Whoa, whoa, whoa!

Parker: Hardison!

Hardison: Hey! Parker, breathe.

Parker: His limp and these boots, I--they're-- I don't like them. They're weighing me down. Quick and light. That's how I survive. You slow me down, you kill me.

Hardison: Hey, hey, Parker, hey.

Parker: What?

Hardison: Hey. You had to be quick because you were alone. If you get caught, that's it. I get it. But you're not alone anymore. Look. Look at me. You're not alone. You're not. You have a team. You have me. And I got you. I got you, girl. Come on, now. Let's, um... Let's try something different, okay? (resets program) Now, getting the rhythm is kind of like dancing. You remember how it was when we took down Duberman?

Parker: Mm-hmm.

Hardison: You remember that? All right. (takes Parker into his arms) Now, just follow me. Get--get on my toes.

Parker: On your toes?

Hardison: Yeah. I'm all right. Now just, uh, just move with me.

(Hardison begins humming as he walks Parker across the mat in a dance)

THIS PARDISON SCENE

- - - - -

THEIR HIGH FIVE YOUR HONOR

- - - - -

(Parker enters the elevator using the right gate to bypass the alarms. The doors close behind her)

Parker: Yes!

SHES SO CUTE

- - - - -

hardison dancing behind his computer while he is humming for parker

+ parker’s relieved smile

+ sophie smiling because they’re fucking adorable

- - - - -

Nate: Well, you must be afraid of something.

Olivia: Spiders. Poisoned pawns. Carbs. But you want to know what I'm not afraid of?

Nate: Hmm.

Olivia: Being afraid.

Nate: Huh.

Olivia: You like that? I stole it from my dad.

(Nate turns to look at Livingston)

Olivia: No, not Robert. My real dad. The only thing Robert ever taught me how to do was, well, I guess he did teach me how to play chess.

Nate: Oh.

Olivia: But it was my real dad that taught me how to win. (begins tapping a captured piece on the table)

- - - - -

(Eliot tries to open the door but there is an electronic lock on it)

Eliot: Damn it. The one time I need Hardison.

(Eliot turns to one of the wiring racks and pulls a piece of metal from it, taking it to the door and hitting the hinges)

🥰 he admits he needs hardison 🥰

- - - - -

Hardison: Okay, Parker, there should be some exposed piping, an industrial sprinkler system.

[Livingston’s Vault]

Hardison: Do you see it?

(Parker is strapped to the sprinkler system, lowering herself toward the case the weight is in and smiling)

Parker: Yeah, I see it. You think it'll hold me?

Hardison: Think it's your best shot.

she smiled earlier because she had the same idea and already did it by the time hardison figures it out

we LOVE our mastermind thief

- - - - -

Hardison: Okay, okay. Parker, listen. They're sending the elevator back up. It's on the move. But I got some bad news. Security protocol is gonna send it straight to the top, and they're gonna lock it down.

[Livingston’s Vault]

Parker: That's my way out.

(Parker moves to the elevator doors and begins to force them open)

Parker: Come on! Open!

[Hotel Room]

Hardison: Are you about to do what I think?

[Livingston’s Vault]

(Parker gets the doors open and looks down the long elevator shaft, then up toward the roof)

Parker: Hardison, I just wanted to say—

[Hotel Room]

Hardison: Parker, jump!

[Elevator Shaft]

(Parker jumps into the elevator shaft and lands on top of the elevator)

Parker: Whoa.

SHE IS STRONG

- - - - -

Nate: Everyone to the extraction points.

[Hotel Room]

Hardison: Whoa, whoa. Wait. Eliot's here?

[Interior Car]

Nate: Yeah, just follow the trail of the terrorists. You won't miss him.

- - - - -

(Eliot walks toward the exit, breathing hard and looking angry)

Hardison: Eliot!

Eliot (hugs Hardison): Hey, man. (pushes Hardison away) Stop, dude. What are you doing?

Hardison: Where the hell you been, man?

Eliot: Sterling drugged me. Smashed my earbud.

(Hardison laughs)

Eliot: Shut up. (walks away)

Hardison: So, I'm guessing you probably want to hit some bad guys, huh?

Eliot (turns back): Why? You know where some are?

Hardison (hands him an earbud): Come on.

(they run into the building)

EVERYTHING about this:

- eliot seeking out comfort in hardison

- eliot ‘my reputation is everything’ spencer immediately denying the hug when hardison hugs back

- hardison’s visible and audible concern for eliot’s wellbeing

- hardison laughing because he knows EXACTLY what his bf needs to get back in his groove (punching some bad guys!)

- eliot: ...why, you know where some are? SOFT

- hardison: c’mon SOFTER

+

also, I saw a meta post that said that every time something major and dangerous happens in season 4 (especially after The Grave Danger Job) eliot hugs hardison and IT’S TRUE

ALSO eliot HATES being drugged and feeling helpless, and it makes him feel very vulnerable and out of control. so what is one of the first things he does after that? hug hardison, one of the two people in the whole world that makes him feel truly, utterly safe.

- - - - -

(sounds of a fight come from outside the door. Hardison opens the door as Eliot lets a man fall to the floor)

Hardison: H-he's working some stuff out. Ugged-dray by erling-stay.

Eliot: Hey.

Sophie: Well, I don't mind waiting if you want to... a little more.

Eliot: I think I'm good.

(Sophie follows Eliot away from the room)

supportive family

- - - - -

Parker: I'm think I'm trapped up here.

Hardison: There's a third way down.

Parker: No, I don't have a chute.

[Interior Car]

Hardison: Uh, check again.

[Roof]

(Parker looks inside her pack)

Parker: Did you do this?

[Flashback]

Hardison: But you're not alone anymore, Parker. You're not. You have a team. You have me. And I got you. I got you, girl.

[Roof]

Parker: Okay. Problem is, I'm too high for a base jump. (puts pack back on) I don't weigh enough for this wind sheer. I'm gonna get tossed around like a leaf.

[Interior Car]

Hardison: Parker, look down.

[Roof]

(Parker looks down at the weight boots and smiles. Men open the access door to the room with guns drawn)

Man: You have visual?

Man 2: Nothing!

Parker (falling): Yeah! Whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo! Yeah! (releases chute) Whoo! Ah!

[Interior Car]

Eliot: It's right... Go that way.

Hardison: It's there, man.

(Hardison turns a corner and comes to a stop. Parker, still trailing her parachute, runs to the van and gets into the door Eliot opens for her)

Hardison: You okay?

Parker: Yeah. Can I go again?

Hardison: Guess it's not so bad being weighed down, after all.

hardison and sophie were smiling so much for parker as she got in the van I’m soft

- - - - -

Sterling: Olivia, get back in the car.

Olivia: He didn't have a choice. It's not safe here. I was in danger, and he's my dad. What wouldn't you do to save your kid?!

sterling immediately says “olivia” because even HE knows that’s a BIG ouch move

- - - - -

Nate: Why'd you come to me?

Sterling: 'Cause you're the best thief I've ever seen. I couldn't risk anything less.

- - - - -

(Nate takes a piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to Sterling)

Sterling: What is it?

Nate: It's a name. Give me everything you got on him. Everything. (starts walking away) You do that, I'll make sure Eliot doesn't know where to find you.

Sterling: This makes us even, right?

(Nate doesn’t answer, just walks away)

I love how THAT was the threat that was given- eliot not knowing where to find sterling

- - - - -

again, the team gets chinese takeout a LOT

+

we LOVE to see the family sitting around a table having dinner

- - - - -

Sophie: So, what, the salt was plan "B"?

Nate: No, no. That's plan "M."

Hardison: Don't I die in plan "M"?

Nate: Yeah, usually. Yeah.

Hardison: What you mean, "usually"? How many plans do I die in?

Nate: "C," "F," and "M" through "Q."

Hardison: Oh, see, that's a little close to home, man. Need to switch that up. How many plans does Eliot die in?

Nate (points at Eliot: Uh, none. (points to Parker) And none.

Parker: None.

Nate (points to Sophie): And, uh... So, there is a plan where he comes out of it with a scar that goes from the temple through the eye...

Parker: Ooh! You'd look so cool with a scar.

Sophie: Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Can we go back? Let's rewind.

Nate: But you live in plan "A."

Sophie: You skipped past me.

Nate: See, see, it's evolving. There's actually a plan, no.

Sophie: Isn't that creepy? He's planning my death.

Parker: To a glass eye.

Nate: Okay, here we go

saving the plans for reference and because this scene was chaotic and SO them lmfao

notable moments from The Queen’s Gambit Job

leverage 4.10

bruh are you telling me that sophie and nate had a gondola chase in venice and there was no flashback for it ???

- - - - -

Keep reading

[velvetthunder1999]

All the time on Earth

Part 7 - Stargazing

Summary: George takes you up to the astronomy tower to watch the stars

Warning: None, fluff

Word count: 2.5K

George Weasley x Reader

Masterlist

As Sunday arrived you felt a sense of relief; all the studying started to make you feel exhausted and you were just happy to spend the mornig with Ginny. You two were having breakfast, Ginny talking about some upcoming match that her favorite quidditch team was about to play. You reached for the orange juice to refill your cup when a hand appeared out of nowhere and grabbed the jug before you.

“Morning, ladies” said Fred, pouring orange juice in your cup. “Y/N, how are you this fine morning?”

You shot a sharp look at his grinning face. He had acted like this all week, mostly when George wasn’t around. You knew he would never tell your secret, you still scolded him every time he tried to tease you.

“Good” you answered in a careful tone. “You?”

“Amazing, absolutely brilliant” he said then put down your glass. “Well, see you around.”

And he left to join Lee and Angelina who were sitting a few seats further from you. You sighed and took a sip from your juice. Above the cup your eyes met with Ginny’s.

“What was this?” she asked.

“Er — Nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like it. You two are clrearly up to something —”

You saw George walking in the Great Hall as well and you no longer paid attention to Ginny. George smiled and waved at you just like he did every morning, then sat down next to Fred behind your back. Ginny was still talking.

“ — and I just see how much time you spend together. I know it has something to do with the stuff you are selling but if there’s something more to it, you know you can tell me, right?”

“Mm?” you looked at her again, having no idea what she was talking about. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Great.” she said, not really convinced. “Also, the other thing is that — Is George having a stroke or something?”

You turned around and saw George waving and pointing at you with a big smile, signing Ginny to tell you he wants your attention. You looked at him smiling and he made an inviting gesture with his fingers. You laughed and shook your head. You made the same gesture, telling him if he wants something he should come to you. He didn’t need much encouragement, he stood up, walked over and sat down to a chair opposite you.

“How are you doing today?” he asked.

“Fine.” you said, putting down your toast. “How about you?”

“Alright. What are you doing tonight? I want to show you something.”

Your heart jumped and your stomach shrinked. You had to force yourself not to smile too wildly and you tried to hit a causal tone.

“Yeah, I think I’m free tonight.”

His face lit up.

“Great. See you later then.”

He walked back to Fred and the others and you decided to just drink your juice, hoping that would successfully hide your smile. Ginny was looking at you with suspicion in her eyes, then she crossed her arms.

“So, since when do you fancy my brother?”

You snorted into your cup, almost choking on your drink. You wiped the juice from your face while coughing.

“Wh — what?”

“You heard me. Please don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

You tried to avoid eye contact with her.

“I don’t like George.”

“I didn’t say which brother.” she said grinning.

You finally looked at her. You didn’t want anybody to know and two people had already found out.

“Yes, I like him, but you cannot tell anyone” you said sternly. ��I don’t want him to know.”

“I’m not telling anyone if you don’t want me to” she said seriously. “But maybe you could tell him. He seems like he adores you.”

You closed your eyes. You didn’t need to hear stuff like that. It just made you hoping.

“So, do you wanna go up and let me beat you at Exploding Snap?” she said.

You looked at her again, grateful for the suggestion.

“Yes. Yes, that would be nice.”

——

You had a really nice day. You spent the whole afternoon in the common room with Ginny, while Hermione was reading in one of the soft chairs. Next to you Ron and Harry were playing Wizard’s Chess and Ron also played with you a game for the old times’ sake. Before you two started playing he offered you to loose on purpose because he knew how bad you were. You just laughed at him, already accepting your defeat. You liked Ron. He always had the snarkiest, funniest lines ready.

It was past nine in the evening when Fred and George came back to the common room and joined you by the fireplace. Ginny by this time had already been gone with Hermione, and Harry and Ron were talking about some dream you weren’t interested in. You were reading a book about quidditch that Ginny lent you when a ginger head appeared next to you, looking over your shoulder at the book.

“Are you ready?” he asked in a low voice.

You were ready the minute he asked you in the morning.

“Sure” you said. “Just let me take this up real quick.”

You left the book on your bed in a hurry and went back down. You were avoiding Fred’s eyes at all cost cause you knew he was watching you. George opened the Fat Lady and gestured.

“After you.”

You climbed through the hole and started walking. You were way past curfew.

“So where are we going?” you asked, trying to hide how nervous you were.

“You’ll see in a minute.” George said, mysteriously.

You were only walking a minute more when you realized where you were.

“Is it the astronomy tower?”

“Yeah.” said George with a smile. “C’mon.”

He lead you up the staircase and opened the lock that usually closed the door. You stepped outside and took a deep breath from the fresh air.

“Come here.”

George pointed at the floor and you gasped.

“What is this?”

“I know how much you’re studying these days and I wanted to make something nice to help you relax a bit” he said. “Come here, sit down.”

On the floor there was a soft, comfy blanket and two pillows. George had already sat down and now he was taking packages out of a bag. You sat down next to him, leaning against the wall.

“Hungry?” he asked, handing you a sandwich.

“Thank you.”

You took a bite but you were too nervous to feel the taste. You glanced at George who was smiling at you, chewing on his own sandwich. God, you fancied him so much.

If only he would had made this as a date, not as a friendly gesture. Your throat was hurting.

“So what did you wanted to show me?” you asked, pushing your misery in the back of your head.

“Look up, darling.”

You looked up and you felt stunned. Above your head was the open sky with thousands and thousands of stars. You had never seen the sky so clear any time you’d come up here for class.

“This is beautiful.”

“I figured you have a thing for the sky” he said. “Do you like it?”

“George — ”

You shook your head. You had no words.

“It’s better if you lie down. Here —”

He organized the pillows and you two lied down next to each other. Your hand accidentally touched his and you shivered.

“I should know which star is which” he said, “But I didn’t really pay attention to my classes.”

You laughed.

“Well, I was just studying for this, so I think I can help you out.”

You searched for a second then pointed at an alignment.

“Alright, you see those stars together? That’s supposed to be Polaris.”

“I don’t see it.”

“It’s there.” you pointed. “More to the right.”

“Where —”

“Come.”

You grabbed his hand and pointed with his finger towards the sky. You didn’t even realize what you were doing at first but now you couldn’t stop or it would be really awkward.

Also, you didn’t really want to stop.

“You see it?”

“Those stars? That’s — what was it — Polaris?”

“Yes.” you said. “It should look like a bear, but I always thought it’s similar to a shopping cart.”

He turned his head towards you.

“What’s a shopping cart?”

“It’s — it’s a muggle thing.”

You could see his face clearly under the stars. His eyes were locked with yours and you felt like they were burning your soul. You slowly let go of his hand.

“Show me more.” he said softly.

“Yes. Yes — er, so next to it — ”

“I have no idea where you’re pointing at” he said. He started moving closer to you until his shoulder was against yours and his head was incredibly close to you. You could smell his cologne on his neck. You felt like you were going mad in a second. “Continue, please.”

So you started talking and showing him the stars while fighting the sick feeling in your stomach during the whole time. People say you feel butterflies. You just felt like you’re gonna throw up from anxiety.

Nevertheless that you were desperately longing for the boy the whole time, you were enjoying the night very much so. After you showed him all the alignments you knew, George told you about those summer nights when he and his brothers were still little and their mum let them sleep in the garden in muggle tents. One time when they were sleeping outside, they woke up to a bunch of garden gnomes sneaking into their tents and eating their food.

“I’ve never seen a gnome in my life” you said, still laughing.

“I can show them to you when you visit in the summer” he said, making your heart jump again. “I show you around the whole house. We can play quidditch in the garden, too.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know how to play quidditch, so…”

“You don’t know how to play quidditch?!” he was whisper-shouting. You rolled your eyes.

“Keep your hair on, I know the rules, I just can’t play it. I haven’t ridden a broom since my first year classes. I liked it, though, back then.”

“That’s awfully depressing” he said, patting your hand. “You have a bunch of things to catch up on this summer. I teach you everything you need to know.”

“Thanks, Professor Weasley” you said, smirking. He let out a wheezing laugh. You giggled hearing it.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing. I was laughing at you.” you said cheekily.

“At me?!” he pretended to be offended.

“Yes, your laugh makes me giddy.”

You closed your eyes. You were not suppose to say that. George’s voice was quite pleased.

“Yeah? You like my laugh?”

“Yeah.” you said, trying to end this conversation. It was great that it was rather dark cause you were blushing like hell.

“Well, that’s nice to hear.” he said gently. You looked at him again but didn’t expect his face to be so close. His eyes were beautiful. You forgot to breathe. Should you… Should you do it?

A loud thump interrupted your thoughts. It came from the bottom of the staircase.

“It’s Filch” you said. George glanced at his watch.

“It’s almost eleven. Do you think we should — ?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

You put the blanket and the pillows away quickly and went down the staircase, stopping every now and then to listen for Filch. The candlelight on the walls showed your way down and you peaked around the corner to look for the caretaker.

“Come.”

You and George picked up the pace, hurrying towards the common room but you were still pretty far away. Suddenly you heard footsteps from the corridor ahead.

“Quick!”

George pulled you behind a column and put his finger on his mouth. You were looking at him, fighting the urge to laugh from nervousness.

“My sweetheart, they should be around somewhere.”

Filch’s voice came from just around the corner. He was dangerously close and would discover you in a second. You took George’s hand from his mouth and squeezed it.

“You trust me?”

“Yes.” he said without hesitation.

“Follow my lead then.”

You let go of him and you walked out to the hallway. George followed you. You were walking without hurrying, not bothering to soften your steps. The sound of your footsteps echoed on the walls.

“There you are!” Filch exclaimed as you turned at the corner. His cat was watching you next to him. “Students on the corridors at night! I am taking you to your Professor right now!

“But…” you said, pretending to be confused. “We’re just coming from Professor McGonagall.”

Filch stopped, suspicious.

“What?”

“We were at detention.” you said. “We just finished.”

“We were heading back to the common room.” added George.

Filch was staring at you, his lips trembling in anger. He was clearly fighting a battle in his head; let you go unpunished, or risking being told off by McGonagall for unnecessarily bothering her.

“Go on then!” he barked. “Go!”

You two walked back without looking at each other. You pressed your lips together trying not to laugh and you knew George was doing the same. You mumbled the passford to the Fat Lady and stepped inside. When the portrait closed, both of you burst out laughing.

“That was brilliant!” George laughed while squezing your shoulder gently. “Y/N, I swear, you’re brilliant.”

He was looking at you with such a soft expression you couldn’t hold back anymore. He was so tall you had to stand on your toes; but you did, and you pressed a kiss onto his right cheek. His eyes grew wide.

“Thank you for tonight, ginger boy” you said, smiling. You seriously needed some air. “Good night.”

“Good night, witty” he said, looking a bit dazed. “Sweet dreams.”

You waved and went up to the girls’ dorm. Katie and Leanne were already sleeping so you closed the door quietly and quickly climbed into bed. You closed the curtains and burried your face into your hands. George was so sweet and it was such a good night but… it was like the sunset. It made you feel happy and sad at the same time.

Your face was burning. With every passing second you were more and more certain that the kiss was a mistake. It felt good when you did it but at what cost? The thought that he might had found it weird was making you anxious. You had no idea what to do. You just wanted to sleep, forget about everything for a few hours, but an hour later you were still tossing and turning.

Fred. You wanted to talk to Fred. He knows George more than anyone. He might tell you what George had told him about tonight. If he even talked about it. If he even cared enough to mention it.

You sighed, more loudly than you wanted. Katie turned around in her sleep. You just lied there, not moving. Yes, you will talk to Fred tomorrow. You’re gonna talk to him as soon as the sun comes up.

[knightotoc]

Higher Ground Blogging 7

- a.k.a. the prequels if they had a single ounce of hope

HGB 1 (eps 1-3), 2 (4), 3 (5-7), 4 (8-9), 5 (10), 6 (11-13)

Last time on HGB: The good: SHELBY!!!; Anakin jealously chopping wood; Anakin anxiously knocking over chess pieces; Anakin getting called “alpha male”/“the all-American boy”/“an emotional crashsite”; the ending of episode 4; “sorry i’m late, dude, ah, I had to lay off a couple thousand employees” The bad: the music; the slo-mo; the indigenous-remains and fertility-game subplots; the grownups’ stupid will-they-won’t-they; the quality of these youtube videos The disappointing: a CGI bear tried to kill Peter-bi-Wan and didn’t even get one hit on him; the horse seems to have vanished; sometimes Hayden mumbles :( and the others do too but I don’t care as much

ep 14: - THE AMERICANS ARE BACK AND THEY’RE WORSE THAN EVER!!!!! - “yeah it’s amazing how everybody just wants to protect me” scott😭😭😭😭 - i think scott’s shirt is bulky enough to qualify as a poncho - is the music...........good???!!!?!?!?!? - omg juliette gave her bacon to auggie so shelby gave hers to scott😭😭😭 - omg shelby tried to lie to protect scott’s pride and he DID NOT LIKE THAT - this has the most serious a-plot vs silliest b-plot so far, but at least the b-plot is funny - scott sulking in a freezing room so you can see his breath when he cries... hiding his sobs with his shivers..... in a massive dark flannel.... with that jedi temple slats-lighting....... damn he is never not on point! - american: how you like that! *claps in scott’s face* / scott: *grabs his collar and shakes him* NOT NOW, MAN.

unimpressed canadians

new pfp???

daisy: so does anybody play the piano? SCOTT? me: um WHAT all the kids: woooo yeahh👏👏👏👏 scott: pfff pshhh nahhhh me: UM WHAT!!!!???? scott: *shrugging and hiding* kids: come onnn wooo scotttt scott and shelby: *sit on piano bench together and play piano* me: DARTH VADER PLAY PIANO

DARTH VADER PLAYS PIANO NOT CLICKBAIT!!!!!!

🚨HAYDEN AND SHELBY HANDS ON A PIANO!!!!!🚨🚨

ep 15: - omg evil journalists??! is this SPICE WORLD??? - someone just said “sorry” all accented yessss - shelby just called peter-bi-wan “my captain” yes queen got im

scott: i dunno what i did to make her [shelby] so mad :( daisy: did it ever cross your mind that maybe it isn’t about you? scott: *probably the stupidest expression ever made by a member of the human race*

- anakin in a jacket is such a good look that is absolutely nowhere to be found in the entire star wars franchise. absolutely forbidden. - scott believes in peter-bi-wan so much more than i do. it’s really endearing - peter-bi-wan made up a drug called “jojo” to trick the journalist, that is not how you make a jojo reference my dude but i still appreciate the effort - i did not expect a sarah palin flashback today - ohhhhhhhhh scotttttt YOU FUCKED UP oh no ohhh NOO!!! - the hugs are off the CHAIN in this ep. but guess who walks dramatically away from the group hug (it’s scott) - “he catches touchdowns and he goes out with cheerleaders and he thinks that’s the world” omg shelby you don’t mean that💔😢 - “those sweet eyes” hrnghrhgnrhgrnghngh - oh wow this ending. incredible. fantastic!!!! - when girls say “you remind me of my old friend” to each other that’s the shit that gets me good ahhhhh sally bowles who?

ep 16: - the thumbnail on this one is a creepy doll. that is the opposite of scenic! - scott and shelby do the dishes together more than any onscreen couple i know -  “well when you do figure it out, when you slither back in, let me know” -- shelby dragging scott down into hell as he deserves oh my god you guys my otp does not go well - "butt out, morticia, it’s none of your business” -- scott to daisy the goth who hates him rn - peter-bi-wan’s dad trying to make him join the family business exactly like dooku trying to get obi-wan to join the capitalists in AotC - awww another really canadian “sorry” - ohhhh the gay vibes are vibing - okay so all the kids are on solitary meditation tasks but guess who is breaking the rules to hang out with his (ex?)girlfriend (it’s scott) - peter-bi-wan: “i’ll beat the storm” HELL YEAH JEDI KNIGHT - omg SHELBY IS LOST IN THE STORM??!?!?! - DAISY VS SCOTT OVER SHELBY IS AMAZING!!!!!!!!!! - okay this doctor is, for no good reason, a very sexy ice queen - “i don’t have to do anything for you. and besides, you’re beyond help” -- daisy strongly disagrees with the ending of revenge of the sith - “jock-o” yas another for the pile - GUESS WHO IS GOING OUT INTO THE STORM TO LOOK FOR SHELBY

what a completely unexpected twist! i do dig it tho for real holy shit oh my god - this is the second time scott’s girlfriend has been lost in the wilderness in this show, it is simply the perfect story

FOREHEAD KISSES?!? just slay me in twain hrrrkk - they played piano AND had forehead kisses in the rain

shelby’s himbo boyfriend and witch girlfriend - daisy: maybe you’re not totally useless after all - scott: maybe you’re not either - ot3 confirmed

i seriously cannot with these two right now, pass the fucking smelling salts HES ALL TUCKED IN!!! ARE YOU SEEING THIS

[imnothinginparticular]

#finishedbooks The Assassination of Fred Hampton by Jeffrey Haas. This is the lone book on Hampton who was my favorite panther. He was just 21 when he was murdered by the police so it was just a four year period that he evolved from organizing black homecoming queens as the high school he went to didn't allow it to becoming a chairman of the black panthers at the age of 20...and dying 13 months later. So unlike a Geroge Jackson or Malcolm X who's stories were beautiful in the arch of seeing the development of black conscious, Hampton's life just never had the chance. And his ideas really didn't have time to mature but a fellow panther said it best, "have you ever heard anybody just reach you, just reach into your heart, even though you might have heard the words before?" You can watch any interview and see the earnest sincereity he speaks with...truely special and he showed it through action. One problem with a lot of the black power leaders was the sexism of the times. From Carmichael's quote about the best position for women in the movement was prone... it was amazing reading about some west coast panthers who were in town and requesting some panther sisters to be sent to their hotel and Hampton telling them panther sisters were doing panther activities and were not whores for panther leaders. One of his quotes, "If you walk through life and don't help anybody, you havent much of a life" he exemplified that and was tragic how he knew he was going to be killed. He seemed to "fit every description" Chicago police could find and one occasion he was detained and unhandcuffed in the back of a cop car with a gun on the seat as cops just wanted a reason to kill him. It is those tactics cops still use today with those mysterious brick piles and the protests I went to where there was a cop car parked in the middle of us gutted of equipment that was obvious bait to beat and arrest us. But with so little time the book is written by his lawyer mostly focused on the trial for a civil suit (criminal suit wasn't even in the question) making up two thirds of the book. For those unfamiliar, the trial revealed that Hoover himself through the infamous COINTELPRO program colluded with Chicago police to murder him in his sleep and was the longest trial in US history. It revealed how the police pulled a wounded unarmed Hampton from his bed and fired two shots into his head at close range corroborated by survivors who were there and forensic evidence showing execution style wounds which later FBI documents revealed that his file was wrapped up as "Victims Summary Punishment" that is execution without trial or due process. Their informant was his bodyguard William O'Neil (later committed suicide) who provided floor plans where Hampton slept that all the ballistics show the cops shot straight into that room knowing exactly where he was...all of which was denied at trial after FBI had to release 150 volumes of data on Hampton. You may ask youself why so much and the truth was that Hampton's greatness was in crossing over and organizing with white worker unions and the Hispanic community of Chicago towards solidarity. The imperative of which is even more important today as the econmic divide then was no where the disparities of now. His tactics are exactly what is needed as systematic racism cannot be dealt with separately from corporate capitalism. I got a chess art book review after this then the following ten book reviews will be on corporate capitalism and economic theory.

[fifiliphaser]

love and tumble (Cherik ficlets): 2

[AO3 Version]

1 | 2 | 3 | TBC

A collection of ficlets, based on the prompt list from this post.  Focused on Cherik, with possible appearances of other characters and/or ships. Various AUs, as well as canon compliant stories. There will be information about every story in the notes at the beginning: the setting, rating, characters, etc. Stories are proof-read, but not beta-ed, so I'd be grateful for any and all comments.

So, yeah. Those stories were supposed to be between 100 and 1,000 words. Yeah. Clearly, I'm incapable of writing something short, so have what started of as a short scene from the XMFC road trip, but then escalated to 3k or so words of angst, a lot of emotions, and a lot of cheesiness. I hope you'll like it, because that was a wild ride and I'm not really sure about this story.

2. “Stay here tonight.” (XMFC; Gay Mutant Road Trip)

Rating: T X-Men: First Class, Gay Mutant Road Trip Angst with a happy ending, bickering, angry confessions, mind reading, forehead touching. Warnings: internalized homophobia, an instance of homophobic language (but only one)

“I must say, I thought you’d enjoy our stay in Chicago much more,” Erik’s words break through the haze of pain that Charles does his best to suppress.

Although Erik’s tone is rather mocking, Charles can feel the waves of worry coming off of him, the man’s mind buzzing with uncertainty and distress. It would be truly touching, how much Erik seems to care for Charles’s well-being, if only the telepath wasn’t in the middle of staving off a particularly bad case of headache.

“I do enjoy it,” Charles says firmly, though his voice sounds strained even to his own ears. “There is just so many people here,” he complains, falling into the bed in hopes that the shift to a horizontal position will help.

It doesn’t. Not in the slightest.

“There’s a lot of people at the compound, too,” Erik points out, a single brow raised sceptically, which is equally as annoying as it is endearing.

“But not as many.” Charles grunts, lifting his hand up to cover his eyes and hopefully cut off some of the unforgiving brightness of the ceiling lights. “I like big cities, but they’re exhausting.”

Which is true. He’s never been the one to despise the metropolitan hustle and bustle; at the same time, however, it has never failed to tire him out beyond compare, what with the incessant chatter of thoughts of all kinds; some joyous, some furious, some anxious. Too many emotions, too much information, and even his shields hasn’t been enough to keep it all out. As a result, he’s already ended up with a splitting headache, just two days into their stay in Chicago.

“Any way I could help you?,” Erik asks from the armchair that he’s just sat in, taking his usual spot at the table they’ve been using to play chess.

His room is just down the hall, but they’ve been spending most of the time at Charles’s, their heated discussions and close-fought chess matches engaging enough to keep them up long into the night. Not that there has been anything more to it, Charles muses somewhat forlornly. Erik has no idea about Charles’s less than desirable inclinations, and it’s best if it stayed this way as Charles would rather die than lose so close a friend, the closest person he’s ever got to, perhaps beside Raven, even if it is the most gorgeous man he’s ever encountered.

“There’s really not much you can do,” Charles mutters resignedly, trying not to think about the sharp cheekbones and the piercingly magnetic eyes. “I’ll just have to suffer through it.” He squeezes his hand around his temples, wishing that the soft pressure could somehow alleviate his pain.

“Ever as dramatic,” comes Erik’s cheeky remark, which Charles would probably appreciate much more if not for his agony.

“The pot calling the kettle.” His voice sounds rather small, and yet there’s a strain of annoyance to it that Charles would normally feel sorry for, but he doesn’t have the capacity for it right now, not when his head feels as though it was about to burst.

Charles is waiting for a witty retort, but there doesn’t come any. In fact, the silence stretches for so long that Charles is ready to soldier on and look up, despite the blinding light, as he cannot put a finger on what Erik thinks at the moment, the man’s thoughts humming lightly, yet kept at bay. Luckily, Erik chooses this exact moment to speak up.

“You’re not up for the game, that is?” It’s more of a statement than a question, even if it’s laced with certain uneasiness.

Squeezing his eyes tighter, Charles allows a small sad smile to curl on his lips.

“Oh, I’d love to,” he assures weakly, trying not to make any sharp movements, “but I’m afraid my game would be rather poor tonight.”

There’s another beat of silence, and this time Charles can tell that Erik feels rather troubled and unsure of how to proceed. Charles hears a quiet sigh, followed by the sound of steps which fades as Erik walks onto the carpet. Judging by the way the light above him fades somewhat, Charles assumes that Erik must be leaning over him, even if the telepath’s too tired to open his eyes and check.

“You look miserable.” Erik’s voice is much closer now, albeit softer and more sympathetic.

“I feel miserable, too, my friend,” Charles mumbles, his words barely coherent.

The bed sinks slightly next to him, the light brightening once again, and Charles almost gives in to the urge to turn to his side, away from where Erik is now sitting.

“Is there really nothing I could do?”

Charles feels a feather-like touch on his shoulder, which quickly vanishes. He has to force himself not to lean closer to his companion.

“No.” The word leaves his mouth more sharply than he intended, but Charles doesn’t find it in himself to care, what with his willpower seriously dwindling.

He knows what he really wants to tell Erik, and yet, at the same time, he knows it is the last thing he’d like his friend to hear. Besides, Charles is certain that it wouldn’t help now, not in the middle of their road trip, with nowhere to run to, and with that terrible headache.

“Are you sure?” Erik is relentless in his hunt for a solution to Charles’s discomfort, something that, were the circumstances more congenial, could even be quite sweet.

But all that Charles wants right now is to bury himself beneath the sheets in a futile attempt to make himself disappear. Well, that’s not exactly accurate, although Charles would rather avoid naming all those other things which he so strongly desires—like the touch of those lips, swollen from kissing, on his skin, those elegant nimble fingers running down his spine…

Charles flops himself onto his stomach, struggling to quell the arousal pooling in the pit of his stomach. It’s ridiculous, really—his head is pounding—but his mind manages to conjure those images anyway—so inappropriate, so enticingly… wrong. A quiet groan escapes Charles’s throat. He knows all too well that the attraction to people of your own sex isn’t all that uncommon, and yet there is that venomous voice at the back of his mind whispering to him how unacceptable it is, how deviant.

“You’re testing my patience, Erik,” Charles mumbles into the pillow, pushing all those unwanted thoughts aside.

“You’re a liability to our mission in that state, Charles,” Erik states from somewhere above him, and if it was anyone else, Charles would feel a little hurt at the mere suggestion that he’s a liability. But it’s Erik, who tends to say such things to hide how much he truly cares, which didn’t escape Charles’s attention. Perhaps it’s even one of the reasons why he might be in…

No. He cannot let himself finish that sentence.

“If there’s anything I could do,” Erik continues, as close to pleading as he could ever get, clearly unaware of Charles’s momentary distraction, “I’ll do it. I’d rather not have you so—” vulnerable, Charles can swear that he hears, the thought flowing seamlessly into his mind, though he’s not sure if it’s something Erik has unconsciously projected, or just a creation of his exhausted, aching head, “—unwell,” the man says instead, his voice somewhat strained.

With every passing second, Erik’s worry, washing over Charles’s mind, is much harder to bear. Charles isn’t used to anybody caring that much—even Raven, worried about him as she is, tends to get annoyed rather than envelope him with soothing thoughts. And Charles understands that, he truly does; it is frustrating and scary, after all, if you don’t know what to do to help somebody very close to you. So as not to burden anyone else with his troubles, Charles has quickly learnt how to face them on his own. Now, the fact that somebody might be that determined to soothe his pain somehow is, quite frankly, disconcerting.

“That’s touching, truly,” Charles continues to speak to the pillow, not ready to lift his head and look at Erik just yet, “but trust me, you wouldn’t want to do anything of the sort.”

He’s so drained, tired of his headache and that whole conversation. There has to be a way to convince Erik to let go and simply leave the room, so that Charles can try to face him tomorrow morning, hopefully in a much better shape.

“I said ‘anything’ and I mean it,” Erik says sternly, his tenacity becoming genuinely irksome.

“Oh, for God’s sake…,” Charles grunts, quietly enough that he isn’t even sure if Erik has heard it, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when there’s anger slowly building up in his mind, encompassing it like a nasty fog.

“Don’t be stubborn, Charles.”

This time Charles cannot help himself and he turns his head in order to gaze up at Erik, the reins on his anger almost slipping.

“Really?,” Charles asks incredulously, his voice surprisingly cutting. “Who’s stubborn?”

Erik takes a deep breath, stopping himself from reaching over to Charles, his hand suspended halfway between them. It’s obvious that he’s on the verge of losing his temper as well, but in a rather out-of-character move for him, he manages to rein his emotions in, his whole attention focused on Charles, who belatedly realizes that his own quite uncharacteristic outburst might’ve had the opposite effect to the one he desired.

“What do you want me to do?” Erik’s voice is surprisingly patient, his expression calm, though his distress is evident in those kaleidoscopic eyes of his.

Charles heaves a sigh, knowing well that Erik’s worry is warranted and his anger isn’t. Perhaps he cannot voice what he really wants aloud, but he should at least get himself under control, he owes Erik this much. After all, it isn’t the man’s fault that Charles has developed some undesirable feelings for him.

“You wouldn’t want that,” he mutters dejectedly, averting his eyes as he feels a phantom burning sensation in the vicinity of his heart.

Not seeing Erik’s face, Charles can only hear the hiss of his steady breathing, an old clock ticking somewhere in the background. The telepath hasn’t heard the latter sound before, but suddenly it’s all he can focus on, as if it could take him somewhere else, away from that conversation.

Erik’s voice puts him out of his reverie as the man says, a little exasperated, “How could you know if you didn’t ask?”

For a fleeting moment, Charles is under the impression that Erik can see right through him; that he’s aware of all of Charles’s perverse desires. That is a dangerous thought, however, sparking up too much of the silly hope which has still managed to bloom in his heart. He squashes it mercilessly.

If knowing what Charles wants from him is what Erik so desperately desires, Charles can give it to him and end this ridiculous charade once and for all.

“Stay here tonight. With me.” His throat is tight and feels as dry as if Charles hasn’t had a sip of water in ages. Despite all of that, his voice comes out exceptionally firm, not cracking even once. “Here, I said it,” he adds as soon as he sees the realization dawn on Erik’s face. This time his voice does break, hopelessly, so that he has to whisper the second half of the sentence. “Now you can storm out of the room, appalled that you’ve befriended a fag,” Charles spits out, the words leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

He knows he shouldn’t say that. It’s hurtful—to him, to many other people. And yet, it’s easier if he says it; if he doesn’t have to hear it coming from Erik’s lovely mouth.

Erik stares at him for what feels like an eternity, his face nothing more than a blank mask. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t say anything, barely even keeps breathing.

“Is this what you think I would do?,” he asks eventually, his voice as emotionless as his expression.

Feeling himself breaking under the heaviness constricting his chest and the weight of that judging gaze, Charles just snorts, “Wouldn't you?” Erik’s mind seems calm, but there’s clearly something boiling under the seemingly tranquil surface. Charles doesn’t even want to take a look—he couldn’t dive in, not now of all times. “I shouldn’t…” He turns his head, burying it in the pillow, so he doesn’t have to watch Erik walk away from his room and from his life. “It’s wrong.”

Those last two words are so quiet, a barely audible murmur, that Charles is taken aback when Erik asks, “Do you really think so?”

His voice is disturbingly stiff, but Charles forbears from turning back towards him. He’s capable of enduring that conversation, keeping himself from falling into pieces, as long as he doesn’t have to look into Erik’s face and witness the inevitable rejection and repulsion with his own eyes.

“I can’t have this conversation right now.” Charles doesn’t even know how he manages to speak, yet the words flow out of his mouth tiredly, as if on its own accord. “Just— Go. We can have a fight in the morning.” He buries himself deeper into the sheets.

There’s a sudden shift on the surface of Erik’s mind and it flashes with disbelief, the myriad of scattered thoughts flying around like fireflies, too fast for Charles to catch, his throbbing head successfully preventing him from fully reading his friend’s reaction.

“How could you not know?” Erik asks unbelievingly, his voice remarkably quiet.

Charles can’t help but shift to his side, taken aback by that question. It’s not what he expected, and when he looks up to Erik’s face, he doesn’t find anything he anticipated either—only shock and… hurt?

“Know what?” Suddenly, Charles feels very small, racking his brain for a crucial detail he might’ve missed somewhere among the flurry of the past few weeks.

“You said you knew everything about me.” Erik remains tense, his eyes studying Charles closely.

“I might’ve exaggerated a little,” Charles admits, less bashful than he’d normally be, too tired to care about those things right now. Too tired to stand it any longer. He buries his face in his hands, saying from underneath his palms, “Now, if you please, I’d like to try to get asleep and inevitably fail, caught between my headache and my heartache.”

Charles is about to flop back to his stomach, maybe curl into a ball, when a pair of hands grasp his wrists, pulling them away. The light blinds Charles for a moment, but as soon as he recovers, he finds himself facing Erik, his friend's expression wary, but determined.

"Charles, shut up,” he says forcefully, his mind buzzing anxiously, resembling a huge beehive, which does very little to help Charles ease his headache. “Normally, I would yell at you, but I’ll just say that you’re an idiot.” Erik sets his jaw, searching Charles’s face for a moment. “Get inside my mind,” he demands, his voice unyielding.

“You know I can’t— I wouldn’t—” Charles tries to explain, however, before he even has the chance to finish, he’s interrupted.

“Just do it.” And Charles knows that he won’t talk Erik out of it.

"Okay.” He nods, the skin of his cheek brushing against the pillow. Bracing himself for a wave of pain, he slowly hoists himself into a sitting position. He can’t help but wince when he feels the ache flaring up. “Here I go, then. Just, fair warning, my headache is quite bad, so if I’ll end up—"

“Charles,” Erik says warningly through gritted teeth.

“Okay,” the telepath relents, reaching to Erik’s temple with trembling hands.

As soon as his fingertips touch the soft skin, Charles feels his mind being surrounded by the whirlwind of thoughts of sensations, coloured with different feelings, dancing around him, some of them overwhelming him with their intensity. There’s a current of determination cursing around him, although there are streaks of cautiousness intertwined with it. After a long moment of marvelling over the strength of Erik’s feelings, not as jumbled and chaotic as his own, Charles becomes aware that there is something else behind that determination; something that he’s currently being pulled to. It’s Erik, Charles realizes with a start, who’s drawing him in that direction, as if he wants to show him something. Charles complies with this unspoken plea and what he finds is beyond his wildest dreams.

All of a sudden, he is swept up in a swell of something so intense, so passionate, and so warm that he barely resists the urge to pull himself out of Erik’s mind. Luckily, he stays there long enough to see it—or rather sense it, see it with his mind’s eye—his own face, almost alight, bathed in warm light, a pair of hauntingly blue eyes looking back at him with so much kindness and compassion that he doesn’t recognize himself at first. It can’t be him, that man is simply too perfect.

He’s not perfect, Charles hears, echoing softly in his mind. But that’s why he’s beautiful.

Unable to bear it anymore, Erik’s feelings too deep and astounding, Charles pulls himself sharply back to the present, back to the man before him who watches him carefully.

“Do you really think so?,” he hears himself ask, and only after the words have already left his mouth does he realize that he’s echoed Erik’s words from before.

This time, though, they are far from the shocked hurt that Erik must’ve felt at the moment. Charles’s voice is small, vulnerable, yet filled with amazement.

"Oh, Kindskopf…” Erik slowly reaches out and gently brushes a few strands of Charles’s floppy hair behind the telepath’s ear, clearly using this as an opportunity to stroke Charles’s cheek while retracting his hand, delicately, with just the tips of his fingertips. Even if he knew German better, Charles doubts that he’d be in the right mind to translate what Erik’s just said. And yet, he has a feeling that it wasn’t something particularly nice, though the way in which Erik said it, with so much affection, makes him question that thought. “How can someone so smart be so stupid?”

There’s a small smile curling in the corners of Erik’s lips, and even through the pain, which somehow ended up being pushed to the back of Charles’s mind anyway, the telepath can’t focus on anything else but that minute, yet enticing movement.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Charles asks, not even ashamed of how pleading his voice sounds.

Erik doesn’t mind anyway.

“I will,” the man says simply, leaning closer to Charles, close enough that their foreheads are touching.

Charles allows his eyes to shut, enjoying the warm and soothing feeling encompassing his mind. Basking in it, he notices that his pain is slowly letting go, tuning in to Erik’s mind providing him with a much needed reprieve from all those voices around him. It is a truly exhilarating discovery, that not only didn’t Charles give his friend a headache because of their mental contact, but his own actually alleviated. Or maybe it’s all been thanks to being surrounded by the purest, strongest feeling possible.

Love.

* * * * *

Kindskopf — silly boy (Or that's how I'd translate it to English, at least; sorry, my knowledge of German is quite limited, so I'd appreciate being corrected if I'm wrong.)

[thetwilightroadtonightfall]

KH3 Ending/Epilogue/Secret Ending commentary

aka things I didn’t get to post in the moments they happened because I was too busy crying

(remaining) Org Battles

ALYSON STONER IS SO GOOD AT VOICING XION!!! HER CRYING BROKE MY HEART

Axel and Saix........Lea and Isa......easily one of the best scenes in the entire game...

the sea salt trio hugging was at the top of my list for things to happen in kh3 and I got it...major, major tearjerker

and the wayfinder trio was next!!! at this point I accepted that I was gonna be crying for a very long time

Ven accepting Vanitas as he is, darkness and all......it felt, I don’t know...really mature, I think. You can’t get everyone to be what you want them to be. Vanitas’ line “I do stand by you, I’m the shadow you cast. How much closer can I be?” was perfect

Ven and Vanitas having a conversation without trying to kill each other was just something I really needed okay

Final Battles

the whole “being human must take incredible strength” with Xemnas was another wham line straight to the heart

stop mAKING SORA CRY YOU ASS

@keykidpilipili you were absolutely right in saying that the X-Blade looks like a glitter pen

Donald and Goofy, dads of the year

I wish Kairi was here

STOP BEATING ME UP I WANT TO ENJOY THE SCENERY

also that music is really anxiety-inducing, which means Yoko Shimomura really did her job well

anybody else glad that we didn’t have to fight all of those members in Scala ad Caelum because holy crap getting even one member down was a struggle

manipulating the environment like Xemnas I see

I had a bad time with this portion of the fight because of the environment. Surprisingly the water portion was easy and then the rest was pretty fair

Post-Final Battles

Aqua stepping back to trust Terra...👌

I only wish Aqua had played more of a role in the last set of battles. She’s a master after all

the image of Xehanort handing the X-Blade to Sora will forever be engraved in my memory

WAYFINDER FAMILY FEELS PART 2

Xehanort and Eraqus validating me shipping them for years like nobody’s business. I’m very satisfied with this ending for Xehanort because not only is he not gonna cause anymore trouble, he gets to hang with the one person who really cared/s about him

that flashback came for my life and threw me into the heavens

also.....that moment where Xehanort was looking over at Eraqus, surrounded by the love of his students, while he has no one. I felt kinda bad, but at the same time, that’s his consequence. No one to pass his legacy onto. A life spent in isolation, trying to fight the inevitable

enjoy your eternal chess match guys 

I wish Kairi was here

Ending

ship whatever the heck you want but you can’t deny that Sora cares deeply for Kairi

hOW DID I LIVE IN A KINGDOM OF THIIEEEEEEVEEEESSSSS

*cries for the 12345th time in a row*

WAYFINDER FAMILY FEELS PART 3

ohhhhh......Ven holding Chirithy like a baby....😭❤️

Xion’s outfit is so cute!!!!

aND ISA’S IS SO UGLY LMAOO I LOVE IT

the huge fashion spectrum of kh strikes again

god, I really missed Namine. She’s beautiful and I wish we got to see and hear more of her

...how many times did we all collectively dream of seeing everybody having fun on the beach? how many times did people include that in their post-kh3 fics? how many years did we wait for this precious scene?

[sees Sora disappear from Kairi’s side] oh I don’t like that. please don’t do that

Epilogue

GOOD GOD THAT MESSED ME UP BIG TIME

I CANNOT FREAKIJN BELIEBBVE

I expected a thousand year-old man under that hood, not fucking Xigbar

cue me sobbing for the next 17 years because what the fuck man

[Ira voice] “so, um......how long have you been Xigbar?”

how long has he been Xigbar. Was he always Xigbar? Was he always Braig? All I know is that I have to rewatch every Xigbar scene now

he shall henceforth be known as.......Luxubar

we always said that the MoM reminded us of Xigbar a bit........I’m mad

HOW MANY BODIES HAS HE BEEN THROUGH? HOW DOES HE GET BODIES? WHY DOES HE HAVE TO KEEP DOING THIS ROLE?? I HAVE QUESTIONS DAMMIT

needless to say though, I’m very happy to see the foretellers again. They all look lovely and I hope we get to see more of them 

I got so messed up by Luxu that I legit didn’t realize Ava wasn’t there until he said so. I did feel off, but it didn’t register to me that she was the one missing. A shame, because she would’ve been pretty in these graphics :/

it’s funny how Maleficent and Pete basically know more than anybody at this point now

Gula just wants Ava, is that so much to ask??!!

hey this epilogue is a like a parallel to the Secret Ending of kh2, neato

Eraqus: Just watch! [slams Sora’s piece into the chessboard, breaking it] oh shit

Secret Ending

oh my god the graphics are amazing...look at that puddle...look at the stuff on Sora’s hand....

this is totally Shibuya. twewy confirmed

Do I know why Yozora’s here? No. Is he a real dude? Who knows. Do I have a thing for white haired dudes? Yeah.

when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.........

[squints] MoM? you move like him and there shouldn’t be anymore black coats around other than you and Luxubar

so.......Kingdom Hearts IV when

[dentelle-grise]

Your Latest Trick - Chapter 27

Long after everyone has stopped talking about Loki and his misdemeanors, his failed attempt to take over Midgard and his punishment, you meet him at a party. (Loki x Reader NSFW)

Things are hotting up as reader tries to get to the root of the crazy rumour.

First chapter here (can be read as a oneshot) All chapters to date at AO3 (67K, NC-17)

Tagging my rebloggers, commenters and other folk who asked. Please let me know if you want in (or out) of the list: @joanbushur, @frenchfrostpudding, @lovely-geek, @wolfsmom1, @sigridlaufeyson, @lokislonelylady, @monitoroutside, @daniissuchadani, @devilbat, @deadlydreamersecrets @helenisabel, @stardustandangelsfanfiction, @ely-seum, @wendyrobson1978, @the-ships-i-ship, @shemart101, @dreamourbrainout, @sadghostomg, @lokilover2000, @blobfishington, @lynneth1968-blog, @deaddecade, @nardo94, @tom-fucking-hiddleston-1981, @ashesandfire, @imagines-of-the-fandom​, @beingrandomisfun​, @tomsragnarok, @skulliebythesea, @bubbles8231999, @jesuisunthot, @all-of-teh-fandoms

You’ve got to see Heimdall. You’ve got to know why Thor is so convinced of this ridiculousness. It’s the world upside down.   That Loki say something untrue, well, it has been known. You’re trying not to think too much about that at the moment, what with all the things he’s said to you lately and how much they mean to you.  But Heimdall?   He’s loyal to Thor of course.  He must have truly believed that what he thought he saw - something else you’re trying hard not to think about. Particularly that time in the throne room. Riding out to the observatory is the thing to do.  Right now.  Not only will it get you answers, it will get you away from the rest of this craziness that has infected everyone.  You don’t want to risk meeting Odin now. Even the thought of seeing Loki makes you feel mixed up and angry.  How easily he diverted you, once again, last night. But another thing is bothering you too. As if there wasn’t enough. What if there was a tiny grain of truth in the rumour - that Odin had a true interest in you…and was only able to show it through chess…  No. That’s ridiculous.  But if it were? What would he do when he found out about you and Loki. You hurry home to change, looking at no one and trying to banish cacophony of thoughts in your purpose. When you arrive at the stables, there’s hardly anyone about. You haven’t seen Nara seen since Loki’s revelations about her character.  But, as vicious a gossip as she might be, at least what she spread about you was the truth. It’s strangely quiet. Half the horses aren’t here it seems, and that includes Nara. You don’t know if she’s been commandeered for some royal purpose or is simply enjoying a few last days of pasture before the winter forces her back inside. There’s no one to ask, just a few humble stable hands little older than children. You should ask them to saddle you a mount, any available. It’s just another frustration in a day that’s already making you feel so powerless. You will at least choose the horse you ride.  In fact, this way is better than seeing Nara anyway.  You’d probably confront her like a fool and then she… She would be silent in her usual way and you’d feel a total fool.  Looking at a bay mare, calmly munching on some hay in her box, you can’t believe they talk to one another as people do. You’re beginning to doubt Loki again.   Before you can call for a stable lad to help you, you hear someone approaching with a couple more horses.  When you look around though there is only one horse, one with enough legs for two. Sleipnir, walking towards you unled and in full tack.   Odin could be nearby then, if Sleipnir has just returned. Still you hear no one. And Thor had said he was asleep. Sleipnir nudges at your shoulder and whinnies.  His neck is barely warm, he has not come back from an outing but is ready for one.  He gazes at you with his big dark eyes and says nothing, or everything or anything you want him to mean.  He’s not looking for snacks, he’s just here, as though looking for you.  The madness of the possibility fills you. Could you ride him? The King’s horse. Loki’s son. And when you look at his serene and noble head you find you can’t doubt what Loki told you. First you pet him. You start to say the silly soothing words you’d say to any horse, like you said so many times to Nara, but then you start feel stupid so you shut up and just rub his nose. He starts to nudge you to move and fidgets his feet.  You hold his reins a moment and then he’s pulling you, pulling you outside into the cold light.  He’s so fine, so sleek and shiny, towering  above you.   Would he obey you? Surely, if you took him, you’d get to the observatory faster than the wind.  But would you be stealing the King’s mount to do it? There’s no one here. No one would know.  Except anyone who recognised you on the road of course.  The King’s favourite on the King’s horse. You falter.  Sleipnir pulls you some more, toward the mounting block now. There’s no need for words. It’s unlikely you could actually worsen the rumour at this point. So does it matter, if you let him persuade you? Climbing up on his great back, you tell yourself that this is the best way to reach Heimdall. But just as you’re shortening the stirrups to suit you, you hear another set of hooves enter the stable yard at a pace.  A lone horse breathing hard from a gallop clatters past you and stops in front of the buildings. Its rider gives a whoop of triumph. “We did it, we did it!.  Bravo boy. We beat him!” Sif swings out of the saddle and to the ground laughing and starts petting her horse and making fuss of him. “Let’s get you some water.” “Hey. is anybody here?”  She looks around and sees you on Sleipnir and you almost hear her jaw drop. “Hi.” You say weakly.  Sif is clearly struggling with what she sees.  She leads her weary mount towards you, his sides heaving and steam pouring off him into the cold air. She’s winded herself you notice, her face tinged pink by the cold and exertion and she pulls free her outer cloak. Her hair has grown and is just long enough to be tied in a tight braid,  severe but tempered by the fragility of the surprise written across her face. “I don’t believe it.” she says.  Then stops and adds “I’m sorry.” For this is no greeting. You’re not too clear on what it is she can’t believe so you just smile. She furrows her brow, starting at Sleipnir. “So, he lets you ride him.  Usually it’s only Odin.” She stops. “I’m sorry. I don’t buy it. You and …Odin. You were with…” And there’s that look again, like you share something, She saw Loki in your room when he was magically disguised as a woman and didn’t know him for who he was.  But she recognised him, or rather her. The insight hits you like a bolt of lightening.  That party all those year ago where she drunkenly tried to kiss you because she ’mistook you for Thor’. There was no drunkenness, or not as much as she made out, and no mistaking you for a man twice your bulk, but been an overture, a proposition with a perfect excuse.  And you hadn’t even noticed. It’s a triviality compared with what you dealing with now, an echo from another life, but you know now that it wasn’t a drunken mistake. It was an invitation you never recognised. “Lori.” The name shakes you out of your reverie. You didn’t mishear. Sif gives you a look that you suppose is complicity or question or something else again. Two stablehands appear and take her horse.  Sif’s shaking her head, sweat glistening on her brow and question in her eyes. “If not Odin, then…” She is frighteningly close to the truth. She doesn’t know, she cannot. She thinks him dead. Sleipnir takes this moment to move, without any prompting and you grab the pommel in surprise. “Got to go. Bye Sif.” Leaning forward, you whisper. “Take me to Heimdall.” Sleipnir flicks his ears and canters out of the stable block.

Chapter 28

[djmoremusic]

Music Defination in series

At the height of my work at Pulse, I worked on an investigative report about a record label situation in Lagos. A popular Nigerian musician had decided that his record label, who found him when no one knew he existed, and ponied up the cash for his career, hired professionals, and paid a great deal of payola to get him off the ground, was exploiting him. That story changed my perspective on how I saw the record label business in Nigeria.

At first, my heart was given to the artist. I’m creative, and I understand how hard it is to make something out of nothing. Heck, this newsletter which you are reading is designed to get me some money for y creative efforts. After trying to get the artist to go on the record, and failing at it due to “there’s a legal case, and my lawyers insist that I cannot talk to journalists.”

While they turned down the opportunity to talk to me, they were prolific with their press releases. They would rather control the narrative with smooth PR than allow me to stab at the truth. This is common practice, and I understand their reason for not playing ball. But I needed my story, and so took another route to it. For the first time in my history of reporting on record label deals, I switched focus to the businessman who was being demonized in the entire saga.

When I approached him, I was welcomed. Through sources close to him, I got all the documents that have ever passed through the artist and the company. I pored through all the record contracts, the books, text messages, emails, voice notes and more. The receipts O por! It was plenty in the ear.

Turns out that the record label had been fair to the artist, even though he switched up once he blew. When he began to bring in more money after years of investment, he immediately pushed for renegotiation. That was done reluctantly by the label, but they did concede some ground. They gave him more money and kept it moving. But the artist didn’t want to be tied to them anymore. Further investigations showed me that the artist simply didn’t want anybody’s hand in their bag.

That wasn’t all.

Turns out the artist had aligned with another legendary artist who wanted to break him free of his contract. We’ll call the artist K, and the legend B. B had a company that wanted K, and he sold a dream to K. K appeared to fall fr it, and enlisted B who had experience with these things to break him out of contract jail. B engineered the process, found a technicality and played a strong hand with a reputable law firm. Super chess moves, and it was checkmate for the record label. B had done it for K!

K left, record label went to court, failed to get an injunction to stop K from performing, and have been pursuing that case ever since.

Meanwhile, a new free K had the world at his fingertips. He broke it off with B immediately in the most “inside life” of episodes ever and set sail as a solo artist. Free to live a life of independence, head high up in the clouds, feet chasing the sunset.

So what happens to the record label boss who had just begun to reap the benefits of taking a chance on an unknown talent? What will become of the investment they had thrown in? How will they get justice?

They never will. After failing to get a court to grant them an injunction, they effectively lost the case. Artist K celebrated when the injunction was not granted. He will perform, and go about life, knowing well that the case can drag on for years until everyone gets tired of spending racking up legal fees in futility.

The record label owner will no longer want to take the chance on any other artist. He knows that he got lucky to have an artist that blew that big. Most don’t even know how it happened so big for them. And when they try to push for replication, they’ll discover that several variables that are beyond their control, aligned for their earlier success. Things such as artistry and funding can be controlled and improved at home. But public acceptance and the changing sonic spectrum need to be navigated. You can never control the weather, you can only open your umbrella and hope that you can weather the storm.

That record label owner has never recovered after K’s loss. There’s a strong chance he wouldn’t. And when his friends tell him that they are trying to invest in music, what do you think he’ll say? He’ll be an anti-mascot, dissuading everyone from taking a chance. He once did and got bitten. He’s currently losing money investing in deadwood. He isn’t smoking backwoods. Why would he allow anyone of his friends to go down that ugly route? Over his dead body!

That’s how the Nigerian music industry loses investors. When contracts are weak and fail to protect the money, they fail to protect the industry. It’s like CO emission hitting the ozone, and depleting it, one hole at a time. Every time an artist gets away with rebellion, the collective attractiveness of the space drops. It’s already hard to make money from music, why make it so insecure for my capital? Why needlessly increase risk with a faint possibility of ROI? Is it crack?

The Vibe EconomySing it with me, to the tune of Frank Sinatra’s famous ‘Come Fly Me’: “Come vibe with me, let’s vibe let’s vibe away…”

Love is the highest level of vibration in the music industry. It is easy to find, difficult to sustain, and vulnerable to feel. All other vibrations sit on a spectrum reaching forever to the purity of love. The music industry in Lagos is packed with love or a version of transactional camaraderie that is anchored by business but masked as care for each other. This seldom lasts. It is often pulled back in time when the exchange of value between two people become imbalanced. The party with the higher power often pulls out and leaves in search of new lovers who they share similar footing. The dumped one either learns a lesson and is inspired to level up, or they stay with a hole in their heart which grows stronger, manifesting as cynicism or savvy wisdom.

That’s why artists leave their Day 1s. It’s also the reason most producers get dumped on the floor every time an artist rises on the back of their creativity. The love that once existed never was. The business was mistaken for affection. And when a ‘lover’ can broaden their options significantly, they pack up and leave the arrangement. It’s also why you always hear these advantaged artists say, “It’s not personal, I got mad love for you, but leaving you was business.”

Vibing is how this love between creatives are expressed. The art of vibing is creativity in motion. Vibing means two or more innovative souls testing each other’s strengths for common footing on which to bond. The artist brings the vocals, the producer supplies the beat and instrumentation, and work is birthed. The problem comes when it becomes time to extend that love to everyone’s pockets.

Vibing can also be done regardless of class or social status of the vibrators. But when matters of money come up, it usually turns into a power play. I know a producer who vibed with two of the hottest artists at the time. These people own teams that are well respected in the music business as leaders. Well, they vibed and a clear hit was born. The song was so good, that everyone in the room patted themselves on the back, as they wrapped up the record. Vibing for the win!

Well, except for the small business of the payment and structuring splits. The dynamics flipped. They offered crap money, and when the producer refused, they pushed back harshly. One told him a version of "weren’t we just vibing? Why do you want more money?” The producer stood his ground, the big guys cut him off and contracted another producer who could take less, to remake the beat.

[ganymedesclock]

What do you think of the theory that there could be a secret sixth Lion (the White Lion) and that if found, it might choose Allura as its paladin?

From a storytelling perspective, I don’t really see the appeal, but, here’s my thematic beef with it.

I think that this devalues Allura, actually, by acting as if she already does nothing for the team, or that her accomplishments do not matter unless she has her own Lion.

Because the writers did give Allura the ability to take the field in season 3. This is significant to her character because, as she outlines herself- she will not demand her knights, her soldiers, to fight if she is not willing and ready to fight herself for this cause. She is a soldier of the rebellion too, and she’ll make good on that.

However- I actually think it won’t defeat all of Allura’s characterization if she’s not always a Lion pilot. If it’s a matter of shuffling who’s available and who’s needed.

Because here’s what I think is the impressive thing about Allura in VLD.

I think they took the archetypal, feminine, princess role, and rather than apologizing for it, or sweeping it under the rug with everything else that aged badly about Allura’s original character...

They decided to make it Allura’s power base.

Allura has her own ship. And it is the castle. The castle that a lot of people mock, but, don’t seem to really understand in context: yes, the particle barrier is often in danger of failing, but this is a world where no other ship actually has a barrier.

Other ships take that punishment directly onto themselves. The castle’s outer wall has virtually never failed in a direct battle. The only time I can think of is Sendak’s bombardment in s1e1, and on that occasion, that told us exactly what it takes to breach the first wall of the castle.

Four consecutive shots from the literally strongest weapon an imperial battleship can muster.

And that’s not counting the castle itself. Again- the barrier is so powerful we almost never see the castle take direct damage but it’s a literal castle.

Castles were originally built, in actual medieval history, to withstand armies. Potentially, for months. They were in some cases self-contained armored cities that could support its defenders and populace indefinitely.

The Castleship is this. Reimagined as a spaceship. It’s a slow moving goliath with a battery of guns the likes of which we’ve watched chomp up the imperial fleet.

Lotor’s mister hotshot new threat on the horizon and in his first altercation it’s not any of the Lions that make him flinch- it’s the castle that’s able to rock the prince’s cruiser with one hit and make the guy himself sit up and go what was that.

Rather than sheepishly, desperately going “Allura was never the princess in the tower!” they decided that she is, at her core, that figure... and then said “and this, this is her tower.”

The reason why Allura struggles with the Blue Lion is how small and vulnerable it is. Because she’s used to the castle. It’s hers. The castle is Allura’s Lion.

Attaching a sixth Lion onto Voltron, and ascribing it to Allura, suggests a couple of things.

It acts as if Voltron was incomplete, despite Allura being there from the start, despite the Castle being there from the start.

Since we’ve seen Voltron in its heyday, it also comes entirely out of left field. There is no real actual implication of its presence besides Voltron sure is mysterious- but how could there be another fully-formed Lion without Lotor’s intervention? The Lions’ connection makes sense because they were all forged of the same comet. It’s not like Lotor is going to make Voltron another Lion.

And even so, that feels like an awkward addition. Josh Keaton riffed on this when he was asked on twitter by having Lance ask if it forms Voltron’s (cut off by Shiro) but really... Voltron has a beautiful allegory of a human body.

It has no missing pieces right now. To attach another Lion, you’d need to make a non-essential addition, give Voltron a tail or beef up its wings, and once again that’s rude to Allura because it suggests somehow Allura hasn’t been pulling her weight all this time- but also, even though Voltron can be better with this hypothetical sixth Lion, that it’s perfect and whole without Allura, and can just operate without her unique addition.

I think it’s a lot more powerful rather than trying to stuff a sixth Lion onto Voltron and go “see, Allura’s important now!” to acknowledge how Allura already is important, because the show has not exactly given us peanuts in that regard.

Allura is important, Allura is powerful, and this is exemplified by what she is connected to. The castle is literally Voltron’s safe harbor and central station, it is everything they have and everything they come back to.

It perfectly illustrates what’s explored in the first two season finales: that if Allura goes down, Voltron literally cannot continue without her. And this is before they have the slightest inkling that Allura could be a paladin.

Allura doesn’t need to be a paladin to be important. That she can potentially step up in that sense is an addition to her existing importance. And her unique armor color, I think exemplifies that Allura’s not taking importance from Lance. She doesn’t have to just only keep that armor as long as she’s piloting Blue, or as long as there’s any absent Lion for her to step into.

Allura is the princess and that is important. She’s not the queen, because she doesn’t need to be, because that doesn’t reflect who she is: still young and vulnerable in some ways, and this is explored and exemplified through her rightful vessel, as well as her terrific strength of character- which can coexist.

You can recognize Allura’s importance and central role to the team without diminishing or dismissing how scared and hurt she also is! The Castleship is a magnificent, powerful entity and yet it is also something the team desperately defends, for good reason! It’s not going “Allura, you Fragile Pathetic Creature”, but rather, once again:

The Voltron pilots in Legendary Defender are deliberately styled after knights. Calling them paladins, giving them actual armor as opposed to the sleek jumpsuits that are often envisioned- the silhouette of their shields, the coat of arms, their honor and creed, all comes to the same concept.

And the thing about knights is, knights were servants of a higher royalty. Always. They were often nobles themselves, but they bent their knee to a lord or lady.

Allura is the one who completes that metaphor. Because Allura is the liege to whom the knights owe their fealty. This was explored in classic Voltron where all the pilots, when they became pilots, kissed Fala/Allura’s ring. VLD didn’t do that, because Allura doesn’t really like people bowing and scraping, but- at the same time...

Without Shiro the team reeled, came together, stabilized, and moved forward.

Without Allura, both times the team basically threw everything into a final stand because without her, they were done.

That’s not knocking on Shiro. It’s because if we’re talking chess, Shiro’s the queen- incredibly powerful, incredibly important, but Allura’s the king piece. Taking her ends the game. 

And this is the same thing across the board, with the galra empire- it’s not Zarkon, the ex-Black Paladin soldier, warlord, and pilot of mecha that when he falls the empire falls. The empire stumbles, struggles, but gets right back on its feet again and the beating heart yet sustaining it?

Haggar, the white-haired, magical Altean in the full-length dress who operates and attacks from Zarkon’s flagship- his castle.

Of their enemies, it’s Allura’s nemesis, not Shiro’s, that’s the ultimate peril. It’s Allura’s nemesis that needs no new amounts of quintessence to sustain herself, but wields it to sustain Zarkon- and can bring him back just as many times as she needs to.

Again, Allura is, weaponized in the particular sci-fantasy world Voltron writes, the princess in the tower that the paladins, her soldiers, are defending. She is a just ruler, and not one afraid to take the battlefield herself, but there’s nothing uplifting or revolutionary about denying that’s who she is at her core.

Other continuities, like Force, pretty much erased that importance, downplayed aggressively her royal status, treating her like just another soldier- and I think that’s a terrific disservice.

I think that people- and I’ve been guilty of this myself- got so used to princesses and rolling their eyes at princesses, treating the “princess” as the “everything wrong with how female characters are written” that they stopped looking at princesses as royalty, nobility, as a powerful central figure in their own right.

So what this all boils down to is:

I think there’s absolutely no need for a sixth Lion, not to Voltron, and not to Allura. Because it fundamentally misunderstands Allura’s situation- it acts like she’s not doing anything important unless she has her Own Lion (tm) all to herself that nobody else can use when the Castle’s systems, as have been pointed out many times, don’t sing fully for anybody but Allura, in a clear nod to how nobody pilots Black, Red, or Blue like Shiro, Keith, or Lance do.

I think Allura is wonderful exactly how she is and I’m eager to see her continue to grow, at the helm of the castle, flying one of the five Lions, or, probably, a mix of both.

[paradoxically-deranged-poet]

He Who Wanders

I missed the scorching wind of Andalusia. How it pours sunlight onto your face, toying with eyelashes, flattening dry sand against cheeks and milling around hair. I missed the smell of the valley and that ripening softness of Muscat fluff glistening in the afternoon breeze.

From up here, I can see the house where I grew up. I see white chapels tucked into grape orchards like pawns scattered on a chess board. I can see patches of asphalt on El Jardinito Road hailing from the old town through dappled rocks, then waning behind the horizon with erratic headlights of beat-up trucks cruising along.

One of the pit stops along Ed Jardinito, where truck drivers stop to relieve themselves, marks the starting point to this wavy trail. All covered in blotches of spindly grass stalks and flaxen sand, the trail is barely noticeable at first. Truth is, no one even cares to notice it. Why would truckers taking a blitz-leak care to check on a mucky trail leading to God knows where? But I do. This is how I got up here, to the top of this hill, where I am standing now. I’ve climbed all the way up here, so I can finally end it all – all these years of vagrancy and fugue, exile and fear. This is where it’s all going to come to an end.

But for now, I am enjoying the view of the valley unfolding below. I am sipping the air of what could be my final memories.

He will show up soon. He always does. Like a shadow, he’s been following me right on my footsteps, always there, behind me. And there he is!

His limping figure appears behind the sharp bend off El Jardinito. He looks up and he sees me, then stops for a moment to catch his breath and leans on his cane, as if assessing the remaining trajectory for this final stretch, then resumes his walk. Or should I say, “resumes his agonizing trudging”. Years of endless chase took a toll on his body. No wonder. How long has he been chasing me? Ten, twenty, thirty years?

He is slow. Methodically slow. But for once, I will not run. I will wait. Right here, behind this rock. I will finally come face to face with him. This sharp Swiss knife blade I am holding in my hand will soon lance right through his neck bone. Yes, that’s what I am going to do.

This ends here, at the dead end of this sandy trail atop the hill overlooking the valley with its white chapels and Muscat orchards.

Funny. After all these years, I still don’t know the real name of my chaser. I always called him what master Borges called him

“He who wanders”.

He who wanders, listen. I will kill you.

* * * * * *

Borges. The Borges. I idolized him when I was in college. Many did, but I was different. It was 1961. I was an average lazy learner at the Universidad Laboral de Córdoba, floating around from one semester to another with barely passable grades. I had very few friends and almost no interests. One can say that I had an early form of an identity crisis.

Besides chugging Anisado, my only other passion was Literature. Latin American Literature. Borges and Neruda were at the forefront. One could only imagine my excitement when I saw a pamphlet hanging on the wall of the Literature faculty.

Spaces were limited. But who cared? It was the man himself, Jorge Luis Borges, coming to give us a lecture followed by an open panel of questions. Like a maniac, I rushed to the auditorium hours before the lecture. I was the first in line and when the doors opened, I got the front row seat. The auditorium was packed with drooling chins of young self-proclaimed prodigies, awaiting the arrival of the great one.

And there he was, the blind Lord of Literature, walking upright onto the stage with a cane and his loyal assistant right by his side. Standing ovation. He nodded and made a “thank you, please be seated” gesture.

Then he began. The lecture was dedicated to Spanish writers, I cannot distinctly recall if it was Cervantes or De Vega. It truly made no difference. Somehow, I managed to sit through his entire lecture, which lasted over three hours, and remember nothing. He talked slowly and methodically, pouring honey into our ears like Segovia’s guitar, with his absent eyesight affixed on the ceiling.

And then it happened. Something that caught me completely off guard.

Before closing the day, Borges was about to take questions from the audience. Of course, I raised my hand and so did about hundreds of other students. One of Borges’ assistants whispered something into his ear, which made him smile.

“It is an honor for me to be in front of an audience of young people, but our time is not infinite,” he said with blind eyes still pinned on the far corner of the hall. “For that reason, I will randomly pick questions from five of you.”

I have never won any prizes or lotteries in my life. When I played poker or blackjack, I lost far more than I won. I knew my limitations and that turned me into an average apathetic person, rarely trying to outdo oneself. And so, sitting still with little ambition – I got used to that.

Until that moment. When I saw Borges pointing his finger in my direction, that came as nothing short of a shock.

“Me?”

“Yes, young man. Senor Borges picked you. Step forward and introduce yourself,” said his assistant.

I did not know what to ask. So, I quietly mumbled my full name.

“Fernandez Augustin Navaro”

Borges shifted his gray-shaded pupils in my direction as if reacting to a sudden buzzing of a fruit fly.

“Fernandez Augustin Navaro. Navaro. Haven’t I met you once before, young man?” he asked.

“No, senor Borges. I never had the honor.”

“But you will. We will meet again, Senor Navaro. You and I will meet again. But for right now, what is your question?”

The rest of the day was foggy. I don’t even remember what question I asked, it must have been about him winning the Prix International, not sure. And maybe not important. No, not important at all.

The greatest writer in the history of mankind called me by name and then that bizarre unreal thing he said about us meeting again. When?

* * * * * *

Nine years later. In 1970.

And there I was – a somewhat-promising journalist in one of London’s somewhat-scandalous tabloid newspapers. Every week my name was featured on the second page alongside with celebrity chronicles and vile rumors. My paycheck was decent enough for a small studio flat by Manchester Square. After years of having been pent-up by directionless studies, you could say I became something more than an average. Or at least that is what I believed.

That day (it was early October, arguably the best season in London) began as usual. I ate my chic breakfast consisting of two scrambled eggs, ham, toast, and dark roast coffee at Barrymore’s Diner and was ready for a pleasant walk to the office. It was shortly after 8 am, and I was in no hurry.

Report Ad My route was the same as it was every day: pass the square, right turn on George Street, left turn on Thayer, another right on Marylebone. My thoughts that morning were all preoccupied with the piece I was working on, so I was slowly making my way through the square when something caught my eye. Or rather, someone. At first, I did not pay much attention to him, no more than I did to anybody else who idled at the square that morning. Hippy rascals with soiled hair playing guitar on every corner was a common theme in those days, and London town was certainly no exception. So here was another one of those misunderstood love proclaimers, sitting right behind the gated area of the square. Striped worn out jacket, heavy cap, sandals with clots of woolen socks sticking out. A common hippy bum as anyone may have thought. I thought so too except this one had something that made my intestines churn. I didn’t know what it was, but once I saw him, I felt the irresistible urge to instantly walk away and never see him again.

The way he looked at me, that gloomy frown that made me think of a line from Oscar Wilde, “that fellow’s got to swing.” There certainly was something outer worldly about that “fellow.”

His eyes, as if carved from a rock below his forehead were mercilessly drilling thousands of tiny holes through me. I added pace. As I turned back one last time, I noticed him slowly walking towards me. Past the gates of the square, onto the street, paying no attention to screeching tires of honking cars. Walking right towards me.

He’s just a bum. No, he is not.

Just another one of those unwashed hippies. No, no, run run run!

George Street was empty like in post-war bombed quarters. I could hear my brisk footsteps. Or was it the drubbing of my aorta against the chest? He was catching up.

Run? Don’t be silly. Yes, run. First slowly as if you’re trying to not show your chaser that you’re scared. No, not scared, more like in a hurry.

Why am I running? I can take him out with one punch.

But it really wasn’t about that. It was my first experience of that feeling, which I can only describe as some sort of primordial sense of fear. Panic. Dread. Unexplained sense of looming doom arching above you like a dark figure with a scythe.

I ran. I ran faster than my feet could move. As I turned the corner on Thayer, I paused and looked back, fearing to see him right behind. Scrambled eggs, toast, and dark roast coffee were about to make their way back up through my esophagus.

Wiping the sweat off my palms onto my pants, I bent forward in a protective position and looked around. Empty windows of George Street were checking me out like a toddler witnessing parent in a cowardly act.

Whoever that man was that incensed me into this uncontrollable panic, he was now gone. Shame on you, Fernandez Augustin, I repeated to myself while making futile attempts to enthrall palpitation to subside. Shame on you. I mumbled repeating that word. Mumbling turned into whistling that song by “Magic Lanterns”. Shame, shame. I whistled, acting calm and self-composed. I sang without knowing words only to convert my mind to something else. I sang so others wouldn’t notice me shaking.

I climbed the stairs of my office building. Three at a time. Third floor. The familiar smell of typography oils calmed me down. Safe heaven. Shame on you, Fernandez Augustin Navaro.

* * * * * *

Even now I question myself whether my journey to madness began on that day or was it underway for many years. Madness that creeps in and recedes in tidal waves. Is that how it usually happens?

All I know is that an hour later I was laughing at my little moment of weaknesses.

Preposterous and rubbish, my thick Andalusian twang spoke to me. The idea of being fully checked out by a specialist did cross my mind, and I immediately thought of Doctor Patel in Camden Town. He’d give me a comfortable medical diagnosis like a panic attack and prescribe some white pills, I thought.

Little did I know that the day had more surprises in store. The unnerving script development continued in a more eerie fashion when my boss marched to my desk with a pack of printed paper.

No, Navaro you are not going to see Doctor Patel in Camden Town who will make a judgment call on your insanity. Instead, you are going to do an article on Jorge Luis Borges’ new book. He is making his presentation today at London Public Library and blah, blah, blah.

I forgot about the panic attack. The thrill of seeing Master Borges again, nine years later, was surreal. Moments later I was sitting in a cab on my way to the London Public Library, scribbling all possible questions I should be asking him. El Informe de Brodie? Other books? Forget it! I knew very well what I would ask.

I paid the cab and galloped up the marble stairs leading to the hallway, where the Master was about to hold his new book presentation. I elbowed myself through the crowd of journalists to occupy the coveted front-row spot. Quick inventory check: wallet, j-sack along with the omnipresent Swiss knife. Seconds ticked leisurely on my wristwatch. Four more minutes.

Forget this morning’s sickness. Forget Dr. Patel. Collect yourself, Fernandez Augustin

* * * * * *

“Navaro! That’s your last name, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, Senor Borges. But how do you..?”

“Nine years ago, in Cordoba. I told you we would meet again. Do you remember?”

I nodded rapidly completely forgetting he couldn’t see me. Stupid.

“Perhaps,” continued Borges, “it would be more prudent for us to speak privately after the conference. I invite you to have coffee with me. You like Colombian coffee, Mr. Navaro? I shall see you precisely at 6 o’clock at the address that my assistant will provide.”

His blind eyes were still affixed at the top far corner of the hallway, far above all the congested sharp-penciled critics and arduous followers of his divine writing. The attention was now all on me, as revealed by hundreds of photo flashes from behind. I thought of all the explaining that I would have to do tomorrow. How does Borges know you? Are you friends? You were raised in Cordova, are you his illegitimate son?

Back then I did not know.

Answers came later.

* * * * * *

Memory is a tricky animal. As I gaze over the valley and satiate my lungs with familiar smells, I cannot think of anything specific. Vague and elusive memories of my childhood home. And these orchards, these white chapels and the old town itself – nothing but an incomprehensible sensation somewhere down there, below the chest cage.

I close my eyes and let the sun twirl around with tinted specks of mosaic light. I am trying to focus without looking. Alas, nothing comes to mind. I’ve been robbed of my memory. You!

I cast my eyes at the trail again. He is closing in. It’s hard for him to walk upward, and yet I see that determination in his eyes, in his tight grip of that wobbly walking stick, in the way he periodically stops to catch his breath and eyeball the remaining distance. I am not going anywhere. Five? Ten more minutes? Come and take me, old man. If you can.

I almost see his facial expression under the heavily pronounced frontal lobe. It’s a grin. It’s an expression that says, “We shall see.”

* * * * * *

Once I read an interview in “The Morning Times”. In it, Borges was portrayed as extremely humble and minimalistic. His house was depicted as a perfectly organized space with easy access to everything. Books on the shelves (judging from the admiration of the columnist, there were lots of them) were organized by theme and by title. Dictionaries and encyclopedias were grouped together on the same rack, so he could find them easily.

In another article, dated 1966, I read that when Borges travels, and those travels were quite extensive, he carries a whole rack of books along, some of which may not even be read.

When I entered his hotel room, that very book-rack was the first thing that caught my eye. I stood perplexed at the multitude of titles, most unknown to me, when I heard the door swing wide open, and there he was entering through the doorway with a leisurely swinging cane.

“Ah, Senor Navaro, how kind of you to visit this old man!”

I took a step towards him and produced some gibberish like “pleasure is all but mine”. He half-smiled and pointed his hand to the chair.

“I know you will quite enjoy the taste of Colombian dark roast.”

Borges sat down and leaned slightly backwards, without releasing his cane.

“Do you know the biggest advantage of being blind?” he asked and answered immediately. “Blind don’t need light, so my utility bills are way lower.”

He laughed at his own joke only to be interrupted by his assistant carrying a tray of aromatic coffee poured in two small porcelain cups. Amazing how the very idea of drinking coffee instantly changes your mood before you even take your first sip.

As I was readying to go on a pre-scripted monologue of expressing my gratitude and honor, Borges jumped right into the action.

“I will get right to it, Senor Navaro. About you being here and about me remembering you. I know you have many questions. I will attempt to answer some. Some, but not all. When you leave this hotel, there will still be some questions that you will have to find answers to. On your own.”

He gently picked his cup of coffee and with hand somewhat shaking, took an artistic sip. Yes, I had questions. So many that my brain membranes were buzzing in bewilderment and disbelief. Here I was, sitting in the room with one of the greatest writers, who happened to mysteriously know my name and

“Have you by any chance read my ‘The Book of Imaginary Beings?’” asked Borges.

I have. Many times. I read it in Spanish, when it just came out. Very recently I bought the English translation in some shabby bookstore off Oxford Circus. I read that book far too many times, but never in its entirety, mostly starting on a random page. Just as Borges had intended it to be consumed by his readers.

“You see, Senor Navaro, that book was, and perhaps still is, a never-ending work in progress as human imagination has no boundaries. I have included what I had researched over ten years ago, then recently expanded and republished with more figments of collective human imagination. But the book is merely a small subset. In a way, the book writes itself. In some form, it’s a labyrinth, an endless one, a living one, where every corridor and every room is never the same. What I had always wanted is the book to reflect the labyrinth in our collective subconsciousness, the force that drives our minds to craft. For that reason, all the creatures in my book are strictly fictional. Mythical. Am I not boring you?”

“Not at all. I understand, Senor Borges.”

He nodded and wiped a coffee grind off his nose.

“That book, as its title implies, is all about imaginary beings. Tales, legends, folklore. But one thing that no one knows is that I had originally intended this book to include one more being. A being that goes by its Latin name Quietus Est. It appeared and disappeared across many cultures, sometimes centuries apart. Very little is known of it, but what I found was indeed astonishing. First, this being is physically no different than an ordinary human. You may say, it is human in many ways. As I studied this entity, I became more and more agitated. I could not stop. Like a madman, I was trying to learn more and more, but very soon the excitement turned into another feeling. Fear.”

“Fear of what, Senor Borges?”

Borges eyesight shifted from the corner of the room straight on me, as if he could perfectly see me.

“Fear of what I had uncovered. That Quietus Est is not a myth at all.”

He attempted to take another sip, but his hands started shaking, so he had to put the cup down, spilling some of it on the saucer and around the table.

“Pardon me, young man, I am trying to maintain composure. But you have not tried the coffee”, he said wiping his mouth and forehead with a knitted handkerchief.

I raised the small cup and took a sip, disregarding the aromatic fumes of Colombian beans drifting down my internal gorges.

“Pardon me sir, but you are saying that the imaginary being called Quietus Est was not imaginary. Is that why you decided not to include him in your book of imaginary beings?”

“Only in part. Fear came from the realization of what it would mean for mankind to know about its existence. You see

it’s no secret that we are all well aware of our eventual demise. We all die. But imagine what would happen if we all stared right into the face of death every single day of our lives and knew the time that was left for us in this world. Death not as a vague concept portrayed by middle-aged artists, not as a folklore tale of a grim reaper. But as a real living entity that stalks you and walks around showing you a ticking clock counting down minutes and seconds. Getting closer to you with every second, trying to grab your hand. Running from death is worse than death itself.”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“But I shall talk no more. Allow me to give you my scribbles from years ago. These are unedited in their raw format, so please pardon the poor language. It’s right there, in the drawer. You will find a folder with a yellow piece of paper. Read it aloud, while my ripe old body attempts to catch a breath.”

I opened the drawer, as he instructed, and found a yellow piece of cursive handwritings carved in Spanish with some Latin phrases. The scribbles were short, less than a page long with marks and scratches, but most of this was very much decipherable. He must have written this himself half-blind, I thought. What caused him to do that and not dictate to his assistant? I unfolded the paper and began reading.

Quietus Est

It is said that one shall not know about its own ways and times of demise. The imminent passing is only felt by those that are either terminally ill, and even so, they don’t possess the knowledge of when and where, or by death row inmates awaiting the exact day and time of their execution. Lack of such knowledge coerces us to exist. Sumerians believed in a certain deity (the word “deity” was scratched and replaced with “demon of death embodied in human flesh and bones”, which again was scratched and replaced with “entity”), whose sole role was to stalk its victims and inform them of how much time they have left to live. Per the ancient “Book of Dead”, which was discovered as a set of clay tablets, typically buried in corpses, only those that are “luminous” can see the deity (again crossed out twice, replaced with “demon”, then with “entity”). The “luminous” ones are thought to be either people with high spiritual powers or vice versa, the cursed ones, condemned by priests. The reference briefly reappears in some Egyptian manuscripts, but in later writings is replaced by Anubis or – in rare occurrences – by Horus. The writings again depict this unnamed being as an eternal human who never sleeps, but always wanders. What’s strange is that neither Sumerians nor Egyptians ever gave the entity a discrete name. However, the latter rare findings during Dark Ages refer to him as Quietus Est. The only depiction of Quietus Est was that of an ordinary human standing next to a sun clock, which was used to measure the time that the chosen one had left to live. From time to time Quietus Est stalks the chosen one and, when cornered, moves hands of the clock forward to shorten the lifetime. If the chosen one cannot escape, then his time eventually runs out.

The very last reference was found in

“Enough, Mr. Navaro. You understand the idea. Now on to the main question. Why are you here?”

He drew closer, and a dull shadow from a lamp cut right through his elongated forehead.

“Quietus Est is an eternal wanderer who is always with us, the timekeeper who sits at the edge of the stage with a ticking watch on his wrist. The greatest gift given to mankind is its inability to see him. When I lost sight, I thought blindness was a blessing in disguise. But one does not require eyes to see the wanderer. What eyes cannot see, ears can hear and skin can feel. I hear him. I feel him. You are here, Mr. Navaro because you and I are the luminous ones…”

Borges paused and asked me with a trembling voice: “Mr. Navaro, you saw him too, didn’t you?”

Cold shivers that have been accumulating in my lower back rushed up my spinal cord in millions of explosions. Nausea formed a massive ball of air in my throat, and for a moment I struggled to breathe. Desperately trying to cease the thumping inside, I pushed words out.

“I saw him today.”

* * * * * *

How do you get used to the notion of being a passerby on this Earth? Ordinary humans do not have to get used to that. We have that built-in protection layer, that safety cork in our brain membranes that separates the realization of being mortal from flooding down upon us. It allows us to breathe the air. It lets us exhibit this extraordinary, yet sacred carelessness. The mental block that denies the laws of life on a primitive emotional level even for the keenest scholars. The indecipherable Tetragrammaton is shown to us in every step we take, in every cup of Colombian coffee we sip, in every word of wisdom that we collect from books. Every second we bypass the sinister tick-tock and hear the name of the God being whispered into our ears. And yet we, humans, turn around and whistle “Shame Shame”, deceiving our own self-cognizance. And that, as Senor Borges called it, is the true blessing. Those who possess the name of the divine being are doomed. Knowledge is madness. Knowledge is nonexistent. Knowledge of death is worse than death.

We sat in his hotel room until early morning, the two luminous and doomed souls. Our casual exchange of words was amplified by the ticking of the clock. It was dawn when I noticed Borges nodding in his sleep. His left hand was still resting on the cane and his pupils were shuffling behind shut eyelids.

Borges was dreaming.

So must have I.

As I was exiting the foyer of the hotel, I hid behind the column and looked around the street. It was empty. Bleak light of street lamps drew strange crossbeams on pavements. Early October leaves were gyring in closed circles like witches around the fire.

I was looking around, hoping to not see him.

He wasn’t there. But he was. I felt his presence not very far from me.

* * * * * *

Muscat orchards – they resonate inside like echoes of a guitar string heard from a deep alcove, but nothing particular comes to mind. I am trying to shift focus from one object to another, but my nomad memory is lost in endless labyrinths. You took my memories away from me, didn’t you?

Wait, mortal. Wait five more minutes, and you will know the answer, I hear in my brain. He is talking to me now. I can see how the long uphill walk is wearing him out. But what are pain and tiredness when you’re crossing the finish line?

As Borges warned me, “Do not ever come close to him. Do not look him straight in the eyes. He will always be near. His watch will be ticking. If he attempts to catch on, run. But he will forever follow. In a way, he will be like a shadow of you.”

And I ran. And he wandered. I evaded. He followed.

He came too close to me in my hotel room on the second day after my long night in Borges’ quarters. The fool in me still thought that escaping from him would be as easy as moving into a new flat. Or checking into a hotel. So I did just that. It was some shabby hotel minutes from my work where I decided to spend a few nights just to think things through.

That evening, and I remember every minute of it, was my first face to face encounter with him. My room, B6, was on the basement level. As I stumbled through the dark hotel corridor, trying to find the key to my room, I felt his presence, but my ignorant foolishness dismissed all mental warnings and turned the keys. As the door hinge squeaked, I took my first step into the hotel room. A street-level window was casting two thick yellow streaks of light on the floor carpet. I smelled dust and spider webs.

He was in my room. Sitting on the edge of the bed with a rope in his hand. A thin white blanket was covering his head like a shroud around a statue. I stood in a stupor like a paralyzed insect. An avalanche of sweat gushed from every pore of my body. With hand twisted behind my back, I was feverishly trying to twist the doorknob. He got up from the bed with a groan. He took a step towards me.

Hand too sweaty to turn the knob. Open it. Open!

He grabbed my wrist.

Open! Run!

The stretched corridor of the hotel basement flashed like random shots of a silent movie. Run! B5. B2. B1. Run! Staircase. Up! Exit! Run!

“Your time is coming, Fernandez Augustin Navaro!” a whisper crawled into my ears. “Coming, coming!” hissed the wind.

I ran until my legs gave in. I fell down somewhere in the outskirts of the town, passing out in an alley amidst rubbish until sunup.

My madness has begun.

In the days following my first face-to-face encounter with Quietus Est, I’ve moved out of my London flat. I had some savings, enough to tramp town to town, continent to continent, doing temp jobs here and there, sometimes sleeping on streets. He was right behind me.

Even if I didn’t see him for a month, I knew he would soon catch on. It would be only a matter of time for him to pop up somewhere

on the opposite side of the street, in the next car over on the subway, or madly prying through shutters of windows in the house across.

My attempts to speak to Borges were futile. How does the blind master live with this curse, I wondered. How does he manage to evade his sinister follower?

I had questions. Far more than I had anticipated. But Senor Borges was already on the other side of the globe. I wrote him letters. He never replied. I tried calling hotels where he stayed. Unavailable.

The books that he wrote, I bought all of them in attempts to find hidden meanings. What if he had secret messages for me inside his writings? The Book of Sand, Dr. Brodie’s Report

I even searched his earlier writings, analyzed every word. Pointless. Futile.

Until 1983. “Shakespeare’s Memory.” His final book, as it turned out to be.

I was somewhere in Eastern Europe when I bought the book. Immediately I began my scrupulous study. Letter by letter, page by page, analyzing every space and every punctuation sign.

And that’s when I found it. The answer.

The answer was the story itself. The story that did not require much study or decryption. All I had to do was read it. I knew I had to come face to face with Quietus Est like Borges did, but not before having to go through the life of an exile. That’s what Borges had intended me to do. Such was his final and only message to me embodied within his last story. A story written for the public, but intended for my eyes only.

The story was that the protagonist receives memories of Shakespeare. Memories that overwhelm him, overpowering his own. He forgets modern day cars and engines, instead remembering faces and names from some distant past, memories he has never known. Memories that belonged to another man.

“In a way, he will be like a shadow of you,” Borges told me that night. Slowly but surely, my shadow was becoming me. That’s why I can only vaguely remember you, my childhood home. Him or me, no more running. It ends here.

* * * * * *

Few more minutes, I say to myself as I look at the watch. There he is. He is out of breath. Beaten, tired and bent by the weight of his own arid body. One last push, old man, and we will meet.

I am hiding behind the rock. His footsteps on gravel and sand, I can tell them from any other footsteps in the world. His breathing, wheezing and crackling. I am counting to five.

He knows where I am, but he is too tired to take that last step. Let me take that step for you.

I am staring at his face, wrinkled like leaves of an ancient scroll.

“Time’s up, Quietus Est,” I am telling him.

He is not fighting back, and my Swiss blade finds a comfy spot below his Adam’s apple. I am going to finish him now.

Popping sounds are coming out from his flabby throat. What are you trying to tell me, old man? Let me hear your last words. I am easing the pressure to let him talk. But the sounds that come out not words, but laughter.

“You, you are confused,” he says. “You’ve got it all wrong. Let me, let me help you understand.”

I am letting him sit up. He is coughing blood. One wrong move and he’s dead. He wipes the blood off his lips and nods in understanding.

“All my life I have followed you,” he begins slowly. “It’s a miracle I have come this far and lived this long. Ever since I left Cordoba, I was a ticking time bomb. I was diagnosed as suicidal. Doctor after doctor, therapies, specialists, prescription, yoga – I have tried them all. Some helped for a while, and the disease subsided, but then trolled back with a new stronger wave. It’s this disease that nests here” – and he points to his head – “forcing me to look for a way to end my own life. It all began in London, on that morning when I was sitting on the bench in the middle of that square, feeling the disease gnawing on my brain. My first attempt was in that hotel, room B6. I sat on the bed in that dark room for hours with a rope in my hand and a blanket over my head. Death opened the door and stood above me in the darkness of the room. Oh, how I wanted my pain to end! But it was not meant to be. Not then, not there. I had to live on. Ever since that day, it was a cat and a mouse game between us. I chased death, and death would always slip away. Until now.”

He pauses, rubbing his flabby neck, then points his finger down the valley and continues: “I was born in that house. I remember every moment of my childhood. My parents, my toys, my school. I remember playing hide and seek with my cousins in Muscat gardens and dosing off to Sunday clergy in that white chapel. I remember Eastern rugs being washed on the street and the smell of grapes. My name is Fernandez August Navaro. And you, you have no true name, but they call you Quietus Est. The one who wanders.”

Filaments of scorching infernos have been ignited all over me. The fire sets off inside my eyelids, spreading over to all facial pores and trickling down my body.

“Lies! Imbecile lies!” I roar.

“Look at me,” he says, “I am an old man. And you? Still young and strong as you will always be. You have not aged. Now think more. What do you remember of your childhood? Shakespearean memories of random sounds and smells are all you have gained from me. Master Borges knew who you were. He cracked you, and then he tricked you. He made you think you were me. That was his way of evading you – by not revealing you the truth until his final breath, final book, final story. You are the one who wanders. And those memories you have – those are my memories. And now that I have told you who you really are, you must finally finish me.”

I have heard enough of his fibs. I am throwing my knife away. I shall not require any blades to finish him. With hands clenched around his thin neck, I am strangling him. I hear him squeal as the grip tightens. I feel the crackling of neck bones between my thumbs. I see him gulping the air in warm convulsions. He looks peaceful.

I sit on his chest and watch his last breath picked up by the wind, carried down the valley to the gardens, passing by the white chapel and the house where he grew up.

The scorching wind of Andalusia is pouring sunlight onto his face, toying with eyelashes, pounding on cheeks and gyring through hair. He must have missed the smell of the valley and the ripening softness of Muscat fluff glistening in the air.

I am rewinding my wristwatch and walking downhill along the wavy trail, my thumbs still sore from killing.

I am taking small step sideways. Once I reach El Jardinito Road, I will hop on the first bus, and from there I will travel west. Or north. Destination will never matter.

Anywhere is where the roads take me.

[samkstuff-blog1]

Learning Chess Lessons for Kids Plus Teaching Chess to Children

I've been asked before to tutor children on chess yet time is the enemy and I cannot fit this into my program. I started playing chess at age 5 and to be honest, I did stop for a few years; well just to get married and then I began again. I believe chess is the best sport in the world for kids to learn.  Learning Chess Lessons for Kids is one of the greatest games you may learn on the planet.

Children and chess just go together.  It gets their brain functioning. Did you realize that kids are becoming more dense than at any period in history. This is since they're not taught to think.  I really don't think that they realize the happiness you get when you resolve an issue all on your own without using an electronic crutch to aid you. And that is where chess and kids are perfect partners.

Throughout a baseball match many challenges, problems, irritations and even more will appear and the child will have no alternative than to attempt to work out a solution. If he or she doesn't, it's no big deal, they've attempted and that is the point. The experience will be stored in their memory and will be employed to good effect the next time a similar situation occurs and that is not only for chess. These expertise will help them resolve life's challenges.

I was a shy kid growing up in Glasgow, Scotland and went into an inner city school. I couldn't struggle to save myself. To compensate I depended on a lot of the problem solving adventures from chess games that gave me some confidence in my own capabilities. I'd say to myself"they could be more powerful than me but I could stuff them at chess".

Children should be taught chess, they will not always win but but they will not always lose. It is an imitation of life.  An competitor of mine, when we were kids, used to inadvertently knock on the board over if he was shedding or he'd leave the table saying he had to move in for his tea. Guess what, I have just been told by his wife that when he has beat in any board game against his kids he makes excuses to not finish the match and storms outside. Chess is for kids and hopefully it will teach them to take defeat in their stride.   This will be a priceless attitude for any child to learn and they will have the ability to take this attribute through to maturity.

Chess for kids is a great way to enjoy learning important skills. It is a game that brings people together and enjoy each-others company while having fun playing with an exciting game!

What are some of the abilities, boxing can help kids grow?

Playing chess requires careful observation an concentration. It helps to understand how to concentrate. If you can't focus on the game you'll have great difficulty responding to an opponents moves.

Apart from focusing chess will help to visualize. To be good at chess needs you to think ahead and see motions or possible actions before they actually happen. In a nutshell, you have to have the ability to find the pieces move on mind before they are performed on the plank. Children will also learn to think about alternatives. Playing chess requires to consider the various possible motions and also to evaluate the different results.

Playing chess also develops the skill to use recognition of patterns and apply them on similar scenarios. It helps them understand from previous situations and the type of action to take when a similar scenario occurs. One other essential ability is planning. To be successful in chess you want to have a goal and a strategy to get to your objective. Additionally, it is important to always adapt your goal and intend into the present circumstance. Playing chess involves every one of these skills and stimulates kids to utilize them while having fun. It enables them to become better problem solvers and to think before to act.

One other great thing of the game is that it will help to develop social contacts. When you play at home, school or club it gives you the ability to learn more about the persons that you play with and to have fun together no matter the history of each individual.

One important issue to remember is that so as to keep children motivated to play chess they need to have the ability to practice their game at home with the folks they know and adore.

If you're a parent understand how to play chess yourself! Or learn playing along with your kids. Spending quality time with family is among the main things in life. Chess is game which can bring people of all ages together and help them to learn how to know each-other! Teaching Chess to Kids is a good way for not just children but anybody to understand how to play chess.

[captain-rainystudentnacho-m-blog]

Like PHOBIA By Keva Minus

‘To find someone you're compatible with and who loves you is sufficient.' ‘It's alright my love, what you want to know I am going to inform you. Beloved, loved one, love of one's life, expensive, dearest, pricey one, darling, sweetheart, sweet, candy one, angel, honey. ‘By the time he was a younger man, his two nice loves, politics and horse-racing, quickly became apparent.' ‘He had three nice, easy loves in his life, his household and pals, his soccer and his religion.' ‘She was a young girl who had many loves in her life - most of which revolved around her household.' ‘The talk coated not solely her life and loves but in addition family and domestic life in the thirteen th century.' ‘And nowadays he loves nothing more than combining his love of running with his passion for journey.' ‘I send her all my love, I do know what it appears like, remember Debbie- me and my mum are always here for you.' ‘We send all our love and heartfelt sorrow for all your loved ones and everybody who knew and loved you.' ‘If there is one thing to beat crime it is love, love for our children, love for our household and buddies, and love for all!' ‘But the biggest thing in Amanda's life was kids, her incredible love for them and devotion to them.' The romantic attraction to someone that defines love is strange, defined by science, translated by our our bodies and its inner workings to have us feel and expertise the emotion. To sea for nothing however to make him sick John Donne Love's Progress. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends Bible: St. John. What Is Love Phobia ; let us too give in to loveVirgil Eclogue. The person who is the thing of such an affection; sweetheart ; lover. A feeling of brotherhood and good will toward other folks. If you happen to would love to have or do something, you very much need to have it or do it. You can say that you simply love something when you think about that it is necessary and want to defend or support it. We loved the food so much, particularly the fish dishes..one of these those who loves to be in the outdoors. We'd have a healthier conception of love if we understood that love, like parenting or friendship, is a feeling that expresses itself in motion. In Fiddler on the Roof, when Tevye asks Golde whether she loves him after 1 / 4 century of marriage, her wry reply is exactly on point: Sure, you possibly can love things that do not love you back—the sky or a mountain or a painting or the sport of chess. You may have very strong feelings about them, it's possible you'll even imagine you cannot reside with out them, but you do not love them. Love should be seen not as a feeling however as an enacted emotion. It is time to change the meaning of the word "love." Songwriters have described it, Everytime you're close to, I hear a symphony.” Shakespeare said, Love is blind and lovers cannot see.” Aristotle stated, Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.” It means so many different things to different folks. : to feel sexual or romantic love for (somebody) : an individual you love in a romantic manner. There are few individuals whom I actually love, and nonetheless fewer of whom I think well." —Jane Austen, Delight and Prejudice, 1813. Lying awake, listening to the sound of his father's breathing, he knew there was no one in the world he loved so much. People loved him for his brashness and talent, his loopy manglings of the English language, his brawling, boyish antics … and I loved him, too, I loved him as much as anybody in the world. Aunt Polly knelt down and prayed for Tom so touchingly, so appealingly, and with such measureless love in her words and her previous trembling voice, that he was weltering in tears again, long earlier than she was by means of. Love takes many forms, but the phrase usually describes an affection that is deep and emotional.