#I played almost every final fantasy game and never have I seen so much wasted potential

[mha-cuties-pls]

Incel!Shigaraki x reader Headcannons

Pairing: Shigaraki x Reader | Rating: M | Words: n/a | genre: smut

A/N: Soooooo, writing these actually gave me the best idea for a scenario 🥴 just in love with the idea of touch starved and incredibly horny Incel!Shigaraki fixating on a girl and attempting to force her into submission, only to find out she had been craving him just as much as he was

Incel!Shigaraki that notices you in public one day when he was out at the mall buying a new video game, unable to tear his eyes away from your suggestively lewd outfit, deciding that a beautiful girl dressed like that in public wanted, no needed, his greedy eyes to objectify you. Shigaraki couldn’t usually have cared less about other people when he went out in public. They didnt share the same intelligence level or tenacity he did, and besides, they would all submit to The League of Villains in due time anyways; there was no point in trying to converse with any of them. That was, at least, until he stopped by the mall one day to pick up the newest edition of a game that had just been released, and his eyes couldn’t help but lock onto your voluptuous figure. It’s not like it was his fault he was staring, in that short skirt and tight tank top you were practically naked. He could even tell you weren’t wearing a bra as his eyes followed each bounce and jiggle of your chest as you walked over to the Nintendo Switch games. Still mesmerized, he watched you from across the store, and his heart began to pick up when you bent down to retrieve Cooking Mama on the bottom row, allowing him to catch a quick glimpse of your underwear. Feeling the twitch in his pants, he was unable to tear his eyes away from you- even when your gaze met his. What really sealed your fate, however, was the fact that upon meeting his eyes, you had the audacity to smirk at his actions. It was then that Tomura decided you needed to be taught a lesson.

Incel!Shigaraki who begins to stalk you in his free time, watching with distain every time he saw you talking to another guy he had never seen before Watching you giggle and playfully hit the male companion who sat next to you at the food court made Shigarakis skin boil. He knew that there was no way you were actually laughing that hard at anything that guy had to say; You were just being the slutty little girl that you were, probably craving and aching between your legs in ways that you should only be doing for him. Shigarakis grimace continued as he fumed from the corner where he sat watching, scratching at his neck and trying not to let his explosive anger get in the way of his careful planning.

Incel!Shigaraki who finally, after observing you for weeks, makes his move when he sees you alone one day buying bubble tea, and despite his inexperience, actually does a phenomenal job playing the part of a charmer. “Why don’t you come back with me for a bite to eat?” He says, voice laced with something that you can’t quite put your finger on. “I know this great hole in the wall and besides,” pulling his hood back a bit so you can more clearly see his features, you saw the ghost of a smile that was almost sinister tugging at his scarred lips, “we’ll be able to talk more privately there.”

Incel!Shigaraki who has never had sex, but wastes no time fulfilling his darkest and roughest desires, living out fantasies he had only ever seen on porn, never imaging he would be blessed with such a beautiful, obedient little whore of his own He stared down with an almost incredulous look on his face as he watched you slink down in front of him with your beautiful ass perched high in the air, your slick entrance shining in the low light of the room just begging for him to finally enter. He shoved himself inside clumsily and with force you weren’t expecting, making you cry out as he filled your aching cunt. You heard him breathing heavily, and he declined to move at first. Looking back over your shoulder, you saw his eyes basking in the sight before him. His hands were gripping your ass and shaking it, even giving small slaps watching your fat jiggle in a way more delectable than he ever could have imagined. When he watched porn he always imagined what it would actually be like to have a beautiful woman under him, complacent and begging for his touch; But the reality proved to be so much better than he ever could have thought. Seemingly coming back to reality after his quick daydream, he pulled out ever so slowly, before slamming into you with even more force than before. “____,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, “scream my name.”

Incel!Shigaraki who stares almost too intently at your stark naked form, just drinking in the erotic sight of your curves and soft skin, making you blush a bit and serving to make you feel sexy and a little more confident than you usually would

Incel!Shigaraki who talks a big game, but ends up inevitably going too hard too fast after he finally stuck it in, involuntarily cumming inside you with delicious whimpers of his own Shigarakis ferocious and sporadic thrusts culminated suddenly with an almost violent stop, and he laid his body across your back as you stayed on your hands and knees on the bed. Feeling his dry lips brush your neck with a sloppy kiss caused you to relax, and you felt his length beginning to soften inside you. “Fuck, ____.” His whispers danced lightly across the sensitive skin behind your ear, and you closed your eyes, enjoying the proximity between you two at the moment. “Your pretty pussy was squeezing my dick so good I came faster than I expected.” Then, he snaked his arms around your waist, grabbing your hips, and flipping you two so you both lay on your backs with you cuddled up to his side snuggly. Though just as you were about to let the aftermath haziness of your release lull you into a deep sleep in Tomouras arms, he brushed some of your messy locks behind your ear as he whispered, “I hope you’re ready for round 2.”

[mrlowell]

I cannot believe how disappoing FFVIIIs writing gets after disk 1/2. The game started off so so so strong (We don't talk about Quistis' love confession, yikes), but after the Balamb gang background revelation and the Gardens clash, all side characters (save the dream trio) become irrelevant and have almost zero character arc whatsoever. Squall turns from an interesting character who I wanted to learn more about to "I need to save Rinoa I'll kill you if you touch Rinoa I'll do anything for Rinoa" - this is literally 90% of his dialogue for many hours of gameplay. Now every time he speaks it's super annyoing because guess what? He doesn't care about ANYTHING but Rinoa. And Rinoa herself? After having a really cool exposition she just turns into...nothing really. Did anyone else feel like this playing it too?

[somewhatgreatexpectations]

Unforgettable (Wanda Maximoff/ Reader)

Hello, everyone!

Songs used: "Unforgettable" By Nat King Cole (1952)

Summary: Wanda is forced to delve into her past as you deal with some unexpected obstacles trying to get back to her.

“I know, she does look shocked to meet the real us, doesn’t she?” Agnes- Agatha said to her rabbit with a laugh. Wanda couldn’t help but feel frustration creep under her skin at the air of indifference Agatha was speaking in. It was clear she couldn’t trust a word that came out of the other woman’s mouth, so she decided to take matters in her own. She would just look into the other woman’s mind to get answers. The perks of having powers.

Except… Nothing.

Rather than being able to see into the other woman’s mind she was met with a wall. Even in the early stages of having her powers this had never happened and Wanda couldn’t help but feel unnerved. “Oh, that’s adorable.” Agatha laughed. “My thoughts are not available to you, toots. They never were. So, don’t wear yourself out. It’s a waste of time. We have much more… pressing matters to tend to.”

Wanda clenched her jaw, refusing to play into the game Agatha clearly wanted her to play. “Where are my children?” Her blood boiled when Agatha mockingly repeated her question back to her.

Again, Agatha laughed. “Do you have an accent or not, sweetheart? Make up your mind.”

“Where are they?” Wanda repeated, flexing her hands to manipulate her powers only to be met with the same resistance from before. Her blood ran cold. This had never happened.

A chilling smile crossed Agatha’s features. “Aww. Sweetheart. Don’t you know? Your magic is useless here. Much like yourself.” Before Wanda could even consider reacting Agatha flicked her wrist and Wanda felt her arms get pinned tightly behind her back along with her legs as she flew forward. The invisible vice like grip tightening as Agatha flexed her fingers. Wanda groaned in discomfort.

Agatha began speaking again but Wanda could barely process the words as she panted in pain. “Basic protection spells. Honestly, how dim are you?” Wanda finally allowed herself to look around the room, taking in the strange markings that littered the wall. “These are runes, Wanda. In a given space, only the witch that cast the runes can use her magic. Do you know anything?”

“Who are you?” Wanda demanded.

“Who are you?” Agatha countered. “I was so patient. Playing along with your twisted little fantasy. Waiting for you to reveal yourself.” She smirked. “I will admit, sending fake Anna and fake Pietro seemed to push your buttons. I thought Amelia- sorry, Ellie, would have sent you over the edge but you didn’t seem to care if your wife mingled with someone else. Just like I’m sure she’s doing now.”

Wanda’s jaw clenched tightly as she pulled at the invisible restraints. “Leave Y/n out of this.”

It was clear Agatha was amused by Wanda's anger. “Oh, sweetheart. How could I do that when she’s the easiest way to get to you? And Amelia was more than willing to be an active participant in all of this to get Y/n back.”

In response Wanda leveled Agatha with a hard stare, not giving her the satisfaction. “The silent treatment? Oh, well. Guess I’ll have to talk to myself.” Agatha mockingly pouted. “When I sensed such powerful spells cast all at once… I knew I had to see it for myself. Mind control is a classic… But having thousands of people under your thumb, each with their own complex stories? That’s something special, baby.”

“I spent years practicing to be able to create one believable illusion, but you, Wanda… Westview under your spell? Every little detail is in place. You’re even running illusions all the way at the edge of town! Magic on autopilot.” Agatha pushed a hand through her hair, her eyes deranged. “What’s your secret? I need you to tell me how you did this.”

Wanda’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t do anything. I’m not-” Before she could finish, Agatha flicked her hand and Wanda was sent crashing into the walls on either side of her. Grunts of pain falling from her lips before Agatha stopped her directly in front of herself once again.

“I tried to be gentle, I did. To wake you up from this stupid little fantasy you have but it’s clear you’d rather fall apart than face your issues, little witch. You left me no choice.” Agatha stepped closer to Wanda. “What was it you said to your fake brother? You felt empty. Like you were drowning. Endless nothingness… Let’s start there.”

Wanda wordlessly watched the woman pluck a hair from her hair and chant words she didn’t understand under her breath. The strand glowing purple as it floated over to the door.

“It’s been fun playing pretend, Wanda… But now it’s time to look at the real thing.” Agatha whispered menacingly. “Let’s go.”

Agatha waved her hand and Wanda went crashing to the floor. “No.” She gritted out, her eyes locked on Agatha, refusing to look at the familiar door. She knew what would await behind that door.

“Did you forget that I have your children lock in this basement? It wasn’t a request.”

Before Wanda could respond she could hear the voices of Billy and Charlie call out to her behind the door and she knew she had no other choice but to enter.

______________

As you were flying lower to the ground your eyes caught the sigh of someone waving their arms noticeably. You needed to get to Wanda though. You needed to see her. To tell her you were sorry. That you were there for her… That you loved her.

Begrudgingly you flew down, you would just check if this person was okay before getting to Wanda.

When your feet touched ground, you were practically knocked over by Ellie leaping into your arms. “Y/n! You have to help me!” She cried desperately, tears streaming rapidly down her cheeks.

The sight overwhelmed you as you tried to maintain your composure. “Ellie, what’s wrong?” You asked cautiously, placing your hands on her shoulders to hold her back.

“My names not Ellie. It’s me, Y/n. Amelia.” She grabbed your hands and tugged you forward slightly. “Wanda is trying to keep us apart.”

You stumbled back with her words, not expecting it. “No. I don’t know who you are, but I know Wanda. I know I love her and that I’ve always loved her. I’ve seen it in my mind.”

Almost immediately the tears stopped in their tracks. Ellie- Amelia stared you down. The sight sent a chill down your spine as your fingers began tingling with energy. “Oh, Y/n, sweetheart. That’s just not true.” You noticed she began playing with a small device in her hands. “Maybe you just need a little… encouragement.”

Your fingers sparked with nervous energy, as a pit began forming in your stomach. “What do you mean?”

Before she could reply, Anna and Pietro strolled up. “There���s something about music that messes with her head.” Anna said flippantly, as she picked at her nails. “Try that.”

Pietro smirked. “If that doesn’t work I can help you out with that little device you have there, hot stuff.” He added with a wink to Amelia.

Amelia tilted her head thoughtfully. “That won’t be necessary. Agatha taught me a little trick.”

With a small wave of her hand, a purple fog drifted from her fingers and disappeared into your mind.

“Hello, beautiful.” You looked up from your place on the floor of the training room, smiling slightly when you saw it was Amelia.

“Hi, doll.” You replied back, the term of endearment tasting bitter on your tongue. It felt out of place. You tried to ignore it. This was your girlfriend now after all.“Here to get schooled in some hand-to-hand combat?”

A laugh fell from her lips. “Oh, please. I could take you any day, Y/ln.”

You smirked up at her. “That’s cute that you think that. My mentor is Steve Rogers. I trained with Natasha Romanoff almost daily. Captain America and Black Widow. My skill levels are unmatched.” You said easily as you brushed imaginary dirt off your shoulders.

“Yeah, yeah. We get it. You were an Avenger. Blah, blah, blah. That’s really not as impressive as you th-” Amelia squealed slightly as you swept her legs out from under her, pining her almost immediately.

With a grin, you looked down at her. “You were saying?”

You noticed the way her gaze fell to your lips and you couldn’t help but smirk again. Before you could do anything, she flipped you over, pining your hands above your head. “I was saying, I would’ve thought Black Widow taught you better than that.”

Her grip on your wrists loosened slightly as you tugged her down. Your lips meeting in a kiss.

Blinking rapidly, you shook away the fog in your mind as you refocused on the world around you. “Do you see now?” Amelia called out to you. “It wasn’t Wanda. It was me you were with.”

All the pieces of memories you had seen the last few days flashed in your mind. The love you had for Wanda flashed in your mind. There would never be anyone else. “No, Amelia. I’m sorry, but it’s her-”

“-it’s always been her. I’m sorry that I didn’t say anything sooner, but I don’t want to hurt you anymore than I already have.” You winced at the tears that seemed to be forming in Amelia’s eyes. “I can’t love you when I have no room in my heart for someone else. Even if Wanda and I can’t be together. Even if I can’t forgive her.”

Your eyes widened at the memory that it seemed you were able to recall on your own. “I told you I was in love with Wanda. Why are you doing this?”

Amelia gritted her teeth. “Because Wanda didn’t deserve you, Y/n. I did. When Agatha approached me and told me this was a guaranteed way to win you back I knew I had to do it.”

You shook your head. “I'm never going to love you back, Amelia. I need to get to Wanda.”

“Ralph, now.” Amelia told Pietro, tossing him the small device. He caught it and sped over to you.

You felt the small prick against the back of your neck and then everything went dark.

__________________

The trauma of having to relieve losing her parents and experiencing the effects of the mind stone again weighed heavily on her. The pain was all fresh and Wanda wasn't sure she could take anymore.

Then she saw the familiar sight of elevator doors.

For a moment Wanda was sure her legs would give out underneath her. She knew that behind this door was peace. The peace she wanted her mind to remain in forever that didn't exist anymore.

The simplicity that was behind that door didn't exist anymore but it was something she longed to see.

Agatha made a quiet noise of surprise as Wanda moved forward on her own, rather than reluctantly as she had before.

The doors slid open as Wanda felt the cool breeze blow through her hair. The imagine of her younger self sat looking out at the city before her. “So, where are we now?”

“The roof of the Avengers compound.” Wanda said quietly. “It’s where Y/n and I fell in love. No matter how hard I tried to shut her out, she never gave up. Pietro was dead, and I was in a new country. I had never felt so alone… She saved me from drowning.”

Wanda’s heart thudded painfully in her chest she saw the younger version of herself open her mouth to speak. She knew what was coming next. “Y/n.”

You stepped in between Agatha and Wanda a small smile on your face as the younger version of herself never looked away from you.

Wanda’s breath hitched because looking back at it now, it was clear she had always been in love with you.

“Um, hi.” You began, bashfully rubbing the back of your neck. “I wanted fresh air and it’s such a nice day out and it looked like you could use company. I mean, not that you have to have company if you don't want it. I can go if you want or I can just sit here with you and-”

Wanda couldn’t help but laugh slightly as she interrupted you. “Y/n. You’re rambling.”

Your cheeks flushed, and the current Wanda couldn’t help but smile adoringly at the sight. Of how oblivious you both were. “Right. Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

The young version of herself never let her eyes leave yours. A stark contrast from the girl who couldn’t even look at you for more than a minute when you first met. “You don’t?”

The redness on your cheeks darkened. “Well…” You winced. “I guess I did since I knew you’d probably be here and I just-”

“I like being around you.” Wanda whispered at the same time you said the words.

“Even if we don’t talk most of the time.” You finished shyly.

Her eyes shone slightly under the fading light. “What are your intentions now?”

You shifted slightly from foot to foot. “I think my intentions would be whatever you prefer.”

Wordlessly she pat the space next to her. You smiled as you took a seat next to her, looking out over the skyline, your shoulders brushing. “Wanda, I…” She tilted her head to look at you. “I don’t want to pretend I know exactly what you’re going through because we all fight battles that no one knows about… But if you ever need to talk or just have someone around I’m here for you. If that would give you even just a little comfort.”

Wanda’s eyes flashed with controlled annoyance. “What makes you think that talking about it would give me comfort?” You stayed quiet. “Or sitting here with you?”

Wanda flinched at the tone her past self used and watched the way you began spinning the rings on your fingers anxiously. You were nervous, she could see that now.

She wanted to yell at herself for all the time she spent pushing you away when she should have been pulling you closer.

“I just thought that-”

“The only thing that would bring me comfort is seeing him again.” Wanda cut you off sharply, her eyes shining with unshed tears and her voice thick with emotion.

Wanda could see the understanding in your eyes. You knew exactly what she was going through, and she had no idea at the time.

You nodded faintly, shifting your gaze back to the skyline. “Sorry.” You said quietly. You pulled out your phone to play music, the default to being around Wanda. A silent support.

“Never before has someone been more… Unforgettable. In every way, and forever more that’s how you’ll stay.”

The music made tears well up in Wanda’s eyes because this was the first song you had played that she had allowed herself to actually listen to. The silent messages you were sending her. The walls you were breaking without even realizing it.

“I’m sorry.” She eventually mumbled.

You turned to face her, your brows furrowed in concern. “Don’t be. It’s fine, Wanda.”

A pained smile spread across her lips. “It’s just… I’m so tired.” She inhaled sharply and the glistening in her eyes became more apparent. “It’s like this wave washing over me, again and again. It knocks me down and when I try to stand up, it just comes for me again. And I… It’s just gonna drown me.”

The defeat in her voice made your heart clench as you fought the urge to hold her, to take her hand. “It may feel like it’s all sorrow right now, but there’s more.” You said quietly. Wanda’s stared back at you with curiosity. “The pain you’re in is a telltale sign of the love you gave. Of the unwavering strength of your love… because what is grief is not love persevering?” For a moment you just stared at one another.

The abrupt sound of a loud ad startled you both as you jumped. A laugh fell from your lips because of the terrible timing. “I really should start paying for ad free. Sorry.” You smiled at her nervously.

The surprise on your face was obvious when she smiled back at you. “No, it was funny.” She replied with a chuckle.

You made a face. “It is kind of funny that an Avenger can’t afford ad free music, isn’t it?”

“Mhm.” Wanda hummed, her eyes twinkling in amusement.

The sound of her laughter faded as you both stared at one another, the intensity of emotions left unspoken making the air heavy with tension. Eventually you both turned your gaze back to the skyline, your shoulders still brushing.

A single tear fell down Wanda’s cheeks as she stepped further onto the roof, the image of you both faded away as she looked around.

“So, to recap… Parents dead, brother dead, Y/n pretty much dead.” Wanda’s face crumpled in pain as the tears fell down her cheeks more steadily. Agatha continued on. “What happened when she wasn’t there to be your life raft anymore, Wanda?”

Wanda roughly wiped away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“You’re right there! Tell me how you did it.” Wanda’s chest heaved with the weight of the emotions. “They tried to take Y/n, but you weren’t going to let that happen.”

Wanda’s eyes widened slightly as she thought back to the moment. “I wasn’t going to let that happen.” She repeated as she marched through the familiar door.

Anxiously she watched herself find your empty room, she watched the panic in her every move, she watched Hayward talk about you like you were nothing.

Her heart broke all over again as she watched herself hover over your practically lifeless body.

“I can’t feel you.” She whispered brokenly, the pain in her chest overcoming her. The sensation composing her entire being as everything within her collapsed. She was alone, and she knew she wouldn’t recover.

Her eyes glowed red as she waved a hand, all of the doctors in the room turning away from your body on her command. Hayward turning away as well before he could even react.

Carefully she made her way over to you and took you in her arms, her hands glowing as she carried you away through a back entrance where no one would see her leave.

Cautiously, she placed you in the passenger seat of her car and began driving. Her heart thudding heavily with each passing moment that you didn't wake up. The only thing that brought her a small semblance of comfort was the sight of your chest still weakly rising and falling with each breath.

After an hour or so of driving she pulled into an empty driveway. “This- this was supposed to be a surprise… I bought it when we were in Scotland... For when I was finally able to propose. For when we were finally able to start our lives together. Our happy ending.”

Tears began falling rapidly down her cheeks. “We were supposed to be a happy ending.” She whispered brokenly. “I just want you to be able to see it b-before you go. You deserve more than to have your last moments in that room.” Her words were shaky as if it took all she had to even get them out. Because it did.

Wanda made her way out of the car and carefully carried you out to the middle of the empty lot. “I love you, Y/n. So much.” She whispered, noticing the way your breath was becoming weaker and weaker by the minute. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

Slowly she sunk to the ground, still holding you in her arms. The pain in her chest growing unbearable. She couldn’t breathe. All she felt was pain. Broken sobs fell from her lips as she watched the color steadily fade from your face. The steady thrum of your heart rate against her fingertips fading away.

With a scream of agony red burst from her chest and you began floating in the air, gently wrapped in the red. Quickly the energy expanded and expanded. The house appearing from nothing as your feet slowly touched the floor. The hospital gown that you were in moments before gone and replaced with an old-fashioned dress. Your eyes were still closed as the red energy continued to stream out of Wanda.

When the red faded away, Wanda was left breathless by the sight. All she could see was you. Her eyes watered when she met your eyes again. The eyes she had spent weeks begging to see open again.

You, standing before her with the same smile you wore the first time that you met. Your eyes looking at her with all the love you had before it all went wrong. That was all she ever wanted.

Tentatively she stepped forward, as if one wrong move would make you disappear. The outfit she was wearing transforming into an old fashioned dress as well.

The smile she gave you was loving as her eyes shone with feelings she hadn’t been able to feel in weeks. Happiness. “Wanda. Darling. I’ve missed you.” You said sincerely. “Should we stay in tonight?”

You turned on the radio before meeting her in front of the couch.

“That’s why, darling, it’s incredible that someone so unforgettable thinks that I am unforgettable too.”

As the music washed over you both, you took a seat on the couch wrapping an arm around Wanda, pulling her closer as her hand lifted to glide over your cheek. Her fingertips brushing along your jaw lovingly until they landed on the back of your neck and pulled you closer. Your lips met in a sweet kiss and Wanda happily gave herself over to the moment. To you.

Wanda watched the moment with an aching heart as the scene before her faded away. Suddenly she heard the sound of clapping in the distance. She cautiously made her way forward, squinting against the bright overhead lights.

“Bravo.” Agatha called sarcastically before snapping her fingers and disappearing into a haze of purple smoke.

Before Wanda could react, she heard the desperate cries of her children. “Mom! Mom! Help us!”

“Please! Please, help us!” Continued as she ran to the door and into the bright daylight.

Panic coursed through her veins as she ran down the street frantically trying to find the twins. Her chest tightening as her breathing became almost impossible.

A moment later she came to a stop before Agatha. The sight making her stomach turn. Agatha held the twins hostage as the purple force wrapped around their necks, preventing them from escaping. “I know what you are.” Agatha called out, but all Wanda could focus on was the pain her children were in.

Her hands began to glow as she made a weak attempt to reassure them. “It’s okay, babies. It’s okay. I’m here.”

“You have no idea how dangerous you are. You’re supposed to be a myth. A being capable of spontaneous creation and here you are… Using it to make breakfast for dinner!” Agatha’s lips curled in disgust.

The glow in Wanda’s hands intensified. “Let go of my children!”

“Oh yes, your children. And Y/n. And this whole little life you’ve made… This is Chaos Magic, Wanda… And that makes you... the Scarlet Witch.”

And we have concluded with part 8! One final part after this!

If you would like to actually read what happens in SWORD with Hayward its in part 13 of "Love Goes" which I will tag here. And a nice conversation that they had about feeling like drowning is in part 1 of "Love Goes" which I will tag here.

Ironically, I wrote that scene about drowning before episode 8 of Wandavision came out so it kind of messed with the flashback scene when I was writing it.

Anyway, that's all. As always, I hope you all enjoyed! Thoughts and comments always welcome! :)

Taglist:

@theofficialzivadavid // @tquick99 // @marrymemcgrath // @afuckingshituniverse // @pxterstrk // @aimezvousbrahms // @ensorcellme // @sapphicshots // @daisybri7

[pippenpaddlopsicopolisthethird]

That person might not have said top ten but I would like to see the other five underrated animes 👀

(First post) I’LL KEEP ‘EM COMING, I LIVE FOR RECOMMENDING ANIME. I keep changing my mind on which ones to include because there’s so much good shit out there.

By the way, all of the recommendations in this list AND the last one are 26 episodes or less and tell a complete story. No cliffhangers, no “finish the manga to see the finale”, no “where’s the rest of it???” endings. That’s why, for now, Stars Align and Princess Jellyfish still get stuck with the honorable mentions even though what’s been made for both of them is incredible.

1. The Tatami Galaxy (Drama, Introspective)

The director behind Ping Pong the Animation and the original author behind Eccentric Family join forces to make Tatami Galaxy, which capitalizes on the best strengths of both shows. The protagonist is a lonely college student facing the prospect of graduating after having thoroughly wasted his college years. He bemoans how circumstances outside of his control, from conniving fake-friends to selfish and shallow extras, have conspired to ruin what should have been a “rose-colored campus life”, and wishes he could do it over again so he can get it right.

So he does, with the show using avant-garde animation and abstract storytelling to explore all of his threads of what-ifs. The plotlines seem separate but weave together and subtly build on each other, culminating to a finale that explores the meaning of relationships and who you are in the absence of outside forces that can define you. It’s heartfelt, funny, raunchy, and deep, and perfectly encapsulates the existential dread of being in college. I watched it for the first time when I was about to finish undergrad and it hit like an emotional freight train, then I rewatched it during quarantine and it hit like a truck. This is one of my top favorite anime of all time.

2. Re:Creators (Fantasy, action)

Most of the anime I’ve put on these lists get their spots for being deep, nuanced, and delicately crafted. This is not one of them. But, by god, is it one of the most over-the-top fun shows I’ve ever seen. Re:Creators is a rare reverse-isekai. Fictional characters from popular anime, games, and manga suddenly start turning up in the real world, instructed to “find your Creator and reshape the world you came from”. The soundtrack by Hiroyuki Sawano is bar-none one of the hypest things out there; seriously, just listen to Layers, the song for a character from a grimdark everyone-dies series begging her author to tell her why.

The characters in this show are so fun to watch bounce off each other, even if they’re not as “three dimensional” as others. Magical girls fight Stand users, mechs face down scifi-noir detectives, Lawful Good Paladins go toe-to-toe with Chaotic Evil light novel villains.  But by including the artists who imagined these characters as characters themselves, it also has a lot to say about the creative process, the reasons people create, and the relationship between an artist and their work. Between the high-octane fight scenes, there’s a surprisingly human and genuine throughline.

3. Sora no Woto (Slice of life, music, post-apocalyptic)

This show is another of my favorite examples of worldbuilding done right. A young girl joins the army as a bugler because it’s one of the only ways she can learn to play music. The episode plots focus on how she and her tiny regiment of young women stationed at a small town in the middle of nowhere deal with day-to-day troubles, while the details of the world around them slowly fill and round out the picture of a broken society where people still just... live. They still create myths, they still have festivals, they still blow glass and tell ghost stories and make art. The plots seem inconsequential, until the world built into the background becomes too prominent to ignore. The background art and music is some of the most gorgeous I’ve seen. It’s part of a genre I’ve been calling “soft apocalypse” and it’s been one of my favorites for years.

BONUS MENTION: Girl’s Last Tour (Slice of life, post-apocalyptic)

Yes, I’m cheating, but listen. Girl’s Last Tour fits perfectly into the canon narrative provided by Sora no Woto, just set in the far future, a few apocalypses later. It’s got less of a main plot, because there’s almost nothing of society left, just two girls wandering together through an abandoned world. It’s soft, introspective, and bittersweet, showing how humanity is still humanity no matter how few people are left. Despite having nothing about their productions in common, it’s the perfect spiritual successor to Sora no Woto and they deserve to be recommended in the same spot.

4. Tamako Market (+ the movie) (Romance, slice-of-life)

This show is the platonic ideal of a soft, heartwarming, sweet-as-sugar, slice-of-life romance. It follows the daily life of Tamako, a high school girl who lives above a family-owned mochi shop in a shopping center, who is followed around by a talking bird trying to find a bride for his prince in a far-off land. But really the show isn’t about the bird. The show is about love in all its forms. The love that the other families in the shopping center have for Tamako, the love that she and her friends have for each other, the love they have for the activities they’re passionate about, the love you feel when someone makes you a cup of coffee, fated love, childhood crushes, family love.

Something about this show that also stands out is how gently and naturally it incorporates some of the best queer representation I’ve ever seen in anime. One of the shop owners is a kind and soft-spoken trans woman, who is never the butt of a joke, never questioned, never treated as different, loved all the same. One of Tamako’s friends is gay, and her crush on Tamako is treated with as much respect and care as every other moment in the show. This series never makes you flinch for fear of “representation” that turns sour. It’s the epitome of a feel-good show.

5. ACCA 13-Territory Inspection Department (Political, mystery, drama)

Yes, I keep saving my favorites for last on these lists. I can’t describe this show as anything but the perfectly written plot. As a rule, I don’t like political dramas, and this is one of my favorite anime of all time. It’s set in a fictional country, where 13 regions all exist relatively independently under one collective monarchical ruler, and follows Jean, an agent of the independent Inspection Department, which acts as a check and balance to each power. The series begins with Jean being assigned a full review of each territory while the powers-that-be field whispers of a coup. This show masters foreshadowing, intrigue, escalation, and mystery. The stakes build and overlap on scales from intensely personal to national. The pacing is amazing, keeping tension balanced with plot twists that answer more questions than they ask.

Plus, it’s got one of the most visually appealing and stylized openings out there. I realize that political drama isn’t exactly escapism right now, but believe me, this series is worth it.

[retrievablememories]

baby! | johnny (m)

title: baby! pairing: johnny x black!reader genre: smut, pwp summary: in which you wanna be johnny’s twinkie instead of his toaster strudel 💀 word count: 1.8k warnings: oral sex (female receiving), dirty talk, spitting, impregnation kink/breeding kink (apparently they’re not the same thing? although i don’t know the difference…), creampie a/n: look...breeding kink is the crème de la crème (literally!!) but it’s hard to write it in a way that doesn’t border on corny or creepy...i’ll let y’all be the judge. also this is the 3rd fic i’ve written about this man within the span of a month, PLEASE send help. 🛌🏿

[2:13 a.m.]

It’s boiling hot.

You smooth your hand over Johnny’s hair as he rests his head on your stomach. He plays with the string on your sleep shorts, twisting it around his fingers as he stares off into space, blinking slowly.

You don’t know how or why the AC decided to break at the start of summer, but it would be just your luck that this happened. The repairman won’t be able to come out until Thursday, which is still days away. Until then, there’s no other choice but to keep all the fans on, stand in the refrigerator, and take as many trips to the pool as possible. It’s too late at night for the third option, and you’re currently too lazy to get up and do the second, so you opt for the first. The ceiling fan running above you provides some relief, but not enough.

“Can I ask a question?” he says suddenly. You glance at Johnny, who’s now looking up at you with his chin digging into your stomach.

“What is it?”

“Have you ever thought about having kids?”

You pause at that, your hand stilling on the back of his head.

“Maybe...a few times. Yes. Why?”

“...With me?

You blink a few times, and although it’s already hot in the room, you can’t mistake the sensation of your body getting hotter.

“Well....yeah.” You feel a little embarrassed about it, though you aren’t sure why, and your voice gets softer. Johnny grins like he’s just won a prize. “Maybe one day in the future. But not now…”

“That makes sense,” Johnny says. He doesn’t do a very good job of hiding his disappointment, which even he himself finds silly. Of course neither of you are ready for kids now. “It’s a nice thought to have, though.”

You go back to petting his hair, only more slowly than before. Silence hangs in the room again. You want your thoughts to slow down enough so you can finally go to sleep, but something keeps itching at the back of your mind. The same thing that warmed you when he asked the question. Now that he’s put it out in the air, you figure there is no better time. You can’t resist it.

“But...if we decided, sometime in the future…” Your words catch Johnny’s interest, and he looks up at you again. “How...uh. How would you do it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, how would you...get me pregnant.”

Johnny is fully engaged now. He props himself up on his elbow. His right hand rests on your abdomen, his fingers skirting across the sliver of brown skin revealed by your tank top. “You mean...how I’d fuck you? Come inside you?”

Your breath catches. “Y...yeah, that.”

“That’s a good question…” Johnny worries his lip as he pretends to think about it in-depth. Meanwhile, his hand slips into your shorts, his fingers rubbing against your clit and your outer lips—you decided to forgo the underwear tonight because of the heat. “I guess I’d have to get you wet enough for it first.”

“No kidding,” you sigh, arching into the movements of his hand.

Johnny shuffles himself farther down your body so he can pull your shorts down and access your pussy. He doesn’t waste any time with sliding his tongue through your lips and sucking your clit, moaning softly into your skin. You slip your hand back into his hair, tilt your head back, and focus on the sensation of his tongue and fingers stretching you open and getting you all slick and hot for him—just as he promised.

You’re almost delirious at how good and surreal this is, like you’ve been wrapped up in a blazing hot fever dream. Johnny licks into you and pulls back the hood of your clit so he can drag his wide tongue over your bundle of nerves. His fingers scissor inside you with practiced movements, motions that have been performed dozens of times before, and he knows that he can pull an orgasm out of you in only a minute or two when he really wants to make it fast and Earth-shattering.

You continue gripping his hair throughout your climax, using that anchor to reality to help you ride his fingers and tongue to ultimate bliss. He could make a game of this if he wanted, drinking more from you until you nearly have to kick him away, but he gives you a break this time by pulling away after the first orgasm.

Johnny gives you a few moments to calm down, rubbing your thighs and watching your chest rise as you breathe and resisting the urge to move his hand down a few inches farther and make you melt in his grip again.

When you seem coherent enough, he asks, “Can we...without the condom?”

You and Johnny have yet to have sex without a condom, although you’ve been thinking about it for a while now. Since the first time you slept together, actually. You’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time fantasizing what it’ll be like the first time he comes in you. And...you’ve been on birth control the entire time, waiting for this opportunity to arise but previously unsure how to approach it. Now, it’s sitting in front of you, and it’s too good to pass up.

Your throat is dry from the exertion of being pleasured in a burning hot room. “W-we can. We should. This is….practice, after all. Isn’t it?”

Johnny smirks and nods. He makes quick work of his shirt and underwear before pulling your legs up, and you think he means to place them on his shoulders, but he keeps bending them until they’re pressed against your chest. You stare at him with wide eyes. “This would be the best position—you know, to make sure it gets in deep enough.” He explains it as casually as he would if he were talking about anything else, and your head spins a little just from the anticipation of feeling him inside. “I’d want you to take every drop…so much that there’s no way you wouldn’t get knocked up.”

You merely nod, too excited and breathless with lust to say much of anything to a statement like that. You’re pretty immobile in this position and will have to let him do most of the work, a thought that makes your spine tingle.

Johnny tilts his head down and you wonder what he’s doing for a moment before you feel his spit hitting your pussy and running down your ass. “Jesus, Johnny…” You’re stuck between deciding whether it’s really sexy or maybe a little gross when he slides into you, giving you the satisfaction of feeling every inch of him at once.

When he enters you in this position, he feels as deep as humanly possible, the tip of his member kissing your cervix, and it’s only compounded by the raw feeling of his bare skin against yours. “God, we should’ve done this sooner,” is all you can mutter. You can feel him throb inside of you in a different kind of way, and it’s a sensation that’s hard to explain verbally, but you can feel it through every nerve in your body.

Johnny seems lost for words for once in his life, his hips stuttering as he pushes and pulls your body and tries to find a rhythm that won’t have him nutting in 5 seconds. “Fuck,” he swears heavily as he watches his cock glide into you and come back out covered in your wetness. “I’m gonna fill you to the brim.”

Johnny fucks you hard and slow, and you can barely catch your breath with how intense it all feels. You’re almost afraid your body will burst apart at the seams. His dick pushes against your cervix on some strokes, and it makes your eyes roll back a little every time. His torment is far from complete, though, as he shifts his hips until he’s rubbing against your g-spot, and now you truly think you must’ve died and entered a new realm.

You hold onto your legs, digging your nails into your skin, because it’s the only thing you can do as Johnny pushes your body into the mattress. “Please, Johnny,” you moan, and you don’t even know what you’re asking him for. More? Less? But there’s no way you want less of this feeling, so you decide it can’t be that.

“Beg for it,” Johnny’s voice is rough, though there’s an unmistakable tremor in it, too. “Beg for my cum. Beg me to give you a baby.” Johnny drags your hips closer to his so he’s practically rutting into you at this point, making your walls clench onto him in an effort to never let him go. His pubic bone stimulates your clit as he fucks you, and you doubt you’ll last much longer now.

You’re not really sure what comes over you—maybe months of pent-up fantasy—but at that moment, there’s nothing more you want than to be filled up and claimed by him, with his seed coating you from the inside out.

“Make me yours, Johnny,” you cry out, slurring your words. “Come in me, please, put a baby in me.”

You come soon after this, your legs shaking as Johnny refuses to let up on fucking you through your climax. You let go of your legs, wanting to move away lest you be completely overwhelmed by the sensation, but Johnny grabs them and keeps you in that position.

“Don’t run. You’re not going anywhere, not until you take all of this dick.”

“John, I-I can’t…” You’re so wet that it’s leaking between your bodies and making everything even messier, and your clit is still hypersensitive and thrumming with pleasure. Johnny seems to revel in this rawness, though, and you honestly don’t remember the last time you’ve seen him this riled up.

He spits on your pussy again and rubs your clit, and with you not even recovered from your second orgasm, you’re over the edge again, shouting his name and a bunch of other words you won’t remember after all this is finished.

Johnny gives you a few more hard thrusts before burying himself deep and finally releasing inside you, his warm cum flooding your walls. His thighs tense and tremble as your body milks him of everything he has to offer. Sweat drips down his neck and trails down his chest, and his arms shake as he holds himself up above you.

Slowly, he pulls out of you and watches as some of his release comes dripping out. He doesn’t get to watch for long, though, as you immediately put your legs down, sprawling across the bed in exhaustion.

“Thanks. Now I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk tomorrow,” you groan, closing your eyes at the thought of a sore day.

Johnny lies next to you looking tired and happy. He giggles, nudges his nose against yours, and kisses your lips in a gesture that’s a sure contrast to what just transpired. “Did I answer your question, at least?”

“Yes…and then some.”

[obae-me]

The Demons Inside- Part 3

Part 1 (Lucifer)     Part 2 (Mammon) 

Word Count: 2185

Description: Levi’s Part of the request “The brothers reacting to an MC crying suddenly in front of them and then trying to act as if nothing happened”

Levi had been waiting for tonight. He’d been antsy about it for days, anticipating it so immensely, he was jittery. Although, it’s entirely possible his twitches and little shakes were thanks to the many energy drinks he had downed today. No matter. He needed to be fully awake and aware in the present. Today he would be spending every hour with the resident human. His Henry, MC. 

Envy had nearly driven him mad these past few weeks. MC had done nothing but spend seemingly every precious moment with one of his brothers. Everyone but him. And he knew why, it wasn’t hard to guess. Lucifer was perfect in every way. Mammon--despite his general scumminess--was fun to be around. Satan was vastly intelligent. Asmo was gorgeous and friendly. Beel was strong and supportive. Belphie was relatively calm and clever. And him? Well, he was an eccentric shut in. But despite all that, MC had made sure to hang out with him today, on a day where they both knew no one would be around to bother them. 

He jolted out of his frantic thoughts as soon as a knock could be heard from the door. Usually, he’d have his visitor answer, but he was aware of who it was, and he was so excited to get on with their activities he had no patience for his many passwords. Swinging the door open with quite a wild look in his eyes, MC appeared a bit startled. Levi, feeling embarrassment seep into his bones over his eagerness, had his face flush a bright red. Adjusting to his normal sheepish behavior let MC smile, holding up some grocery bags he could see were filled with a plethora of snacks and drinks. 

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” MC apologized as Levi held the door open for them to enter his room. “Not only did I buy some snacks, but I had to shoo away my chauffeur.” 

Levi shook his head, his long bangs threatening to cover his vision. His core sin threatened to burn at the thought of, again, any sibling other than himself hanging out with MC. Maybe he had wanted to go to the store to buy snacks, so why did MC not ask him? You hate the grocery store, you know that, he reprimanded himself. “No worries, it gave me time to clean my room a bit!” Levi pushed his intrusive thoughts to the back of his mind as he gestured proudly at his now immaculate room. Trash was devoid from the floor, old clothes were put in the laundry bin-- “And I even dusted off all my figures!” To prove his claim, he snatched a frilly figure off one of his many shelves, holding it out to MC as they observed it. 

They beamed at him, forcing a persistent flutter in Levi’s chest. “It looks great!” Levi noticed something lacking from their expression, like they seemed a bit drained. This urged him to take the items from them and shut his door before the human could think of leaving. Was that faded smile due to him? Had they not been looking forward to this as much as he had? Did they not want to be here? Panic made it hard for him to breathe, but he handled it as best as he could as he pulled up a second chair to his desk for the human to sit in. MC’s eyes flickered over his fancy monitors and equipment, slightly transfixed by all the pretty lights. 

“I’ve got lots of things planned, if that’s okay,” Levi told them, the confidence in his voice wavering. The last thing Levi wanted was for himself to blow this fun day with something stupid. 

They nodded to assure him, and while their smile might’ve still shown hints of something more, Levi’s panic melted away. “Of course! What’re we doing first?” 

Too giddy for words, he opened a game on his desktop, doing his best to explain the rules to MC as he handed them a controller. It was some kind of online fighting fantasy game, and while there were many like it, Levi promised that this was the best of the bunch. They both settled in, picking their characters. Without a second thought, Levi picked his; a bright colored female character with a glowing staff and too many bows on their clothes to be considered natural. 

“This is Luma, she’s my main! Who’re you choosing?” Levi squirmed in his seat, ready to get started. 

“I don’t know...there’s so many to select from...I’ll just pick someone random for now,” MC shrugged, clicking on the first character that caught their eye. Not wanting to waste any more time, Levi set up a lobby for their matches. 

Everything had gone fine...at first. Of course, MC kept dying, but Levi assured them it was their first time playing the game, and the character they had picked was set at a larger difficulty than others. The human nodded and pushed forward. The first match ended with MC getting no kills, stacking up the most deaths, and looking at Levi’s score in shame as the demon had racked up more K.O.s than any other player combined. 

MC laughed sheepishly, letting the controller settle languidly in their hands. “Guess I’m no good at this game.” 

A pang of something familiar flashed through their eyes, and Levi felt the pain. “Not true! Here, try this character, they’re ranged and a little op, so you’ll be just fine!” They started again, Levi bursting forward from the starting point, already landing a triple kill. Meanwhile, all MC got ten seconds away from base was a magical explosion to the face, killing them rather instantaneously. The further they went forward, the more MC’s shoulders slumped. The more they died, the more the fun light they had started with drained in their eyes. At one point, after MC had gotten nuked right after they respawned, their character stopped moving. Levi glanced to the side, watching as MC placed the controller away from them on his desk as they used their hands to cover tears starting to drift down their face. 

Panic flared in his chest again, his skin prickling. He practically threw his own controller away from him, turning in his fancy gaming chair as he placed his hands on their knees. “What?! What happened? What did I do? Oh no, you hate me now, right?” As they sniffled and sobbed, his lungs felt themselves shrink smaller and smaller, air struggling to get in. The match ended, and before it could automatically have them play again, he turned to the screen to leave the lobby. Fumbling with the cursor, he ended up closing the game altogether instead of trying to remember where the Leave Match button was. Swiveling back to look at the human, he blinked in confusion when their eyes were dry and their grin was fully repainted on their lips. 

“MC? But you were--” 

“--Oh, it was nothing, I had an eyelash in my eye. Want more snacks?” They interrupted him as well as quickly changing the subject. They lied to him, right to his face. Something was up, and yet they would rather do anything else than tell him. Despair overtook his thoughts as MC refused to look at him, opting instead to reach for a bag of puffy chips. 

Speaking low, the demon of envy clutched the fabric over his heart as he felt it breaking. “You can’t stand me now, is that it?” Levi brought his arm up to cover his eyes as his mind swirled in dark reasoning, coming to the wrong conclusions out of self-depreciation. “You didn’t even want to hang out with me in the first place?! You came to my room out of pity?! You’re so ashamed to be with me you had to cry?!” His demon form slid into view, his tail slinking against the cold tiles of his floor. Hot salty drops of tears streamed down his own cheeks, his fingers moving up to wrap themselves in his hair as his Envy began to spiral out of control. “Of course you’d rather be with my brothers, of course. Why would you want to hang out with someone like me when...when…” 

“When you’re a demon? When you’re a powerful ruler of hell? When you have extraordinary powers?!” Levi lowered his hands and opened his eyes at MC’s escalating volume. Their lip quivered, the bag of snacks fell from their grasp, now abandoned on the floor. “These past few weeks since I’ve been hanging out with your brothers really just drove home how...useless I am. I’ll never be as put-together as Lucifer. I’ll never be as cool as Mammon. I’ll never be as smart as Satan, as pretty as Asmo, as strong as Beel, as witty as Belphie. And I--and I thought maybe hanging out with you would make me feel better but--” Their voice cracked, resulting in the demon nearly flinching as the pain in their voice almost physically hurt him. He expected them to list the many reasons they couldn’t stand to be around him, how he had done everything wrong. Expecting the worst, he curled up in his seat. “But I can’t even play a game correctly...I can’t do anything...I just wanted to be fun like you…” 

He had seen so many shows and anime, read so many perfect fantasy romance novels, played so many dating games, he knew exactly what to do. He’d wrap them into his arms and say some gushy poetic speech that would make sparks fly and every bit of doubt in each of them flow away. And yet...all he could bring himself to say was, “H--huh??” A few lingering tear droplets let themselves drift down his face as he attempted to process the words he had just heard. They both sat in a painful silence for a moment, both blubbering messes, both ashamed to be looked at by the other. But as Levi finally comprehended what MC had told him, he began to laugh. “You were envious of me?!” Falling into a giggle fit, MC stared at him, jaw agape. “I was worried that--that you thought I wasn’t good enough for you!” 

MC briefly wondered if they had broken him. “But you’re a powerful demon!” 

“You’re an amazing human! You watched me dance in cosplay for four hours the other day!” The mental image of the situation bubbled in MC’s brain, causing their tears to transform into laughter alongside Levi. The two of them chuckled uncontrollably, drying their cheeks, thankful they were alone in the room, far from judging eyes. 

“You made a cute magical girl,” MC grinned, no malice or intent to harm behind the teasing words. “But...I still don’t see how you can possibly think I’m amazing. I have little talent, no grand prospects for my future, no powers to speak off, a plain personality, and I have the obvious penchant for crying over silly things.” 

Biting his lip, Levi slid his own chair closer to theirs, the armrests brushing side by side. “Umm...well...the--the way I see it, you have things that are almost impossible for demons to have. Compassion, empathy, an open mind, it takes a lot of effort for demons to feel those things. It’s something that is rare to find in any living being nowadays, except for maybe angels, but even then you’ve heard Luke’s opinions on demons. Angels do like to condemn. I don’t know what’s typical in the human world but you seem rather extraordinary to me.” Taking a deep breath, he gently used his thumb to wipe away the last stray tear on the human’s face. With a single finger, he rubbed absentminded circles into MC’s knee. “Anyone different would’ve taken one look at my brothers and I and ran away as fast as they could...and yet you stayed. We’ve done everything we can to push you away, and yet you never gave up on us...on me...You’re wonderful, more than I could ask for, I--” He cut himself off, cheeks burning red as he bit his tongue to stop himself from speaking. He’d almost let something embarrassing slip. Racking his brain for something else to say, he felt the tips of his ears start to burn as MC grabbed his hand and let it settle in their palm. “I don’t think,” Levi blurted, recalling and nearly quoting a line from a Ruri-Chan anime, “that worth is defined by power and popularity. I like you just the way you are, isn’t that enough?” 

MC initiated it first, almost fully sliding into his lap as they moved from their chair into his to hug him. To prevent them from falling since his seat was only made for one person, he wrapped his arms tightly around their waist.  Both of them felt the heat and warmth from one another. It made Levi want to melt and yet explode at the same time. MC pulled him close, his face pressed against their shoulder. “Thank you, Levi.” 

[avauntus]

I was recently lured back to Final Fantasy XIV by their “returner” campaign (if you are away a while, log in and play for free for two weeks). I’ve been having a great deal of fun, got over my “healing yips” and jumped into group content, and finished the Shadowbringers main “5.0″ storyline.

(Yes, it made me cry. Yes, like everyone else-- I concede it is excellent as everyone says.)

Final Fantasy games always kind of...”wink and nod” at their series traditions. And thus I’ve been happily playing along (when I’m not sobbing, natch), running across the occasional call-back to threads I know from earlier in the series, going “Oh, that’s cute. That’s clever,” and not thinking too hard...until the most recent breadcrumb dialogue line for the continuation of the story (patch 5.1) made me put down my controller, put my head in my hands, and go “Aaaaaargh!”

Urianger in brief: “I think I’ll be a problem ON PURPOSE.” lol.

Theory overthinking hours! I can come back later and see if I was right. 

SPOILERS, after the cut, for Shadowbringers through 5.0 and, uh...Final Fantasies 3/6, 7, 10, and 12. (lol)

One of the very, very clever things Shadowbringers did is finish up much of the story of the Umbral Calamities by retconing the existence of the FFXIV storyline as taking place and/or belonging to the same universe of every single other Final Fantasy game all at once, many worlds existing side-by-side ignorant of each other, each just sliightly different from the next.

Which means all those “clever callbacks” aren’t just fun Easter eggs for fans-- they’re also fair game for the plot. If the game isn’t just being goofy, it’s leaning really hard into the Final Fantasy tradition of the “Oh NO Statues.” 😆

The what now?

The “Oh NO Statues” are my mental nickname for the recurring powerful, often sentient monuments that show up in Final Fantasy and invariably break the world:

 Kefka did a number on home values with these three in FFVI, for example.

Later Final Fantasy games would refine and riff on this, of course. “Oh no, the statue is a space alien (?)” (Jenova, FFVII); “Oh no, the statue came to life and destroyed our civilization!” (Sin, FFX).

This isn’t Zanarkand, but it totally could be, right?

And my personal favorite of the “Oh NO Statues” incarnations, The Occuria, FFXII. Statues who aim “guide the History of Man,” ancient beings who manifest as aetheric masked forms, often visible only to a few, whose origins are (in FFXII) unknown:

Balthier: This creature... So this is your Venat?

Cid: Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca! Just how far will you go for power? Does your lust for nethicite consume you? Am I right? I am, aren't I. A worthy daughter of the Dynast-King! You would do well to go to Giruvegan. Who knows? You may receive a new Stone for your trouble.

Ashe: Your words mean nothing to me!

Cid: The reins of History back in the hands of Man.

And later:

Cid: To hell with the Occuria and their stones! What good a power that cannot be harnessed? Baubles best-suited for study, no more.

Vayne: We conquered two kingdoms, that you might study these "baubles."

Cid: Oh, I am grateful for the sacrifice. Without it, manufacted nethicite would have eluded us - an unrivaled weapon. Tell me, Venat. Have I not been an apt pupil?

Venat: My counsel did but guide your able hand. Through power of Man, the Stones did you perfect. Yes. So much accomplished in six fleeting years. Man's fervor o'er all obstacles prevailing.

Cid: Our lives are much too short. You undying might waste long centuries away, but we, I fear, cannot.

Vayne: Just so. Had we more time, we might have used more "prudent" measures.

Cid: Your greatest work still lies before you. Not lightly will the Occuria allow you to wrest the reins of History from their grasp.

Venat: Indeed. What claim does Gerun have on history's reins... seated on throne immortal, rent from time? For your ascendance, Vayne, I offer prayer. May you attain all that which is your due.

Vayne: Attain it I shall.

This is... fascinating, because it is heavily implied by a different storyline in FFXIV that Ivalice and the events of FFXII, exist somewhere in the worlds that were shattered from the Source that was FFXIV’s ‘main world.’ There is even an Ivalice in FFXIV, but it is NOT the one we know from FFXII-- Fran exists in FFXIV as a general of Dalmasca, and to all appearances (that I’ve seen, so far), a key difference is Balthier never existed, or never left his position in the Empire.

(On realizing this, I took a good minute to be amused that Balthier really WAS the “leading man” as he so often trumpeted, that apparently so much depended on his existing in his bravura sky piratery, all unknowing-- bless.)    

As Ivalice exists -- well, the ‘Occuria’ are much like Emet-Selch and the other Ascians, aren’t they? “...seated on throne immortal, rent from time...” indeed.

Of course, in FFXIV, we’ve struck down most of the “relevant” Ascians by the end of Shadowbringers so what then? Almost certainly, the last “sane” one is gone. 

But what’s interesting to me is this: Emet-Selch asked us to remember his people, and he mentions the three Ascians we know as antagonists-- but every single time he talked about his “purpose” it wasn’t to save the named Ascians. It was to save some unnamed other or others, his “lost friends and loves”-- one of which is heavily implied to be connected to the player character. 

(There’s a whole “fragments of a shredded soul thing,” but-- ‘we don’t have time to get into that’ meme-- here.)

The other-other Ascian that is eluded to --heavily-- in the run-up to the end of Shadowbringers 5.0 is the Unnamed Fourteenth-- the Paragon who turned away from the other Ascian councilmembers when the details of their plan to save their civilization and the toll that would be paid were revealed. I think we’re meant to think this conscientious objector is the one who summoned the Light, to grant autonomy to mortals rather than guide them towards a destiny that would serve the Ascians’ return, even if the mortals were “shadows” of what had come before the worlds were split.

Beyond a lot of breadcrumbs, we don’t get much more than that in the ending bit of 5.0, but that sure sounds like Venat to me.

Venat was always portrayed by a woman voice actor, despite the Occuria being “genderless,” and...

OK, so...what does this have to do with nethicite?

In FFXIV, “manufactured nethicite” exists -- it’s called White Nethicite Auricite (oops!) and the Scions (the faction our character belongs to) use it to trap Ascians’ will and shatter their energies.

It’s also heavily implied that if natural auracite is allowed to feed on mortal souls and imbued with aether (energy), it will cause mortals to go insane. The Ivalice raid sequence spells all this out, but in short-- your fears and desires are made manifest in exchange for your life energy. Over time, auracite exposed to mortals gains a low-level chaotic will of its own, like the One Ring in Tolkien’s works.

It is, in short, a staggeringly insane idea to propose putting your soul into a soul-eating crystal as Urianger is doing. And Urianger has no way of knowing this, of course, but this will of the nethicite in FFXII came from the Occuria -- their tools to “guide the History of Man.”

There are no more unsundered Ascians left worth mentioning (Elidibius, lol), but the energy of that Unnamed Fourteenth is out there scattered in the Light-- and this is “White [light] Auracite.” Despite everything, I don’t know that the Light are all sunshine and rainbows for mortals. For one, they like stability. 

If the Scions start unknowingly imbuing themselves with the powers of Ascians by merging themselves with insane immortal chaos crystals (!!), they may manage to bring about the Eight Umbral Calamity and the end of civilization anyway by unbalancing the world(s) themselves.

...Wouldn’t that be a kick in the pants for Emet-Selch? I mean, if the main character hadn’t had to put him out of his misery already. (*sob*) 

[youarejesting]

Lost Boys

[Full Masterlist]

Rating: All Pairing: BTSxReader Genre: Supernatural, thriller, psychological, angst, cute nature boys, symbolism, trigger warnings: abandonment, mature, fantasy, supernatural, and character death. Words: 2.2k

Summary: Bangtan Forest was said to be evil, stealing children and anyone who got lost. Some say it was attacking the humans. You don’t think much of scary campfire stories, that is until the rocks and trees come alive.

Aisles of high tech camping gear had you in awe. You even thought about a new sleeping bag but, it just seemed like a waste. There was nothing wrong with the sleeping bag you already had and to buy a new one to use once a year was not worth the money. 

Grabbing the mosquito repellent you headed to the counter. Your friends were carrying emergency lights and flares standing in line behind you ready to make their purchases. “Good morning, just these?” The young girl smiled, she was deep in her role of customer service, which you totally respected.

“Uh... yeah and um, one of these please” You placed the emergency whistle onto the counter, it was plastic and only cost fifty cents.

“Of course, is that on the card today?” She continued talking and you smiled nodding holding up the card, stepping to the other side to pay. Taking your things, there wasn’t much left for you in the shop. That is until you heard something interesting. 

“There was another landslide by Bangtan Forest, it can’t seem to let anyone get close,” An old man said to another, “Luckily no one was hurt or went missing this time.”

The drive was beautiful and the radio played nothing but summer hits, you were singing along with the others, they were your closest of friends. Lillia was a sweet young lady, she loved nature and had a particularly soft spot for mushrooms. She brought her camera and expected to take some cool shots over the course of the weekend.

You were looking forward to going wild, not like partying wild. No, more like, sitting in the dirt, lighting fires, and splashing around in a river. That was your paradise, your escape. Having almost screamed into the phone when the suggestion of camping was brought up. If it got you out of your house and out of your life for a moment, you would take it.

The camping grounds were pretty, you passed a sign on your way in that had a lot of warning pictures but you didn’t have time to read them all. The only one you saw was to put out your fires entirely before you leave, which honestly felt like common knowledge, and if you didn’t know that you shouldn’t go camping alone. Forest fires were not a joke.

Finding a place to pitch a tent was hard, a lot of the really shady spots were taken but there was a really beautiful spot by the river. According to Jester, your know-it-all friend, the river spread through the whole of the forest intricately like a spider web. “Because of the river the vegetation inside is thick, people say as you walk the vines grow around you and if you stop, you will be buried under the vegetation.”

“I heard that bad person used to leave their kids behind, and the forest took them in and that if ever you are lost or left behind the forest takes you,” Lillia said lowering her sweet voice trying to be serious. “There was a story, of a class field trip of kids were pulled off the trail and they were never seen again. They say the forest is evil.”

“I heard it protects the kids because they are left alone.” Jester contradicted and Lillia nodded pointing at the other. Nodding in agreement as she ate a slice of orange.

“I heard that too,” She smiled “I like that idea, that the forest just is a home taking care of the children left behind.”

As if ominously on cue the three of you had heard giggling coming from across the river. But it was drowned out by laughing and cheering from up the river, another group was splashing around and soon you all joined. 

The two groups became friends and it was fun, but it started to rain, nothing extreme just a light drizzle. You had dinner early and hoped into your tents. You were alone in yours as there was supposed to be another person on the trip but they couldn’t make it due to a family event.

It didn’t take long until you were fast asleep to the sound of the rain. You don’t know how long you were asleep for when you woke up suddenly a sting in your chest, shaking that aside you heard crying. 

Getting a little scared you poked your head outside the tent and saw a child running from one of the tents in the park to the water. He was calling for his mother and moving for the forest begging his mother to come back and you wondered if the mum had been taken or went to the toilet. Either way, this child was running straight into the forest.

Lost or left behind the forest takes you, you thought back on those words, The forest is evil. 

Every other thought left your head and your primary objective was to save the child, you began running, your body felt like you were moving through cement. That’s how thick the plant life was, you had a stitch in your side after a mere five minutes of sprinting but you kept pushing until suddenly the child hopped across the rocks and curled up and he was gone, in his place was a Pinecone.

You hopped across the rocks careful not to get your feet wet, you had slipped on your sneakers and you didn’t want to walk back to camp with them wet. Speaking of camp, you were lost and the child you were following had disappeared and left in his place a pinecone.

Stepping up to the small pinecone, you pocket it and it wiggled around in the dirt letting out a chorus of childish laughter. Shaking with giggles in the corner of your eyes was a small pile of leaves, you were looking around breathing heavily and freaking out. 

As you were frozen in place in shock and trying to catch a glimpse of someone playing a trick you felt something entwine around your legs. You shrieked jumping and ripping your feet free from the vines that started to grow around your shoes.

“Alright, boy’s you had your fun, go play with the other kids your age,” A voice said, you were relieved finally someone had revealed themselves it was just an elaborate plank until a decent sized boulder began to move, it was like camouflage, and from the curled up position a human stood up and straightened out. “Can’t a rock get some sleep around here?”

“Come on, Yoongi you are no fun?” a voice said from your left, you looked trying to find where the voice was coming from and you smiled seeing the moss open its eyes and step away from the tree making you shriek. 

They were people camouflaged perfectly to appear like trees and rocks. They were strange-looking and you weren’t sure if this was some weird dream or if it was real. The more you looked the stranger they appeared. Some of their features were replaced with other things.

“I am starting to solidify more and more” the rock man who may be the one the other referred to as Yoongi muttered and a Berry Bush wiggled itself free from the ground and he walked over helping the rock man stretch.

“A log pulled itself up off the ground and stretched with the creak of old wooden furniture and gave a low groan. This distracted you from the movement behind you. 

“We have been getting bored on our own, but it is nice to have a friend visit,” A voice said, and when you turned you saw a man covered in mushrooms, his head was topped by a big mushroom that made him look like he was wearing a bucket hat. You almost laughed at the insanity.

“Ahhh, it is so nice to be free” A sapling wiggled until its roots or in this case feet were free. 

“Where is Jin?” The logman asked and they all looked around. The pile of leaves and the pinecone wiggled around until children appeared gesturing to a nearby meadow.

“Thank you Hyuning, Yeonjun” The mushroom guy smiled and they began hopping over the river using the rocks, The sapling grinned waving you to follow.

“If you stay too long the vines will start wrapping around you again, I am Jungkook” He smiled, along the way they all introduced themselves and you had to admit this was the oddest and trippiest meeting you ever had.

“There he is,” Taehyung called and Seokjin who they had told you about on the way had appeared lifting himself off the grounds his body covered in sweet flowers. “What were you doing out here?”

“I was trying to get some sleep but someone was snoring” He stretched ignoring the snickering from Jungkook who said he was probably up late with the kids playing games. “Who is this?”

“Oh, this is…” Namjoon said and froze, “I am sorry, we didn’t get your name?”

“Oh my name is Y/n” you smiled and they nodded 

“We are helping Y/n get out of the forest,” Jimin said puffing his chest out his leaves rustling. It was so odd to see these people dressed like they were in some school play, like tree number one and rock number three. 

“It’s no rush, just as long as I get out at some point,” You said trying to ease their worried expressions.

No, you don’t get it if you are still here when the sunrises, you will be stuck in the forest forever.” Yoongi said, “We are all here for a reason, Namjoon has been in the forest the longest, he used to be a tree before he fell.”

“Well, maybe we should hurry,” You said looking at the vines trying to wrap around your feet once more. “I have to keep moving these vines really are aggressive when it comes to wanting to keep me here.”

Along the way the boys began talking, each telling their story. Namjoon said he was from 1761 and he was left there by his mother who could no longer feed him after his father died. “I was nineteen and very sick so I didn’t last very long. But, it wasn’t long until I met Jin he was twenty-one and got lost in the forest.”

“I was collecting flowers for my fiancee I was supposed to be getting married shortly and well, I never even got to meet hurt.” Seokjin smiled, continuing on the storytelling from Namjoon and explaining his experience “I was kind of wishing I would get lost, I was so young and didn’t want to get married to a stranger.”

“I think it was 1892 and I was about twenty as well, I had run away from home, I remember stealing food from town and whilst escaping ran into the forest and I never came back out.” He shrugged, keeping his story concise as he helped you step over a fallen tree, “life as a rock is peaceful.”

“I was part of a traveling circus and well it wasn’t a good living, the people were awful and beat you if you spoke, one of the performers had a grudge for me so I hid in the forest and when I tripped the vines grew over me quickly” Hoseok made hand gestures at you making you giggle and move away from him, you bumped into Jimin who caught you before you fell. “That was maybe 1901 and I was about nineteen”

“I can’t remember much, I remember being really drowsy in a car and being told to wait while my father got some juice, I was about eighteen and he didn’t come back. The forest called me inside.” Jimin frowned slightly.

“I was hiking and I lost my way following a pretty butterfly,” Taehyung pouted, “I didn’t mean to get lost and I wish I had paid attention, I just wanted to take a picture.”

‘For me, it was not too long ago, a class excursion, we were following the trail and a bully dropped my hat in the river I chased after it and before I knew it I didn’t know where they had gone. I was seventeen.” Jungkook said with a smile that looked somewhat forced. “But it’s not all bad. I have made some really great friends.”

“And who else would play with the little ones. So many children got left in the forest much younger than us.” Seokjin explained sadly.

You saw the forest thinning out and flashes of red and blue flickered through the trees, you stepped out to the edge to see police and ambulances and more, there was a landslide. It was at your campsite, you froze looking around spotting your friends sitting in the back of the ambulance. 

The vines were wrapping around your feet but you ripped them free, “it was nice meeting you thank you” You said, and placing the whistle between your lip you blew hard.

“We found her!” a voice shouted, you gave up on cautiously hopping rocks and went running across the river. When your foot touched the water you fell your shoes had disappeared as had your legs and from your waist down you were nothing but water. You looked up trying to drag yourself out to see your friends when you saw them carry your body out of the mud on a gurney.

You could never leave the forest but as the river flowed throughout you could visit all the residence inside.

If you enjoyed this story don’t forget to Like | Reblog so others can enjoy it too.

[thestraggletag]

The Game, a Rumbelle Chess AU

Summary: Inspired by The Queen’s Gambit. When Arran Gold first lost a chess game against Belle French, he thought that nothing would feel better than wining against her. But the more he lost, the less he minded, and more eager he was for their next game.

AN: Look, it’s a bad summary but a good fic, I promise. Also both games described in the fic are real games that can be played. Here, for example, is their last game.

Rating: Explicit.

He couldn’t recall exactly when the tradition had begun. Long ago, when he had only owned about half the town and had yet to adopt his more refined image. A tenant, a once-wealthy businessman who had once had “old money” and had wasted it away in reckless business ventures, had challenged him to a game of chess in lieu of the rent. He had likely thought that Mr Gold, a lowborn Scotsman with a thick brogue and brusque manners, was unlikely to even know the rules of chess. He had trounced the fool in less than twenty minutes, and only because he had toyed with him first.

Chess, after all, was something he knew well. His aunties had taught him as a child, but it hadn’t been till university that he had gotten to love the game, after finding out there was a veritable underground circuit of contests and tournaments that could pay his way through law school. He had developed an irreverent yet aggressive style, completely unpolished but completely brutal. In spite of his quickly-gained reputation he had never lacked opponents. There were always posh idiots who were sure their sophisticated gameplay could beat his street smarts. They were never correct. He had developed a nickname, over the years, given to him in honour of his savage style of play and his ruthless approach to the game: Beast. He considered quite a compliment.

He had thought about going pro, entering formal tournaments and acquiring a ranking, but the life of a chess player, and even that of a grandmaster, wasn’t particularly profitable compared to practicing law or going into business and he aimed to accumulate wealth and power as much of it and as fast as possible. He had kept up with his secret hobby, though, sometimes catching televised tournaments or reading about them later, enjoying the process of dissecting a game, sometimes thinking of how he would have won against a particular opponent. But it had never occurred to him to play against anyone in Storybrooke till the challenge came. It had attracted lots of attention at the time and people had turned up at the library that Sunday to watch them play.

Though he won, other people sought to challenge him, to the point where he had decided to establish an event of sorts. A chess day, once a year, in which anyone could challenge him. If they won he would forgive their rent for an entire year. There was no penalty for losing, at least none outright, but the shame of defeat meant most people challenged him only once. Besides it kept everyone from complaining during rent day for the rest of the year. And, he had to admit, he enjoyed it. Enjoyed playing cat and mouse with people, exerting power over them, watching as people’s confidence shrunk down and melted away.

He always looked forward to chess day, though that year perhaps less so. Storybrooke had acquired a new librarian around eight months before and, in spite of all of his efforts, she did not think ill of him. Belle French was, apparently, immune to the gossip of the town about him and his own brusque manner and dark humour. She even seemed to enjoy the later, which made him uneasy and… nervous. A strange, unsettling form of nervous.

It didn’t help that she was insultingly kind, surprisingly sarcastic and delightfully witty. The sort of person that could spar with words and make it look effortless. And smart enough to know that though he pretended to hate it, he loved it. She was also, regrettably, gorgeous. Smaller than him, with reddish brown hair and electric-blue eyes. An accent that wrapped around his name like a lover and an actual sense of fashion, which was almost unheard of in Storybrooke and the only thing most people seemed to hold against her, the town matrons disapproving of her short skirts and high heels. There was also a disarming quirkiness about her, a sense that she was somewhat otherworldly, like she belonged half to the mortal plain and half to the realm of stories and fantasies. He had seen her more than once walk around town lost in a book, dreamy-eyed and clearly miles away from the little town. He was always fascinated by how dreamlike she looked, how otherworldly.

Though he had tried to make her hate him for the first few months of their acquaintance, he had grown used to failing, and admitted to himself that it felt nice to have someone who would smile genuinely at the sight of him, who would treat him with kindness, who would be eager for his company and did not consider talking to him to be a chore. So he wasn’t looking forward to Miss French being exposed to angry tenants who called him names when he beat them, and wasn't really looking forward to her seeing him dash people’s hopes ruthlessly.  

It couldn’t be helped, though. And perhaps it was for the best, to have her see what everyone else saw. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. So he washed and shaved carefully that day and had a hearty breakfast- chess day tended to take up all of his morning and most of the afternoon, and he did not like having to take a break to eat, knowing that his stamina added to the image of him as some larger-than-life monster. He dressed with care, picking his favourite purple striped shirt and matching paisley tie. He added his sleeve garters and square cufflinks, though he was not expecting those to be visible at any point during the day. It still felt nice, empowering, to be impeccably dressed. 

By the time he reached the library there was already a crowd there, as well as the customary barren table, awaiting his chess set. He always played with the same set, an ebony and boxwood one from House of Staunton. It had the classical Staunton look and the hand carved pieces had a nice heft to them. He had bought it years ago, one of his first purchases after beginning to make serious money, costing him well over a thousand pounds back in the day. Not by any means among the more costly of chess sets, but the price spoke of its fine quality. 

He set the board down and opened the box with his pieces, arranging the whites on the side of the board furthest from him and setting the blacks on his side, careful to properly align the knights and position the pawns at the centre of their squares. He took out his clock next, which he had cleaned and serviced the day before, and sat down on his customary, throne-like bergère, the one that usually was the focal point of the Ancient History’s reading nook. In contrast the chair opposite him was one of the plain, serviceable ones that populated the study room at the library. He hoped, for his own amusement, that whoever had set up the place had picked the wobbly one.

It wasn’t long after he settled that a crowd formed around him, but it took almost half an hour for the first challenger to present themselves. It was, surprisingly enough, Dr Whale. The good doctor was one of the few people in town that made a nice, tidy six-figure income, mostly from his private practice. Whale, whoever, did like to live above his means, and it seemed it had finally caught up with him. Though he did not rent a house from him, he did rent his private office from him. It was large and well-located, and likely to detract quite a bit from his overall profit. 

The doctor looked cocky, in spite of Mr Gold’s infamous reputation around town as a chess player. And he didn’t even have to speculate as to why. Victor Whale was the prototypical Ivy-league alumnus, likely played chess for Dartmouth, his undergraduate alma mater, or Brown, where he had acquired his MD. He may perhaps once been ranked, if his smug grin was any indication. He took pains to hide his own savage smile, not willing to give his prey any hint of the carnage to come.

He drew it out, both for the audience and for the sheer pleasure of watching all of the doctor’s confidence and arrogance melt away, leaving an increasingly obfuscated and delightfully sweaty mess behind. And once he knew that he had pushed him as far as he could go he had gone in for the jugular, watching in delight as his opponent toppled his king. The crow murmured, unhappy. When he dragged a game out sometimes people got the idea that he might be struggling, that his challenger might actually have a chance. He enjoyed dashing that hope every single time.

As he rearranged the pieces back to their starting positions he caught a glimpse of a tweed flare skirt swishing about a familiar set of tight-clad legs. Miss French, as always, was impeccably dressed, the black sheer floral blouse a bit daring, perhaps, but carefully hidden by the demure cardigan she had over it. Her hair was in a French braid, the end tied together with a lovely silk ribbon in the same muted plum colour as her cardigan. He wondered at her clothes, which he recognised as high quality, likely expensive as hell. It cemented his idea that she came from money, and likely worked out of a genuine passion for books rather than necessity. Just as he studied her earrings-lovely gold studs in the shape of blooming roses, she turned her head, catching his eyes. He saw interest and curiosity, but no fear or disgust. Perhaps Whale was too unlikeable a victim to elicit sympathy from her.

Frederick Knight was next, playing not for a reprieve from his own rent- his teacher’s salary might not be impressive, but his wife pulled some major money working from home for a law firm in Boston- but for the pet shelter he volunteered out. Briefly he wondered how it all worked, how he could volunteer at the shelter run by his wife’s ex-husband, who had cheated on her with one of Knight’s own colleagues, causing the divorce that would eventually leave her free and available for them to meet and fall in love. Gold thought it was all rather unseemly.

The lad was smart, he would give him that. All that strategizing for baseball clearly carried on to chess, to a certain extent. Mr Knight clearly saw at least a few moves ahead, even if he did not have the skill to plan and anticipate more than that. In the end, because he was a decent enough bloke, Gold put him out of his misery quickly. It felt bad to drag it out unnecessarily. The man was gracious about defeat as well, something that was rare, offering his hand for a quick, firm shake, before leaving the board, no doubt to sink into the welcoming arms of Ms Midas. Though married, she had chosen to keep her last name, after the hassle it had been to change it back after the divorce. And yet there was no doubt that she loved her new husband more than she tolerated her ex, which even the strictest traditionalist in Storybrooke had to acknowledge. 

More people challenged him, as was the norm. Out of all of them only Mr Prentice put much of a fight. Gold could tell he was a man of some talent, and an old hand at the game, but too by-the-book to beat him. He implemented moves and strategies well, but did not have a creative bone in his body. A pity, really. He was the only one after Mr Knight to be mature in defeat, sadly. By the time four o’clock rolled around three people had upended the board after they had lost and at least one had made a move as if to punch him in the face. 

He reset the board with little expectation of playing again. It was late, the crowd was thinning, and people’s enthusiasm had died down considerably. He excused himself to go to the restroom, enjoying the brief walk after hours of sitting down. When he went back to the board, however, he froze up. Sitting on the challenger’s chair was the librarian herself, carefully unbinding her hair as she half-listened to something Miss Lucas was telling her.

He hadn’t foreseen this, the notion that the librarian might wish to challenge him. He had become resigned to having her smiles dimmed when they were directed at him, but nothing more. Certainly not this. 

“Miss French, I didn’t know you played.”

His voice was, by some miracle, even. The librarian smiled, shaking her hair out and wrapping the now unused ribbon around her fingers.

“I used to, some time ago. Still do, sometimes. In my head.”

She said that last part quietly, only for his ears.

“Well, what are the stakes going to be? Rent forgiven from the library for a year?”

“Oh, not, that would be too much. And I’m not sure that would be good for the library. That much money would surely go to what the mayor considers more… lucrative pursuits. But I thought, perhaps, that you could lower the rent of the library by a certain percentage, enough to cover for my apartment. I could use the extra money to refurbish the children’s section, and replace some stock. I could do without another brawl about who gets the last copy of The Polar Express come Christmastime.”

He smiled in spite of the cold spreading across his chest, constricting his lungs. He would be quick, he decided, better to have it over as soon as possible, so that afterwards perhaps Miss Lucas could coax Miss French into a consolatory drink or a slice of apple pie, her favourite. It wouldn’t be too bad, he convinced himself, and it would endear her to the other townspeople, that she braved the beast in pursuit of better reading experiences for their children.

He started her watch, a bit surprised when she moved right away, dragging a pretty white pawn to e4. He counted with his opposing pawn, and in his next move he captured his first piece, another pawn she had likely moved unsuspectingly into the line of his attacking one. She took out her knight then, and later a bishop, but he played more conservatively, using mainly his pawns, waiting for the moment where he could unfurl some of his more devastating attacks. He was startled by her castling her king. It gave him a firm idea that she was no amateur, and he adjusted to this new insight accordingly. He advanced his pawns further, seeing little overall sense and reason to her movements. She had her queen out, as well as a bishop, but had taken her knight back in and her pawns were scattered about, presenting little challenge.

And then she moved her bishop, lightning fast, and suddenly he was in check and the game did not look as it had a second before. He studied the board more carefully, instincts telling him there was danger in there. What once had looked devoid of logic now seemed elegant and strangely coordinated.

Like a dance, he thought. And somehow familiar.

He moved his king, and noticed people suddenly paying attention. She took her bishop away, looking amused, and he pressed on with his queen’s pawn, losing his first piece one move later. Feeling his hackles rising he took one of his bishops out, losing another pawn a second later after she took one of her knights out again. He disposed of it in the next move, thinking he had finally seen her make a mistake, but her rook advanced, threatening his king and bishop. He moved the former, thinking he was sure to lose the other piece, but surprisingly she moved her queen instead. Far from putting him at ease it was that move that made him aware that he was in front of a person that could likely beat him. And, almost against his will, the thought rose the competitive beast in him. 

He went savage, increasing the aggressiveness of his moves to an obscene degree. A chance look at Miss French, however, let him know that she found it amusing. She leaned over the board with interest, head tilted to a side and the fingers of her non-dominant hand tangled in her hair ribbon. Her eyes, barely visible from beneath her thick lashes from the way her face was tilted towards the board, sparkled, letting him know she was enjoying herself. Thoroughly.

He, on the other hand, felt strangely angry. Defensive. Exhilarated. He watched her as she made her bishops dance across the board, forcing him into another check and into a few defensive moves with his rooks, before her queen made her presence known once again, sliding across the board with both elegance and devastation. He took off his jacket, feeling too hot, and looked at the board again.

It was all so familiar. The style of play, he had seen it before. Like a dance, spontaneous yet choreographed, forcing him to respond in a certain way, backing him into a corner. He took one of her bishops and then a rook, when it came sliding into his side of the board, but it only made him feel more anxious, more like a creature trapped. Soon he was without his rooks and both his queen and his one remaining knight were in peril. But as he focused on them he missed the slow advance of a white pawn along the side of the board, flanked by the white queen and the remaining white rook. He sent his own queen out, trying to regain some semblance of control, but there wasn’t much the piece could do. In the end it was the queen, aided by the unassuming pawn, that forced his king into a checkmate. 

“I believe the game is over, Mr Gold.”

The librarian’s accent softened the blow of those words. She looked up at him, happiness and excitement written across her face, as if she had gone through some marvelous experience. But it wasn’t the smile of a winner, but rather the smile of a conspirator.

“I believe the game was over ten moves ago, Miss French.”

He could admit that now, even as people cheered around him, rubbing salt on the newly-opened wound. He watched as Miss Lucas briefly enveloped the librarian in a side-hug before turning her attention to other people celebrating. Miss French, however, didn’t seem to want to join. She simply stared at the board and then at him as if this was their own private thing, their shared, secret joy.

It felt too intimate, and it made him even more angry, that she seemed to think that he had somehow enjoyed getting his arse thoroughly kicked by her. Brusquely he stood up, putting his jacket and coat on quickly before a well-placed snarl opened a way out from the mass of people gathered around the chessboard. He would go home and lick his wounds and figure out a way to repair the damage to his reputation after he reached the bottom of his half-drunk bottle of Balvenie Tun 1509. 

It wasn’t until he was well and truly hungover that he realised, with a shock, that he had left his chess set behind. He left a message in Dove’s phone to have him call him back on Monday, so that he could instruct him to retrieve it for him. No need to go into the library for a few days. Or weeks. Might as well not step foot in it for the rest of the year, really. And no need to ever again think about the game, ever.

But after a couple of Tylenol and a lot of water, he found himself rethinking that last decision. There was something nagging at him about that game, and it would not let go of him. He knew he had seen that style of play before, but he could not recall where. He pulled up his collection of saved games, recreated from tournaments and world cups, and began analysing each of them, trying to find the same dreamlike, flowing style of play, like dancing. It wasn’t in the latest World Cup, or the one before, or in any of the recent tournaments. Not in the London Classic, or the Sinquefield Cup, or the Tata Steel. Not in any of the major American or European tournaments, so he branched out, looking at the Asian championships, the ACF Grand Prix and-

Something about the ACF gave him pause, so he went back through the tournaments he had saved, year after year. It wasn’t until he hit the 2006 Grand Prix that he saw it, a match where the blacks moved like in a ballet. He saw the name of the player, I. Avon, and did not recognise it at first. Then he searched for the recorded video of the match and realised why: I. Avon was Isabelle Avon, and she was usually known in internet circles by her nickname, Beauty. And the 2006 ACF Grand Prix had been her last major tournament. She had disappeared shortly after, and had caused a bit of a stir, specially amongst Australian chess enthusiasts, who thought she had the makings of a Grandmaster and even a top five world player. 

And yet, somehow, she had ended up as a librarian in a small town in the middle of nowhere, Maine, living under a different name, for some fucking reason.

He wouldn’t let it go once he knew, trying to piece the puzzle together. He had never seen pictures of Beauty, there were no headshots to be had, likely because she had been an up-and-coming player at the time and a minor for most of her active years. He had seen videos of her playing, but her hair tended to obscure her face in most of them. She had not won her nickname on account of her looks- though how painfully fitting it was, considering how attractive she was- but because of her playing. People praised her for her beautiful moves, how she built this gorgeous ballet of a strategy that was as effective as it was enchanting.

She had been described, in the few articles that talked about her personality, as quirky. Odd. A calm player, given to the occasional smile and never able to lift her eyes off the board, a dreamy look on her face. Quite unsettling, some people had said. 

She had dropped off the face of the chess world at age twenty, in 2006, and no one had heard from her again. Some people claimed to have played against her in an online tournament, but there was never a way to know for sure. He was sure now that at least some of these people were likely right. He delved more into whatever he could find about Isabelle Avon, but there wasn’t much. Though she had been at the time considered a chess prodigy she had been sheltered from press scrutiny likely by her parents, and had not given many interviews nor posed for many photographs. The few that circulated on the internet were of her as a very young teen, likely fifteen, when she had made her debut. He recognised her electric-blue eyes immediately, but the librarian’s fine bone structure was hidden behind layers of baby fat still not ready to peel off and her hair was a few shades lighter than it was now. Her mother was always with her in the pictures, as good-looking as elegant as her daughter had grown up to be, but her father was only in one of the pictures, a rather portly man that was rendered striking rather than dumpy by his height, which was considerable.

He found nothing to explain her retirement from chess, at least nothing official. He did find, however, a funeral notice in The Australian for a Colette Avon, neé French, dated December 2006. He felt sure that he had stumbled across the reason for Beauty’s fall from the chess circuit, and the origin of her new name. Why she had felt the need to create a completely new identity was, however, still unexplained.

And it bothered him, he found out soon enough. The more games of hers he saw the more he could appreciate her artistry, her craftsmanship. He could not conceive anyone having such talent, such passion for the game, and quitting, even over a personal tragedy like the loss of a beloved parent. He remembered how she had looked when she had played him, alive and excited, her pleasure obvious, and it cemented the idea that there was something he was missing. And he didn’t much care for it.

That’s how he found himself in the library weeks after his defeat, confronting the librarian. She was wearing a pretty burgundy shirtdress, prim and proper if not a wee bit short, and her hair tumbled down her back in a mess of curls, which was to be expected, since the library hours had ended twenty minutes ago. She wasn’t surprised to see him, nor did she appear hostile or otherwise on edge. Quite the contrary.

“Mr Gold, I’ve been expecting you.” She smiled up at him, and it felt a bit different from her previous smiles. Those had been lovely but this one felt more… personal. Intimate, somehow. Like they shared a secret. He supposed, in a way, they did. “You left your lovely chess set here. I’ve been holding onto it for you, keeping it safe. It’s in my office, do you want me to go get it for you?”

“Why did you change your name?”

He didn’t mean to blurt it out. He meant to build up to it. But there was something about her that utterly unsettled him, made him anxious in a way that wasn’t wholly unpleasant. Her smile turned somewhat cautious and sad, and he hated himself for provoking that reaction out of her.

“That’s a rather personal question.” 

“You owe me.” He tried to stop himself, but he found he somehow couldn’t. “You played against me under false pretences. You owe me at least an explanation as to why.”

Miss French raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed at his emotional outburst or the questionable logic of his assessment. A moment later, however, she tilted her head to a side, biting her lip and narrowing her eyes, as if considering something.

“It’s a rather big secret. Would you play me for it?”

That sounded very much like a deal, and it made him feel more comfortable with the situation, more in control. Deals were his specialty, after all.

“And what would you wish for if you win, Miss French?”

She smiled, the picture of innocence.

“A secret for a secret sounds fair. Let’s say… your name.”

Nobody knew his first name. He appeared in all legal documents as “A. Gold”, which caused all manner of speculation around town. His name would be a high price, indeed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t tell others, just as I trust you would not tell others what I told you if I lost. I just want it for myself.”

Her words sent a frisson of something down his spine, leaving him tingling and on edge.

“That sounds acceptable. Do fetch my set, if you please, and I’ll get the board.”

They had the board set and ready in no time, flipping a coin to decide who would be whites. Miss French, having won, started the game, and from the beginning he read her moves differently from before, knowing they were those of a chess prodigy. He moved aggressively, trying to create too much chaos to allow her to build her beautiful moves, but soon began to second-guess himself, struggling between being too bold and playing it safe. He lasted longer, forcing her to pause and consider her next move once or twice, which she had not done during their first game. He took in those few seconds of uncertain contemplation with eager interest, watching as she bit her lip and furrowed her brow, the apple of her cheeks red with an enticing blush.

In the end, however, her rooks trapped his king too soon, forcing him to topple the piece. She smiled at him, offering her hand for him to shake. He did so, marveling at how delicate it was. And cold. The whole building was cold, he realised. Apparently the mayor demanded the heat be turned off the library the moment it closed, to save on the heating bill. 

“We can do this again sometime, if you still wish to know, Mr Gold.”

He nodded, leaning on his cane in order to rise from the chair, making no move to gather his chess pieces.

“I’ll take you up on that, Miss French. And the name’s Arran.”

.

He returned a week later, with a tin of oolong tea to keep the cold of the library at bay. Though the librarian seemed to have been expecting him, with the board and chess set already laid out at the customary table, she did not seem to be in the mood to play right away, inviting him instead to her office so she could prepare and pour them both a cup of tea in the adjoining kitchenette. Though she did not seem to want to speak of whatever had happened to her in 2006 she did not seem reluctant to talk about her chess career in general. She told him about learning the game at six from her mother, and playing in the park against adults as a ten-year-old, shortly before entering her first tournament, for children. She would soon outgrow those, reluctantly.

“Children are more creative players, I find, and I missed that in professional adult tournaments. It’s what I like about your playing.”

He told her in turn about his own chess experience, so vastly different from hers. It was a part of his life he had not shared with anyone before, and it felt nice to do so, especially with someone who could understand chess like he did, could see the beauty and the sense of it.

By the time their tea was finished over an hour had passed, and it was getting almost too late for a game. This one lasted a bit longer, and felt more… playful. Though he lost, he enjoyed himself more than he should have. He could make more sense of her playing style now, and it made him respond in kind, to soften his moves a tad, make them less savage and more complimentary to hers. It was the first time in years he altered his playing style, but it gave him more of a fighting chance and it seemed to amuse and thrill her to no end. In the end when he lost she asked about his aunts,  and he told her about how in love they were, even though the times were different and they could not express that love in the open like people could now. As he talked he realised how much he missed them and how nice it felt to share a bit of their memory with someone else.

Though he left the library defeated, it was difficult to conjure any negative feelings about the evening.

At some point, he realised he had stopped playing to win. Well, not necessarily. He still played with the intention of seeing her king toppled and extracting the secret of her retirement from her, but it was about more than that now. Perhaps it was their now customary tea break right before the game, which lasted up to an hour and now included cookies and several cups per person. It was a strangely-relaxing ritual and led them to talking about things that he would usually not discuss with anyone else, things that felt too personal. She shared in kind, with the exception of talking about her father, which he understood tacitly was a no-go subject. To be fair so was his, and she took pains to never ask him anything about him. 

Playing her, he had to admit, had become exhilarating. Once the sour taste of defeat had been taken out of the equation- it didn’t feel like losing anymore, or at least not the way losing usually felt to him, cloying and humiliating- all that was left was the thrill of the game, the excitement of thinking on one’s feet and seeing long strategies come to fruition on the board. He caught her chewing on her bottom lip more and more as he learned to thwart her moves and bring a sort of organised chaos to the board that she found difficult to navigate around.

He got so used to losing, and so comfortable in it, in the notion that losing only meant he got to return to the library, have tea and spend a few pleasant hours with someone who was interesting and treated him with kindness, that he did not consider the fact that he might win at some point. And when it happened, one evening he saw it, checkmate in two moves with his remaining knight and one of his rooks, plain to see. He had been working at leaving her king adrift, too exposed and with her queen distracted enough to not be able to stop the attack. She saw it too, he realised, and there was a bittersweet smile when she toppled her king. The sound the small piece made was deafening in the sudden silence of the library and he stared at the board for the longest time, as if he had been struck dumb by his win. In reality he was trying to process how disappointed he suddenly felt, how utterly unhappy he was about having won. It made no sense.

“As you perhaps know my mother died in 2006.”

“Miss French, please, you don’t have to-”

“Belle, please. I’d like to believe we’ve transcended such formalities. Especially considering what I’m about to do.”

She paused, letting the silence stretch between them. Though she seemed determined to tell her tale, whatever it may entail, she did not seem to know where to start, or even where to look. He thought about getting up and downright refusing to listen to her, anything to take away the sudden air of vulnerability about her, but stopped himself. She was a grown woman who would not appreciate him trying to decide things for her.

“You must know my mother died in 2006. It was very sudden, a stroke, and was very hard to accept. We were very close, especially because my chess career kept me from socialising much with my peers. I was sad for a long time after her passing, kept recreating some of our favourite matches on the chessboard she had given me for my twelfth birthday. I didn’t want to eat, or go out much, and I guess… My dad grew worried. We had always struggled to communicate, never had much in common. He didn’t get chess or me, so he didn’t know how to reach me, or talk to me, or even understand what I was going through.”

She paused, picking up a white pawn and staring intently at it. He itched to reach out to her, though he was not very good at comforting people.

“He thought I needed professional help. And he was right, I did need to speak to someone. But he thought it best to-” Another pause, where Belle looked like she was trying to find the words to explain, or excuse, what came next. “He had me hospitalised.” He did not need to ask what kind of hospital she was referring to. “It was a nice place, on spacious, green grass and under the supervision of an order of nuns. I’ve read that other places can be more… unpleasant, and less safe. Still, I don’t remember much of it. I was drugged most of the time, they were pretty liberal when it came to medication, and I hated it. Took me a while to figure out how to behave in a way that was considered normal, how to grieve within the bounds of acceptable behaviour.”

He was surprised by the white-hot rage that took over him. He tightened his grip around the handle of his cane, eager to hurt someone with it. Belle’s father seemed like a prime candidate, or any of the doctors involved in her care, who could not see that what they had in front of them was a woman trying to grieve in her own way. He ached to do harm, to hurt, in a way that unsettled him, that spoke about primitive instincts he had spent years mastering, or at least trying to. He tried to calm himself, focusing instead intently on her, watching her walk the pawn across the board and exchange it for the white queen after it reached the other side.

“Once I was out I changed my name and applied for university in the US. My chess career and my mother’s care of my finances gave me financial freedom, so I went to school, then did my masters at Columbia, and took on as librarian here when the position opened. And I never participated in a tournament again. At first it was because being active in professional chess circles left me exposed, made it so my father would likely know where I was, but later on I discovered I just did not have the temperament for big tournaments anymore. Crowds of strange people looking at me make me nervous, and playing chess in public makes me feel… unsafe, I suppose.”

Her fingers closed over the white queen, as if testing the strength of the piece.

“I still love it, though. Used to play at Bryant Park when I was a college student, though never in tournaments. And I still play online, sometimes for money, because it’s safe. But it’s been nice, playing face to face against someone again. I’ve enjoyed it immensely.”

She put the white queen back with the rest of the pieces inside its box, closing the lid securely before offering the set to him. Instead of taking it he stood up, taking a few steps backward to make sure she knew he had no intention of taking his chess set home. 

“I thank you for your candor. I will keep what you have told me in confidence, of course. Same time this Saturday?”

She looked up at him, confused for a second before a wide smile spread across her face.

“It’s a date.”

.

Though he had made the journey to the library dozens of times in the past couple of months it felt different that day. Instead of the customary tea he brought he clutched a tote bag with an unopened bottle of Highland Park 18 and two crystal tumblers. It was a particularly cold afternoon, which he told himself called for something more bracing than a strong cup of tea.

Belle did not seem against the whisky, though she did warn him that she had no affinity for it and would not know good scotch from bad.

“You’re calling it scotch, so that’s a good start.”

She seemed more intrigued about the tumblers, running the pad of her thumb across the designs on the glass.

“Thistles.”

“I’m nothing if not a walking stereotype.”

She laughed, telling him to pour while she set the board. By the time they sat down to play it was dark out, and Belle had turned off the zooming fluorescent tubes, leaving instead the soft, warm light fixtures in the reading room on. It was a cosy, relaxed setting, and yet the air felt strangely electrified, like something was going to happen, something big. His nerves felt raw, exposed, but the feeling wasn’t exactly unpleasant.

“So, what should we play for tonight?”

He startled, the tumbler halfway to his lips. She was right, there were no preconceived stakes anymore. Before he had wanted to know something about her, something valuable, so they established an arrangement whereby whoever won could ask a question of the other. That arrangement no longer applied. A sudden flare of panic travelled down his spine. What if he couldn’t think of anything? What if they both discovered that, without stakes, there was no sense in playing again at all? What if-

“I have an idea. It’s… a bit unorthodox. Always wanted to try it, but never got the chance to.”

The librarian looked intently at her glass of whisky, running a finger across the edge, but there was a sort of mischievous air about her. Playful.

Flirtatious, almost.

“Do tell.”

“Well, I’ve read about strip chess. Obviously I never actually played strip chess before because for most of my years playing chess in front of people I was a minor. But I always thought it sounded… fun.”

She chanced a look at him from beneath her eyelashes, biting her lower lip the tiniest bit. He must have looked rather stupid to her, sitting ranmrod straight and wide-eyed, with the look of a rabbit that has just spotted a wolf nearby. A man a few years shy of fifty looking stupidly terrified of a woman more than ten years his junior.

“What would be the rules?”

“A piece of clothing for every captured piece. Something small for pawns is allowed, but bigger pieces merit more important sacrifices. Things in pairs are to be removed in pairs. Jewellery and such are considered pieces of clothing. We play until either someone wins, or someone is completely naked.”

He took a gulp of scotch, hiding a grimace as the liquid burned a path down his throat. He took a quick stock of the librarian, taking in her few pieces of jewellery- earrings, a ring, and a simple necklace-, and her clothing. A skirt, no belt, a shirt tucked into it, a cardigan, stockings and a pair of booties. He imagined all of it on the floor at his feet and his blood simmered.

“That sounds… acceptable. You got the coin?”

He was glad he sounded unbothered by the new arrangement they had just entered into, nonchalant. He lost the coin toss, so it was Belle who opened, moving the queen’s pawn two places. He moved more conservatively, a pawn to c6, and a couple of moves later she took her first pawn, leaving the piece to be taken by another pawn of his.

“My earrings for your cufflinks?”

It was a fair exchange, so they paused to relieve themselves of their pieces of jewellery. Belle’s next move gave him a chance to capture another pawn and he discovered that he had to physically restrain himself from making the move, reminding himself that he was supposed to be playing for win. It added something extra to the game, the tension between what the best move was according to whatever strategy he was struggling to make, and what could get him more pieces. It made the game tense, as they both considered their moves and braced themselves for the possible occurrence of another piece taken. 

When it finally happened, a white pawn taking the place of a black one, he surrendered both his shoes, but not before using one of his knights to take the place of the newly-moved white pawn. Belle bent down to unlace her booties, removing them and placing them to the side with care, letting him know that she did have a thing for shoes, as he had always suspected. 

Nothing else happened for the longest time, the game unfolding without much action. They both moved their bishops and castled their king, pretending for a while that there wasn’t a likelihood that one of them would end up naked before the night was out. He kept the scotch nearby, refilling the drinks every now and then to give himself something to do other than think about all the exposed white pieces. Finally, when he thought he was going to crawl out of his skin if he didn’t do it, he took a white pawn with his knight. 

“Wondered when you were going to do that.”

He watched her as she shimmied out of her cardigan, letting him see more of the blouse she was wearing. It was slightly sheer, letting him know she was wearing a black bra. He wondered if he would get to see it.

“It’s a pity about your knight, though.”

She moved one of her own knights to take his, making it the first major piece to be taken. She held it in her hand for a while, studying it.

“I’ll accept your jacket and tie, if you have no objections.”

He reached automatically towards his neck, tugging on the silken knot around his throat. He must have drunk more than he realised, because his fingers felt clumsy, uncoordinated. After a few ineffectual tugs and some choice expletives muttered under his breath Belle rose from her chair, gently pushing his hands away and untying the tie herself. She tugged on it until it was off and tossed it on the back of his chair. She then wordlessly prompted him to remove his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair as well. 

“That’s a lovely colour on you.”

She ghosted her fingers across the silk of his shirt. It was one of his favourites, a deep navy blue silk jacquard with a contrasting pattern of leaves. He had worn it because he had noticed she tended to favour blue, which had felt stupid at the time. Now it felt inspired. Emboldened by the touch and the compliment he dragged his bishop across the board, knocking her knight off its place.

“I’ll take your necklace and stockings, if you please.”

His voice was rough, with little of the cultured diction he usually employed, but between the alcohol and the simmering sexual tension there was little he could do to change that. She took her necklace off without much protest, making sure to fasten it close before she looked at him right in the eye, smiling innocently and extending a leg till her silk-stockinged foot found his knee. 

“Help me?”

It was embarrassing how fast he dragged a hand across her leg, pausing only to notice the quality of the material, and reached beneath her skirt, till his fingers came across the scratchy lace of the top of the stocking. With slow, steady precision he peeled the stocking off her leg, letting the tips of his fingers slide across the soft underside of her thigh and calf, trying to memorise how soft and warm her skin felt, so he could replay it over and over again each night. He repeated the process with the other stocking, delighting in the goosebumps the dim light of the room revealed in Belle’s skin. After it was done he folded the stockings neatly and presented them to her.

She moved her bishop next in a direct challenge to his castled king, meaning he had no other choice but to take it. He did it with shaky hands, trying not to look as eager as he felt.

“Shirt or skirt, I suppose. May I choose?”

Her voice was soft, playful, undeniably coquettish. He nodded, following her movements as she stood up, unzipped her skirt and let it fall open around her legs. Her shirt was long enough to cover anything but the barest hint of her underwear, something black and lacy and the slightest bit sheer that had him reaching for his glass. A second later she sat down, dragging her queen to take his bishop.

“Quid pro quo?”

With all the grace he could muster he stood up, refusing to show even a hint of apprehension or shyness as he undid his belt and pushed his trousers down, carefully stepping out of them before sitting down and reaching for the scotch bottle, filling up their glasses again. He took a long, fortifying sip and moved his knight to take her remaining one.

“That lovely blouse is gonna have to go, dearie.”

Belle smiled, looking bold and strangely pleased, and made sure to look at him square in the eye as she plucked every little button free of its hole. It was an invitation to watch, and he accepted it greedily, leaning forward and holding tightly onto his cane to keep himself from doing something stupid like try and touch every new bit of soft, pale skin that was slowly revealed to him. When she reached the last button she shimmied out of the shirt and carelessly tossed it at him. He caught it one handed and tried to not notice how the fabric retained the warmth from her body and the scent of her skin. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, we’re about to get even.”

She moved her queen to take his knight and leaned back on her seat, one hand cradling her tumbler of scotch and an expectant look on her face. He reached up and unfastened the buttons of his shirt with practiced nonchalance, trying to keep the shaking in his hands from being too obvious. When that was done he paused for a second, trying to gather up his courage, before shrugging out of the shirt. With a gallant little gesture he handed it to her.

The next few rounds were intense, but no pieces taken. Arran was having a hard time concentrating on the board and not on the way Belle’s fingers caressed the silk of his shirt, tracing the pattern of leaves absentmindedly. It was a safer bet than focusing on her balconette bra, a delicate, impractical little thing made almost entirely out of leavers lace, with dark flowers woven into the pattern to keep him from seeing the rose pink of her nipples. He wondered if she had worn the set with their game in mind, if she had selected it just so he could see it.

At some point he took his queen out, and she did the same with one of her rooks, both of them seemingly in agreement that the status quo was not to be borne. It wasn’t until her rook put pressure on his king, forcing him to set his queen in the middle, that he began to feel cornered. When her bishop got too close he had no other option but to take out her rook. Though from a strategic point of view that was a desperate last-ditch effort, he could not help but feel strangely ecstatic over it.

“Oh, dear.”

Belle moved her hands towards her back, seeming to struggle with the fastenings of her bra. 

“I think one of the hooks is snagged on the lace. Will you help me?”

He narrowly avoided biting his tongue. He managed a croaked, barely-intelligible “aye” before she stood up and turned around. He tried not to look down, but it was almost impossible, taking into account the panties she was wearing were made almost entirely of sheer black lace- leavers as well, clearly she was wearing a matching set-. With hands that felt clumsier than usual he felt around the clasp of the bra, delicately pulling the offending hook from the lace before unclasping the bra altogether. Slowly he lowered the straps from her shoulders, noticing the red indents they left behind on her skin. Then she was turning around, bra safely in her hands and her glorious breasts bared. He hoped that she wasn’t expecting him not to look, because it felt impossible to avert his eyes. As he had imagined- and he had not realised how often until then- her nipples were the perfect shade of dusty pink, framed perfectly by pale skin a shade lighter than the rest of her. 

“I know I’ve lost on the board, but right now I feel like a winner. Like the luckiest bastard on Earth.”

His accent was shot to hell, thick and incomprehensible, as if he had never left the dodgy part of Glasgow. But it did not seem to be a problem for Belle, who kissed his cheek, tugged on his hair a bit, called him a “sweet boy”, and thanked him for the compliment.

“Let’s finish this, Arran.”

Her Australian lilt turned his name, which he always thought rather charmless and rough, into a soft caress. He sat down, something considerably uncomfortable to do all of a sudden, taking into account his painful state of arousal, and struggled to focus in the game. He was done for, he knew it, but he owed it to her to try. To lose with as much dignity as possible. Or so he thought, till her queen took his in one simple move.

“I’m afraid your underwear must go.”

The silk boxers were doing a pisspoor job of hiding his raging erection in any case, but it still felt uncomfortable to peel them off and be naked in front of another human being for the first time in years. Well, nude, technically, since he still had his navy socks on.

“Let’s finish this, then.”

He took his rook out, forcing her queen to retreat and then getting his other rook to cover for his king. For the next few moves they danced around each other on the board, with Belle trying to close her trap and Arran fighting tooth and nail to remain standing. His moves weren’t elegant at all, more like the savage swipes of a cornered beast, but they were effective. He managed to snag a rook, which gave him the pleasure of sitting down and staring intently as Belle shimmied out of her useless little panties. She flashed her watch at him to remind her she was not completely naked as per the rules of the game and continued to press him. She had only her queen and a few pawns, but the board was laid out in her favour all the same. Still he gave her a run for her money, and it took her twelve more moves to checkmate his king. Feeling irrationally expectant he toppled the piece, watching it roll around the board for a few seconds before coming to a stop.

“That was exciting. Though I’m afraid we forgot to agree on what the winner got. Quite an oversight on our part.”

He watched her as she reclined on her chair and stared at the board, a rosy tinge on her skin that he realised travelled past her neck and to the tops of her breasts. She looked at ease, comfortable in her own skin, and surprisingly he noticed that he did not much care about his own nudity either. In the low, almost romantic light of the library his skin acquired a golden colour that he thought rather becoming. He was tanned for a man who spent most of his time indoors, a direct consequence of his propensity to laze about in the sun whenever possible in the privacy of his backyard or his cabin. And in such a light his wrinkles were less obvious, his scars less visible. He felt anxious, yes, tense, but it was not an unpleasant sort of tension.

“What is it you want, Miss French?”

He affected the persona of the devious dealmaker, noticing the spark of heat in the librarian’s eyes when he called her by her last name. She made a show of thinking about it, though he had the distinct feeling she had thought about something ages ago.

“How about a kiss?”

He took her left hand, kissing the back of it.

“Like this?”

When she shook her head he reached further, kidding the underside of her elbow.

“Higher, Arran.”

He tugged her closer, trying to disregard the rapid beating of his heart, and softly kissed her shoulder. Her skin was soft and smelt faintly of something citrusy, something that somehow managed to tug both at his heart and his groin. 

“Higher, please.”

She took his head in her hands, tilting it upwards till their lips met. It was a soft, tentative press of the lips at first, unhurried and unassuming, but it grew firmer and more insistent. When he pressed her she opened her mouth to him readily, letting him curl his tongue around hers with a moan of approval. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders at some point, fingers sinking into his hair to pull him closer till he was flush against her, skin against skin. His hands roamed her back, tracing the ridges of her spine, pleased at the way it made her shiver.

Reluctantly he let go of her lips, pressing his mouth against her sharp jawline, down her long neck until he was tracing her collarbone with his tongue and dipping down further into the swell of her breasts. He felt her fingers dig into his scalp, pressing him closer, tugging on his hair to guide him towards a puckered nipple. He accepted the unspoken invitation gladly, closing his lips around her flesh and sucking with embarrassing enthusiasm. His hands roamed the rest of her, one caressing her back while the other pressed against a soft, round thigh, aching to move just a few inches and cup her sex. 

When she stepped backwards, out of his arms and the reach of his mouth, he felt a flare of panic that she was having second thoughts, or he had done something wrong. It was on the tip of his tongue to apologise- for fucking whatever, he didn’t care- when she tugged on his arm, urging him a little ways across the room to a reading nook next to the folklore session. There was a faded divan in there, usually full of pillows and throw blankets meant for readers to take to their seats if they were uncomfortable or chilly. It was old and likely uncomfortable, the type of couch that looked like it had lost most, if not all, of its padding and most of its support capabilities a long time ago. At the moment, however, it looked to Arran like the most luxurious of beds. He let her push him onto it, glad when the springs beneath him groaned but held steady. A second later she was on top of him and all thoughts of structural stability fled from his mind as he kissed him thoroughly, asserting a dominance he was more than happy to submit to.

He had to struggle to concentrate between the kissing and the groping to understand her when she asked about protection, muttering that she was clean and on the pill but she had condoms just in case, from the sex-ed talks Miss Blanchard gave every now and then. Briefly he contemplated the notion of using one of those condoms, thinking of Miss Blanchard’s absolutely scandalised look if she ever found out, but the idea of being bare inside Belle was too good to pass. He told her he was clean in as clear a voice as he could muster that he was clean too- he recalled his last annual check-up, which he drove to Boston for, since he would rather die than let Dr Whale anywhere near any part of him- before she was straddling him, grabbing his stiff, aching cock with one hand and guiding it to her entrance. He could barely register the sudden wet heat on the tip of him before his entire member was engulfed in it. He sunk his blunt nails on Belle’s back, trying to call forth every last shred of self-control he possessed not to come then and there. Thankfully Belle didn’t move, looking overwhelmed and in need of a moment to adjust.

“You’re big.”

“Fuck, sweetheart, you can’t tell me something like that if you want me to last.”

It was taking everything he had not to come like a fucking schoolboy. Later, much later, he might me in the right frame of mind to replay her involuntary compliment. Over and over. He tried to recall the names of all the subs of the Celtics, in fucking alphabetical order, till he somehow felt more in control. Slowly, lovingly, he captured her lips with his own for a long, lazy kiss, feeling as her own tension melted away, leaving only a simmering sort of excitement. Tentatively she began to rock, trying to find a comfortable angle and motion in the restrictive confined of the divan. He tried to help her as much as possible, holding onto her hips and trying to thrust up as much as he could, given his precarious perch on the furniture and his lame ankle. Slowly but steadily they found something that worked, a rhythm that had him hitting a sport deep inside her that he could tell was, blessedly, the right one, given how Belle sunk her nails on his shoulders and tried to muffle her cries against the side of his neck. He tried to talk, to tell her how gorgeous she was, how wet and warm and perfect she felt around him but it all came out as unintelligible grunts and low, feral moans.

When he felt himself near the edge he gritted his teeth and gathered all of his remaining willpower, dragging his right hand down her stomach to the small nest of curls that framed her dripping cunt, delving inside till he found a spot that made her gasp when he touched it. 

“Come for me, sweet girl.” He didn’t know whether she could understand him over the thick mess of his accent, but he hoped at least the cadence would convene his meaning. She keened in response before he felt her flutter around his cock, the rest of her tensing with the force of her release. When he muffled her scream against the side of his neck he let go, his own orgasm almost uncomfortable at first, too much at once. He clutched her close, hoping against hope he would not send them both toppling to the floor, feeling like he was walking a fine line between pleasure and pain. Pleasure won out in the end, sizzling on his veins before slowly fading into a pleasant simmer. Tiredly he wrapped his arms around a barely-awake Belle, feeling the cooling sweat on her back and grunting in protest. He looked around, spotting a throw on the floor in his reach. He grabbed it quickly, managing to wrap it snug around both of them. Later, much later, when he could remember his name or how to walk, he would insist on them finding some better place to sleep, for her sake. At the moment, however, that seemed beyond him, a faraway concern to be dealt with at a later time. He was loath to give up his queen too soon into the game, in any case.

[razieltwelve]

Wither

I’ve been playing video games for a long time even if I don’t game all that much anymore. Perhaps it’s because I feel that gaming has passed me by. I’m something of a dinosaur. I can still remember complaining when Final Fantasy moved from Nintendo consoles to the Playstation, and I have fond memories of Dreamcast despite its colossal failure from a commercial perspective.

If someone asked me to name three companies that I think of when I think of gaming, I would say Nintendo, Sony, and Blizzard, and it’s Blizzard that I want to talk about today.

I won’t go into detail about the horrific allegations that have been levelled at Blizzard. Other people have covered those far better than I would be able to, and they’ve done so in both written and video form across a variety of websites. I would encourage any interested reader to peruse that coverage. I will, however, say that Blizzard’s response has been telling. It wreaks of attempted corporate cover up, and their official statement was utterly pathetic. Rather than improving their image, their behaviour has only further stained their character.

But I can remember the old days, the days before World of Warcraft killed the company. Those were the glory days, the days of Warcraft, Starcraft, and Diablo. Those were the days when Blizzard could honestly call itself one of the greatest development studios in the world. Back then, you could buy a Blizzard game on day one without reading any of the reviews because the simple fact that it was a Blizzard game meant it would be quality.

Look at Starcraft and Broodwar. Look at Warcraft 1, 2, and 3. Look at Diablo 1 and 2. Every single one of those games was a hit and helped define their respective genres. I will gladly grab my flag and die on the hill that Broodwar is the greatest RTS ever and that Warcraft III is only slightly behind.

I spent some of the happiest years of my life playing these games with my friends. It’s been years (almost twenty for Warcraft 3 and more than twenty for Broodwar), and I can still vividly remember some of the games I played. And it wasn’t just the multiplayer. The single player modes were amazing too, not to mention the cinematics.

Blizzard games back then were a complete experience. You’d play through single player mode because the story was amazing and you wanted to learn how the game worked. Once you were done, then you’d go play multiplayer and have a blast. You could play with friends. You could play with random people from all over the world. You could even play custom maps and scenarios.

It was perfect, and I honestly never thought the sun would ever set on a company that could make such awesome games.

But the sun has set, and I fear that the first hint of dusk arrived with World of Warcraft.

Now, you might be wondering why I blame World of Warcraft. After all, most people would agree that the original World of Warcraft and the early expansions were amazing. However, they represented a fundamental shift in the culture of the company.

Prior to World of Warcraft, gamers were customers. Blizzard would make a game, gamers would buy it, and the game would be supported by patches and further content for a while before Blizzard eventually turned it over to the community (see e.g., the way Broodwar grew into an eSport). More importantly, the game had to be good. Otherwise, nobody would buy it. And once they’d finished the game, they had to be able to make more good games. They could not afford to rest on their laurels.

WoW was different. In WoW, Blizzard finally had the ultimate money-making machine. Rather than charge a one-off payment, they could charge a subscription. They had a game that could make money forever. And the best part? It didn’t matter if the game got crappy. Once people had put enough time and money into it, they’d be reluctant to leave. After all, they’d already sunk hundreds of dollars into it and put hundreds of hours into it too. Leaving would mean they’d wasted all that time and money, and, hey, if the current patch or expansion sucked, there’d always be another one right?

It’s not a surprise that this shift got even worse when Activision arrived.

And things did suck. Little by little WoW became less about the spirit of adventure and heroism and more about how best to extract money out of the players. The in-game shop became more and more prominent, and the game became more and more grindy and repetitive. Endgame content became the only content that mattered. 

It speaks to the dearth of competition that WoW flourished for so long despite the rot that had set in. I don’t think it’s a coincidence, though, that Final Fantasy XIV has seen an influx of what some people are calling ‘WoW refugees’. The difference in how the development teams approach their respective games is massive, and the difference in design philosophy becomes clear very quickly.

Some people believe that Blizzard can recover from this. Perhaps they can. Companies have survived worse scandals. But in terms of the ability to develop good games, I think Blizzard has been dead for years now. People say that it’s all Activision’s fault that Blizzard is still good. I would reply that there is no Blizzard anymore. It’s all Activision now, and it has been for a while.

Look at WoW. Look at how the most recent expansions have been received. Look at the absolutely shambolic state of the storyline and gameplay. Look at how members of Blizzard have publicly attacked people for daring to critique the game. 

Now ask yourself, when was the last time that Blizzard released a game that was truly excellent? When was the last time Blizzard released a game that blew all of its competition out of the water and set the world on fire? It used to be that when Blizzard went to war, their victory was already a foregone conclusion. That’s not true anymore. That hasn’t been true since the golden age I mentioned. Blizzard is haemorrhaging players, and there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight. If anything, it’s accelerating.

Do you know that feeling you get when you haven’t met an old friend for a long time and you run into them on the street and they just look so different? That’s how I feel about Blizzard. It’s like they were a straight A student with a bright future ahead of them, and then I see them on the news committing armed robbery on a convenience store.

[bastardtetsu]

{day 13} falling slowly | semi x reader

pairing: semi eita x gn!musician!reader

genre: angst, mutual pining or unrequited love depending on how you look at it

wc: 1.8k

warnings: a little swearing, reader who plays piano/sings, mention of a previous relationship, unresolved feelings, just a lot of pain

⍋⋆*❅｡. 25 days of fic-mas mlist .｡❅*⋆⍋

falling slowly eyes that know me and i can’t go back

—falling slowly; once (music & lyrics by glen hansard & marketa irglova, book by enda walsh)

“that song you just played— did you write that?”

you stood there, wide-eyed, staring him down as he turned to walk away from the spot where he had just been busking on the sidewalk. semi wanted to ignore you, but your resolute gaze already had a vice grip on him.

“yeah,” he grunted reluctantly.

“it’s very good.”

“thanks.”

despite his gruffness, you were still staring at him like your life depended on it. it was kinda unnerving.

“why’d you leave your guitar?” you questioned him with a sense of urgency, gesturing to the guitar semi had left in its case on the sidewalk. his expression hardened.

“i don’t want it anymore,” he muttered, casting his eyes downward.

“you should take it. those things are expensive, you know.”

“fine,” he grumbled, shooting you a glare as he stooped to grab the case by the handle, “i’ll sell it if it makes you feel better.”

“i know a shop!” you blurted out, “a music shop. where you can sell your guitar. i was just on my way there, actually!”

“…seriously?”

“it must be fate!”

those words made him cringe back then.

as the two of you entered the store, a cozy place packed with various instruments, you wasted no time making a beeline for the back of the store, dragging a confused semi along with you.

“where are we going? i thought we were here to sell my guitar,” he questioned.

“just follow me,” you insist. the determination in your voice told him there was no point in resisting.

you continued leading him through the shop, all the way to an old upright piano that sat towards the back. “the owner lets me play this whenever i come in,” you explained, your merciless gaze now fixed on the instrument, “it’s a beautiful piano. if i ever win the lottery, this is the first thing i’m buying.”

semi just watched you quietly as you stood there, marveling at it. he was able to appreciate the intensity of your stare more now that he wasn’t the subject of it - the way your eyes glimmered was actually kind of entrancing.

“so what would you like to hear?” you questioned, suddenly turning your gaze back on him as you sat yourself on the bench, “bach? mozart? something of my own?”

“oh, uh— whatever you want,” he muttered. there was clearly no use stopping you at this point, so he might as well comply.

you positioned yourself and began playing. it was a somber melody, gentle but distinctly melancholic. your concentration remained unbroken as your fingers danced gracefully across the keys, until the final mournful note echoed through the empty store.

“did you write that?” semi asked, a bit awestruck by your talent.

“no. felix mendelssohn did.”

“ah.”

“now you play me one,” you demand, eyes aglow.

“wh—no,” semi faltered.

“please,” you begged.

“no,” he stated firmly, his expression hardening again, “i just came here to get rid of my guitar.”

“what do you mean?” you protested, “your music is good, why are you giving up on it?” semi cringed at the sting of your question.

“there’s no point anymore,” he snapped, “it’s gotten me nowhere.”

“what, so you’re quitting ‘cause you’re not famous?”

“i’m not—“ he scoffed defensively, “you wanna play your songs for people who want to listen.”

“well i’m people,” you stated, your gaze on him more unyielding than ever, “and i want to listen. now play me a song.”

the rigidity of your stare was almost enough to convince him.

“no.”

however, just as semi turned to leave, as if by some sort of drama-induced miracle, a sheet of folded paper fell from his coat pocket, which you wasted no time snatching up before he could even grab at it.

“hey—“ he protested, “give it back, come on.”

“music is dead to you, right?” you taunted, “so isn’t this trash?”

“you know what,” he huffed, his patience at its limit, “fuck it—yeah, keep it. it was nice meeting you.”

“hey!” you barked right as he was turning to leave. his head spun around to find your eyes staring him down with the most intensity and desperation he’d seen from you all day. “you won’t die if you play this song with me,” you spoke to him sincerely, “please.”

he didn’t answer, but remained frozen where he stood, unwilling to break from your acute gaze as you lowered yourself onto the bench and placed your fingers on the keys.

you perused the slightly crumpled page while semi waited with nervous anticipation, reminding himself to breathe as you began to play the notes he had scrawled onto the staff.

as your fingers began to recreate the familiar motif with impressive precision, he gingerly picked up his guitar from its case by the piano, looping the strap over his head as he started to sing,

“i don’t know you but i want you all the more for that”

he sang tentatively at first, the words and notes like scratches upon an unhealed scab, until your voiced chimed in with a harmony,

“and words fall through me and always fool me and i can’t react”

semi began to strum at his guitar, more self-assured as the gentle tune continued, your voices and instruments moulding together as the music swelled into chorus after chorus. his reluctant voice became more and more powerful with each changing chord, each strum of his guitar more intentional as the sounds intermingled with yours, creating new discoveries within a painfully familiar refrain.

as the tempo slowed to a quiet halt, your eyes met with his again until you played the final chord in unison. you both stood there in silence for a moment, as if you were waiting for the final sound waves to finish reverberating, dissolving into the air.

“so where is she?” your question broke the silence.

“where’s who?”

“the girl in the song,” you clarified, “is she dead??”

“what—no, jesus,” semi sputtered, caught off guard for what must be the 75th time today.

“so where is she?” your gaze is on him again, adamant as ever.

“she left,” he uttered, his dejection covered by his brusque tone, “about six months ago. there was nothing else for her here, so—”

“so you still love her?”

semi’s face twitched, feeling his chest tighten at the question.

“no. we’re finished,” he stated shortly.

“no one who writes a song like that is finished,” you enunciated firmly, causing his breath to catch. “if you sing this to her, i bet she’ll take you back.”

“huh?” the ash blond’s face twisted into a confused scowl.

“i’m serious.” the gleam in your eye only affirmed your statement.

“no way,” he replied, “i’m not running after some woman who’s doing fine without me just so i can sing her some stupid—“

“it’s not stupid!” you nearly yelled at him before softening a bit, maintaining your resolute stare. “your songs are good,” you stated emphatically. semi felt his breath catch again, this time accompanied by a rush of warmth to his face. “do you have more??”

-

your heart nearly stops when you see it, breath catching in your throat as the sting of tears begins to prick your eyes.

the old upright piano you had spotted one day in a music store now sits in your living room, a large, bright red ribbon adorning its shiny wooden surface. there is no note, but you need no indication to know who it’s from.

he must be long gone now. he got a call from his ex practically begging him to come back, so of course he went. it doesn’t matter how many longing glances you caught as you helped him rehearse, or how much electricity you felt surge through your body every time you so much as brushed his hand while reaching for some sheet music.

he has unfinished business. you’ve both always known that, it’s why you tried so hard to keep your distance, even as you helped him produce a studio album, relentlessly encouraging him not only to keep pursuing music, but to keep pursuing her. it’s what he deserves. it’s not your place.

it doesn’t matter how much your heart wanted to leap out of your chest when his stern grey eyes stared into yours, uncharacteristically earnest, as he squeezed your hands in his and thanked you for changing his life. he was talking about the music. you’ve only ever talked about the music.

it doesn’t matter that no matter how hard you tried to maintain your distance - god, you really tried - his songs always pulled you back in. those songs aren’t about you. he wrote those for someone else, someone who he is destined to go back to.

it doesn’t matter that every time he played one he felt a shift, like discovering a new harmony, each lyric twisting into a different meaning. that somewhere along the way, he started singing them about you — you can’t think about that. it can’t be about that.

it doesn’t even matter that he said you were a part of his new life, starry-eyed and nearly breathless, imploring you with to run away with him and start a band together, make an album, just the two of you and all your beautiful music. it was just a silly fantasy. one can only entertain such a delusion for so long before you have to move on with your real life again.

as you lower yourself onto the piano bench, you imagine yourself back in the shop on that day, the ash-blonde musician you had just met scowling dubiously as you began to play the opening of one of his songs. you can almost hear the delicate strains of his guitar as he plucked the accompaniment on the strings, his voice growing stronger as he sang.

“and games that never amount to more than they’re meant will play themselves out”

you recall sitting with him at the top of a hill just outside of town one night, looking down at the warm lights of the city twinkling in the distant. he told you about the first time he ever felt scared. you told him you only saw him as a friend. could he tell you were lying?

“take this sinking boat and point it home we’ve still got time“

tears begin to well in your eyes, blurring your vision as you play. but you don’t even need to see the keys, because you know this song too well. it’s engraved in your muscle memory. no matter how hard you try, your body will remember.

“raise your hopeful voice you have a choice you’ve made it now”

“call your girl tonight,” you reminded him as you left the recording studio for the last time. he asked you to come over to his place later, but you’re not going. you know better than that.

“falling slowly sing your melody i’ll sing it loud”

the tears are falling freely now, wetting your hands and the keys, but you continue playing as if semi were right there singing along with you, creating sweet harmonies and stirring chords together, losing yourselves in the music.

you allow the song to engulf you, the melody washing over you like a wave of pure feeling as you bid goodbye to the man you fell unwillingly, irreparably in love with.

a/n: i’m not normally an angst person, or a huge semi simp really, but i still ended up hurting my own feelings with this lmao. i’d probably let semi ruin my life as much as he wants too, let’s be real. the songs linked at the top are definitely required listening for this one (the first link is them together in the music shop, the second one is the reprise at the end) and if you really wanna experience pain, find a bootleg of the show & watch the whole thing bc i truly struggled trying not to shove the entire musical into this one fic (once again if u need help finding it i may or may not have a link if u dm me)

taglist: @izagraceee​ @musicgetsmeoutofbed​ @azo-musxas​ @tsumurai @ghostlydiamond135 @animeboysimppp @starshaped-raindrops

[detectiveinchicago]

Sparks Fly: Chapter 8

Chapters list here

Note: Hi guys! Thank u for all the comments and reviews, you are amazing. If you want to be tag in this story please let me know. THANK U FOR YOUR REVIEWS!!! English is not my first language. Enjoy xxx.

DISCLAIMER: GIF IS NOT MINE.

WARNING: Bad language and anxiety issues. 

“They won’t talk” Sheryll said walking into the room “Anything on the house?”

“Nothing on the house” Caitlyn answered

“We are still checking the cameras but so far nothing” Hanna added looking at her computer.

“So basically we have nothing on them” Sheryll concluded.

“It’s hard to say it but yes” O.A answered.

“We will have to release him” Caitlyn said.

“We still have a few hours left” Clinton pointed “CPD is talking to the detectives in the other cases and running some labs on the lipstick”

“This is a waste of time” Kenny said “We have nothing on this guy, nothing, we don’t even know who he is yet”

“Well, start digging then” Jess answered walking into the room “Re-interview some the recent victim’s coworkers, see if they have seen anything suspicious or have anything to say” he explained walking around the room “This guy can’t be invisible, serial killers don’t hide, they like attention and recognition”

“Thing is we are chasing a ghost” Caitlyn pointed

“Not for so long, he must have left behind bread crumbles” Jess answered “If we find them, we find him. Let’s work” He finished coming back to the interviewing room.

The next few hours burned slow, Kenny went through the club cameras where these girls used to work while Hanna checked the cameras in the alley one more time. Jess and Sheryll had to let the gang go and they along with Clinton went to interview some of the girl’s coworkers. Caitlyn went to every pharmacy record or suspicious purchases and O.A was re-reading the files.

“So what do we have so far?” Jess asked entering the room.

“I have nothing on cameras” Kenny said looking at Jess.

“Me either” Hanna added

“No suspicious purchases in any Pharmacy” Caitlyn said.

“The forensic has just confirmed the lipstick clue but it was meaningless since it was a popular brand” Clinton notified “He confirmed we have 55 victims matching this patron in the last six years”

“I have notice something in the files, all the girls have a little or any family circle, he made sure no one would be looking out for them” O.A informed “As we already knew they were all exotic dancers or hustlers with blue eyes and brown hair but three of his last five victims where exotic dancers at Clubhouse”

“He is out of control” Jess said walking around “He is killing almost every day and he is repeating places, that’s unusual”

“At first he used to kill every two months, he was smart by waiting the cases to go cold” Caitlyn added.

“Something must have taken him out of place” Sheryll pointed “He is more dangerous than ever”

“He is reckless” Jess added “He doesn’t care anymore”

“We can give Clubhouse a try” Clinton suggested

“We need eyes on the inside” Jess told them “You are going undercover” He pointed to Caitlyn.

“Why me?” She asked.

"Well you are his type, brunette, short hair, and blue eyes" Jess said “He might bite the trap”

"You want me to go undercover... as an exotic dancer" Caitlyn said “It’s not the usual work”

"You can get some information of their coworkers and then if he bits the trap he might target you and then we will be able to track him you down" Jess clarify for her.

“Why only me? Hanna is brunette too” Caitlyn complained.

“You are more athletic” Hanna pointed with a little smile.

“Shut up” Caitlyn answered “Since I know you guys, I always do the undercover work”

“What can we say? You are talented” Clinton added jokingly and Caitlyn gave him a death look.

“Let’s keep digging but we have a plan” Jess finished.

“I will put everything together for tonight” Clinton added.

Everyone dispersed and Sheryll approached Kenny and leaned on her partner's chair “I saw you”, she said.

“What?” Kenny asked.

“You are stalking her” Sheryll pointed out “You are still in love of her”

"It's been years; Caitlyn means nothing to me anymore” Kenny said without taking his eyes off the computer.

“Why can’t you just be friends?” Sheryll asked raising her eyes bows.

"Most people don't befriend their exes” He answered looking at her “There is a reason why Sheryll”

Sheryll nodded without quite believing him before taking a file and walking to the table.

As if the situation wasn't already uncomfortable enough, his colleagues insisted on raising the issue. Kenny was perfectly aware that everyone was waiting for him or Caitlyn to explode at any moment like a time bomb. However, he knew himself and knew Caitlyn well enough to know what to do in public scenes was not their thing. Was he angry? Yes, he was. But he didn't need people to remind him of Caitlyn's existence any more than he was already aware of.

He had to admit though he was angry that his love was still intact. He needed her, more than he will ever know but he was too proud to admit it. Too much water had passed under the bridge, there was too much history between the two and it just wasn't that easier to fix. He was bereaved, his heart still hurt every time he looked at her, not only because he loved her madly but because his heart had left with Caitlyn when she left him five years ago.

Her blue eyes were a fantasy, she still had those dimples on her cheek every time she smiled and her brow furrowed every time she was focused on something. Those things were just some of the reasons he had fallen in love with her. Of course, she was smart, her sense of humor mixed with sarcasm could drive him crazy, Kenny had learned to ignore her bad mood in the morning and still remembered how adorable she looked every time she watched a hockey game.

"I found something” Hanna said getting up of her chair and interrupting Kenny’s thoughts “He avoids cameras so he should know where the cameras are and study the places for that”, Hanna explained showing the cameras on the TV “This guy was around Amelia's block on Tuesday night, you can't see his face but he is there and then, he is again on Thursday night and then he is gone. He never comes back, on Friday night Amelia was killed"

“Do you have his face on any camera around Amelia’s block?” Sheryl asked approaching to her

“Nothing so far but I will keep looking” Hanna answered.

“We know that Amelia and Sienna, our Jane Doe, where killed probably at the same time so they should have been together when he killed them” Sheryll told her.

“They worked together so maybe they went home together and he took them from there?” O.A asked.

“Kidnapped two at the same time without anyone noticing it?” Kenny said “Does the club have any cameras apart from the ones pointing the entrance?”

“The detectives were on their way here, I will tell them to go back and check it” Hanna said referring to Hailey and Jay.

Caitlyn had to admit that she liked being back with her team, it was like going back to the old days. She had to admit that over the years her FBI coworkers, first the Most Wanted team and then the New York team had become her family. In the absence of her true family, she had created bonds with everyone, had spent Christmas with Clinton, Jess and Tali, thanksgiving with Sheryll and Charlotte, and even once Kenny and her went to Florida to spend a New Year with Hanna. Then, in New York, almost the same thing happened, her first Christmas after breaking up with Kenny, she thought she was going to spend it alone in her apartment, but Jubal took her to meet his family. The last Christmas she had spent with her siblings and her parents was before her mother got sick.

"God, I'm almost naked," Caitlyn said to herself, adjusting her suit, Clinton got her a "suitable" suit, but that suit was many things, but adequate was not one of them. She was practically naked, it fit her perfectly anyway. She took off her suit and put it back in the bag, she was supposed to enter as a new employee, the owners of the club were not very friendly when they interviewed them so she would go completely undercover."I guess exotic dancers don't wear a lot of clothes" Caitlyn thought to put on a sleeveless shirt and taking the outfit that was hanging on her locker door.

When Kenny entered the locker room holding the microphone in his hand, Caitlyn was finishing putting on her jacket.

"I need to wire you up" Kenny said quietly.

"Go ahead" Caitlyn said accepting the necklace she was offering her.

"That's your camera and this is your microphone" he said handing her the microphone and placing the microphone on the neckline of her dress "Sorry"

"Stop" Caitlyn answered putting the necklace "Nothing you haven’t seen or touched before"

However, Kenny chose not to answer and continue adjusting the microphone.

"What? You came here and you were very quick judging me but when you can finally say something you choose to shut up and be condescending to me?" Caitlyn said frowning "Are we going to tiptoe around and play cat and mouse?”

“You broke it” Kenny said simply looking at her after finishing with the microphone.

“I don’t want to blame you but let me remind you that you broke our relationship, Kenny” Caitlyn pointed adjusting the necklace.

“You left me” Kenny answered starting to raise his voice.

“Our Marriage was way broken before that and you know it!” Caitlyn shouted “Nevermind I had the guts to walk away!”

“You’re right but you didn’t have the guts to say goodbye so don’t expect me to play nice after all these years” Kenny answered shrugging “I don’t know who you are anymore, beautiful angel” He added before walking outside the room.

“I don’t even know who I’m anymore” She answered overwhelmed by the old nickname.

"Beautiful angel" That's what he used to call her, especially when they started dating but sometimes he just dropped the nickname in a casual conversation like: "How did my beautiful angel get up this morning?" or "What is my beautiful angel cooking?" He just dropped the nickname out there naturally and Caitlyn had to admit that he managed to speed up her heart. The nickname brought back fond memories she must admit.

----flashback----

“What are you doing up so late?” Kenny asked walking into the living room “It’s 2 AM Caitlyn”

"I can't sleep yet" she answered looking at the TV screen "I watched the NBA Finals and then I was hooked watching the replays"

"Tomorrow we have to go to Sheryll's house for Anais' birthday" Keny remembered her

"Yeah, I know" Caitlyn replied getting up from the sofa and walking towards the kitchen "I'm sleepy"

"Then come to bed with me" Kenny replied walking behind her.

"I need jellybeans" Caitlyn said checking the kitchen drawers.

"Caitlyn, jellybeans are not going to help you sleep" Kenny pointed out "They are pure sugar"

"I know, there are no more jellybeans anyway" Caitlyn answered opening the refrigerator

"What are you doing?" Kenny asked

"I have late-night anxiety" Caitlyn explained "I need sugar or something to eat to kill it”

Kenny knew it, eating was a way for Caitlyn to keep at bay the anxiety caused by certain situations but what he was wondering was what had caused it this time.

"So ... are you going to tell me what's going on, or will you make me guess?" Kenny asked leaning on the counter.

"Nothing is going on, Kenny" Caitlyn answered with a bad mood.

"Let's pretend I believe you" Kenny replied, surrounding her and opening the freezer "Here you go, beautiful angel" he said offering her banana ice cream.

Caitlyn was a fan of jellybeans and banana ice cream and sometimes had a soft spot for popcorn and wine.

"Than...?" Caitlyn asked looking at her with raised eyebrows

"What can I say? I'm always well prepared" Kenny replied jokingly before Caitlyn climbed onto the counter with a spoon and the ice cream pot "So what's going on?"

"My father" Caitlyn replied "I hate to say it but today's case left my head spinning"

"So..."

"Then then it took me back to when I was a teenager and my life was a complete mess" Caitlyn added, "Today's case showed us that there are shitty parents everywhere". They had caught a man who since his wife had died not only He beat his children until they broke their bones, but starved them so much that they ended up dying of inaction, they stumbled upon it by accident while investigating a trafficking ring.

"You know Jess also had a father who was far from ideal" Kenny replied standing between her legs "Maybe you can talk to him about it"

"I don't want to talk to him about it" Caitlyn said "I just want to bury him and stop the pain, even when I left home he keeps coming back to haunt me"

"Beautiful angel, our personal experiences are what make us good agents and even better people" Kenny said to her "Your father is a son of a bitch, you know that"

"Yeah, I know," she replied with a sigh.

"C'mon, don't be sad," he whispered, stroking her cheek. "Changing the mood," he added with a playful smile before taking the ice cream and leaving it on the counter. He picked her up and carried her over his shoulder.

“Stop Kenny, stop” she said laughing “Put me down”

"Ok but promise me that you are going to sleep" Kenny replied going to the bedroom "I don't want a sleepy and grumpy girlfriend in the morning"

"I'm not grumpy" Caitlyn retorted hitting him in the back

"Yes, you are" Kenny replied turning off the television before heading to the bedroom "You are the grumpiest person I know in the morning"

Kenny tossed her onto the bed while Caitlyn giggled "Stop, I will go to sleep"

----flashback----

“Ready?” O.A asked her.

“Yes” Caitlyn answered getting up from the bench.

--------------------------------------------

Tag list:

@proceduralpassion @lovecatystuff @bethii1 @give-jack-a-lightsaber @thevelvetseries @lovingfanofupstead @thetwit @anotheronechicagobog @sadsot @chicagogirl2019 @cpdfan231 @bxrgesses @onechicago-upsteadrhekker @dethaileyupton @itsdesiree86 @halstudandruz @hereforthedale @cactiem @nhcwdw @anotherfan07 @pinkrockstar19 @rochyu

[ducktastic]

2020 Gameological Awards

Over on the Gameological Discord, we have an annual tradition of writing up our games of the year not as a ranked list but rather as answers to a series of prompts. Here are my personal choices for the year that was 2020.

Favorite Game of the Year

I didn’t know what to expect when I walked into Paradise Killer. I knew that I liked the vaporwave resort aesthetic from the game’s trailer and figured I was in for a Danganronpa-style murder mystery visual novel with an open-ended murder mystery at its core. Those assumptions were… half-right? The game definitely plays out like the exploration bits of Danganronpa set on the island from Myst but with far simpler puzzles. What I didn’t expect was to fall so deeply in love with the environment—its nooks and crannies, its millennia of lore, its brutalist overlap of idol worship, consumerism, and mass slaughter. It makes sense that the world of Paradise Killer is its strongest feature, since the cast of NPCs don’t really move around, leaving you alone with the world for the overwhelming majority of your experience as you bounce back and forth between digging around for clues and interrogating potential witnesses. And despite what the promo materials indicated, there IS a definitive solution to the crimes you’re brought in to investigate, the game just lets you make judgment based on whatever evidence you have at the time you’re ready to call it a day, so if you’re missing crucial evidence you might just make a compelling enough case for the wrong person and condemn them to eternal nonexistence. Am I happy with the truth at the end of the day? No, and neither is anybody else I’ve spoken to who completed the game, but we all were also completely enthralled the entire time and our dissatisfaction has less to do with the game and more to do with the ugly reality of humanity. I’ve always been of the mindset that “spoilers” are absolute garbage and that a story should be just as good whether you know the twist or not and any story that relies on surprising the audience with an unexpected reveal is not actually that good a story, but Paradise Killer is a game about piecing together your own version of events so I feel that it’s vital to the gameplay experience that people go in knowing as little as possible and gush all about it afterwards. Just trust me, if the game looks even remotely intriguing to you, go for it. I’ve had just as much fun talking about the game after I finished it with friends just getting started as I did actually solving its mysteries myself.

Best Single Player Game

I honestly missed out on the buzz for In Other Waters at launch, so I’m happy I had friends online talking it up as Black Friday sales were coming along. The minimal aesthetic of his underwater exploration game allows the focus to shift more naturally to the game’s stellar writing as a lone scientist goes off in search of her mentor and the secrets they were hiding on an alien world. It only took a few hours for me to become completely absorbed in this narrative and keep pushing forward into increasingly dangerous waters. In Other Waters might just be the best sci-fi story I experienced all year and I’d highly recommend it to anyone who enjoys sci-fi novels, regardless of their experience with video games.

Best Multiplayer Game

Look, we all know this year sucked. 2020 will absolutely be chronicled in history books as a fascinating and deeply depressing time in modern history where we all stayed inside by ourselves and missed our friends and family. It was lonely and it was bleak. Which is why it made my heart glow so much more warmly every time I got a letter from an honest-to-goodness real-life friend in Animal Crossing New Horizons. Knowing that they were playing the same game I was and hearing about their experiences and sending each other wacky hats or furniture, it lightened the days and made us feel that little bit more connected. Sure, when the game first launched we would actually take the time to visit one another’s islands, hang out, chat in real-time, and exchange gifts, but we all eventually got busy with Zoom calls, sourdough starters, and watching Birds of Prey twenty-two times. Still, sending letters was enough. It was and still is a touching little way to show that we’re here for one another, if not at the exact same time.

Favorite Ongoing Game

Zach Gage is one of my favorite game designers right now, and when I heard he was releasing a game called Good Sudoku I was sold sight unseen. The game as released was… fine. It’s sudoku and it’s pleasant, but it was also buggy and overheated my phone in a way I hadn’t seen since Ridiculous Fishing (also by Zach Gage) seven years ago. Thankfully, the most glaring bugs have been fixed and I can now enjoy popping in every day for some quick logic puzzle goodness. Daily ranked leaderboards keep me coming back again and again, the steady ramp of difficulty in the arcade and eternal modes means I can always chase the next dopamine rush of solving increasingly complex puzzles. It’s not a traditional “ongoing” game the way, say, Fortnite and Destiny are, but I’m happy to come back every day for sudoku goodness.

Didn't Click For Me

With Fortnite progressively losing me over the course of 2020, finalizing with my wholesale “never again” stance after Epic boss Tim Sweeney compared Fortnite demanding more money from Apple to the American Civil Rights movement (no, absolutely not), I dipped my toe into a number of new “battle pass”-style online arena types of games, and while Genshin Impact eventually got its hooks into me, Spellbreak absolutely did not. With graphics straight out of The Dragon Prince and the promise of a wide variety of magic combat skills to make your character your own, the game seemed awfully tempting, but my first few experiences were aimless and joyless, with no moment of clarity to make me understand why I should keep coming back. Maybe they’ll finesse the game some more in 2021, or a bunch of my friends will get hooked and lure me back, but for now I am a-okay deleting this waste of space on my Switch and PC.

"Oh Yeah, I Did Play That Didn't I?"

I remember being really excited for Murder By Numbers. Ace Attorney-style crime scene investigation visual novel with Picross puzzles for the evidence, art by the creators of Hatoful Boyfriend, and music by the composer of Ace Attorney itself?! Sounds like a dream come true. But the pixel-hunt nature of the crime scene investigations was more frustrating than fun, the picross puzzles were not particularly great, and the game came out literally a week before the entire world went into lockdown which makes it feel more like seven years ago than just earlier this year. I remember being marginally charmed by the game once it was in my hands, but as soon as my mind shifted to long-term self care, Murder By Numbers went from hot topic to cold case.

Most Unexpected Joy

I was looking forward to Fuser all year. As a dyed-in-the-wool DropMix stan, the prospect of a spiritual sequel to DropMix on all major digital platforms without any of the analogue components was tremendously exciting, and I knew I’d have a lot of fun making mixes by myself and posting them online for the world to hear. What I didn’t expect, however, was the online co-op mode to be such a blast! Up to four players take turns making 32 bars of mashups, starting with whatever the player before handed them and adding their own fingerprints on top. It sounds like it should just be a mess of cacophony, but every session I’ve played so far has been just the best dance party I’ve had all year, and everyone not currently in control of the decks (including an audience of spectators) can make special requests for what the DJ should spin and tap along with the beat to great super-sized emoji to show how much they’re enjoying the mix. Literally the only times my Apple Watch has ever warned me of my heightened heart rate have been the times I was positively bouncing in place rocking out to co-op freestyle play in Fuser.

Best Music

Only one video game this year had tunes that were so bumpable they were upgraded to my general “2020 jams” playlist alongside Jeff Rosenstock, Run the Jewels, and Phoebe Bridgers, and that game was Paradise Killer. 70% lo-fi chill beats to study/interrogate demons to, 20% gothic atmospheric bangers, 10% high-energy pop jazz, this soundtrack was just an absolute joy to swim around in both in and out of gameplay.

Favorite Game Encounter

It’s wild that in a landscape where games let me live out my wildest fantasies, the single moment that lit me up in a way that stood out to me more than any other was serving Neil the right drink in Coffee Talk. Over the course of the game, you serve a variety of hot drinks to humans, werewolves, vampires, orcs, and more, all while chatting with your customers and learning more about their lives and relationships. The most mysterious customer, though, is an alien life form who adopts the name Neil. They do not know what they want to drink and claim it doesn’t make a difference because they cannot taste it. Everybody else wants *something*. Neil is just ordering for the sake of fitting in and exploring the Earth experience. It’s only in the second playthrough that attentive baristas will figure out what to serve Neil, unlocking the “true” ending in the process. Seeing the typically stoic Neil actually emote when they tasted their special order drink? What an absolute treat that was.

Best Free DLC of the Year

It’s still only a couple of days old at the time I’m writing this, but Marvel’s Avengers just added Kate Bishop, aka Hawkeye, and THANK GOODNESS. Almost every character in the game at launch just smashed the endless waves of robot baddies with their fists and that looks exhausting and uncomfortable. Hawkeye (the game calls her Kate Bishop, but come on, she’s been Hawkeye in the comics for over 14 years, let’s show her some respect) uses A SWORD. FINALLY! Aside from that, I’m just having a blast shooting arrows all over the place. She and Ms Marvel are the most likable characters in the game so far, so I hope they keep adding more of the Young Avengers and Champions to the game, and if the recently announced slate of Marvel movies and tv shows are any indication (with America Chavez, Cassie Lang, and Riri Williams all coming soon to the MCU), that seems to be what Marvel is pushing for across all media

Most Accessible Game

Nintendo is, first and foremost, a toy company. They got their start in toys and cards long before video games was a thing, and they still do more tests to ensure their video game hardware is childproof than anybody else in the industry (remember how they made Switch cartridges “taste bad” so kids wouldn’t eat them?). This year, Nintendo got to rekindle some of their throwback, simplistic, toys-and-cards energy with Clubhouse Games: 51 Worldwide Classics, a Switch collection of timeless family-friendly games like Chess, Mancala, and Backgammon, along with “toy” versions of sports like baseball, boxing, and tennis for a virtual parlor room of pleasant time-wasters. The games were all presented with charming li’l explainers from anthropomorphic board game figurines, and the ability to play quick sessions of Spider Solitaire on the touch screen while I binged The Queen’s Gambit on Netflix made Clubhouse Games one of my most-played titles of the year. Plus, local play during socially-distant friend hangs was an excellent way to make us feel like we were much closer than we were physically allowed to be as friends knocked each other’s block off in the “toy boxing” version of Rock’em Sock’em Robots.

"Waiting for Game-dot"

I get that everyone loves Disco Elysium. I saw it on everyone’s year-end lists last year. I finally bought it with an Epic Games Store coupon this year. This year was a long enough slog of depressing post-apocalyptic drudgery, I didn’t want to explore a whole nother one in my leisure time. I’ll get to it… someday.

Game That Made Me Think

Holovista was an iPhone game I played over the course of two or three days based on the recommendation of some trusted colleagues on Twitter and oh my goodness was I glad that I played it. What starts as a chill vaporwave photography game steadily progresses into an exploration of psychological trauma, relationships with friends and family, and the baggage we carry with us from our pasts. In this exceptionally hard year, I badly needed this story about spending time alone with your personal demons and finding your way back to the people who love and support you. Just like with Journey and Gone Home, I walked away from Holovista feeling a rekindled appreciation for the people in my life.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

West African Hybrids

“Hey… Hey! Wake up, we’re almost there.”

Ru’Yi felt a slight nudge at her side and opened her eyes. Her uniform was slightly rumpled. She managed to tie up her hair so it wouldn’t be too frizzy on landing. “Really?” She whimpered in a sleepy disappointment. “That was so fast…”

“Well, the executive department doesn’t like to waste time. So the gear department modifies planes for maximum speed.” Rodney gave her a shy smile, revealing a single dimple on his right cheek. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

She shook her head. “I’m alright.”

It was still too dark to see much but, as people began to turn on their overhead lights, she noticed that his eyes were hazel, brown with flecks of green and gold mixed in, hidden behind his dark brown bangs. Everything from his hair cut, to his quiet voice, and hesitant demeanor spoke to his shyness, but now that she got a good look at him, she could tell that he was at least as strong as Brian. He had those same broad shoulders and muscles along his arms. He was also relatively tall, stretching his legs under the seat in front of him.

Around her all the students were always wide awake, shifting and speaking to their seatmates.

Ru’Yi only remembered flying once before. Back when she was fourteen when they were on the island, she had been so excited to take her first flight and she packed all her things early. She even watched videos of 757, 747 and 777 airliners to see how things would be. These massive jets with smiling Flight attendants, a friendly captain speaking over an intercom, and movies built into the seats.

But instead of a large bustling airport, her father and mother took a boat to another island where a sandy flat ribbon of land served as a runway. There were no customs, no shopping, nothing like that. Just a long silver luxury private jet in the middle of nowhere.  

“Why can’t we just be normal?” She had lamented.

Her father answered her question in his usual succinct manner. The nearest airport was nearly a day’s travel away and she would never be able to use it anyway because she didn’t have a passport. He looked at her with a head slightly tilted, like a curious bird wondering what was wrong. The juxtaposition of his serious-eyed stare, his questioning gesture and his shirt with the bright yellow hibiscus flowers would have been funny but she wasn’t laughing.

This was better anyway, her mother had chimed in. They had the whole plane to themselves. There was an onboard chef ready to fix anything they possibly would want to eat, music, movies, games, and a good pilot that her father knew. She also was dressed in a yellow sundress to match her husband’s and together, they looked like the happy globetrotting couple.

 Ru’Yi had relented, but didn’t smile. Deep down, he knew all the kids at school would envy her. They would question how some tour guide could afford a private flight to the United States.

She should be grateful.

Now sitting in the Beluga Aircraft, she realized that this was as close to normal as she could get. At least now, she was surrounded by other people who also didn’t seem to use passports, use airports or pass through customs. They were flying a jet with a jet tucked inside it like a Russian nesting doll and still managed to go faster than the planes she’d looked at as a child. She started to wonder if normalcy was as much as a fantasy to her as dragons were to ordinary people.

Aircraft Carrier, Aido-Hwedo, West Africa Branch.

The calm Atlantic waters broke beneath the unstoppable gun-metal bow of the moving wall of metal that towered a thousand feet high. It was topped with what appeared to be a flat road surface, as though a piece of highway had broken off a steel cliffside and set sail. On the side of this cliff was a name in large white block text a dozen feet high: Aido-Hwedo.

The original name of the vessel was the USS-Enterprise. This aircraft carrier was the one near enough to Pearl Harbor to participate in the famous World War II battle. It had scrambled several of its jets to help, but in the confusion of the sudden attack, many of them were shot down by their own countrymen. Later it saw intense battles of the South Pacific and then other missions during peacetime. But, for all its storied history, it still ended up at the shipyard to be turned into scrap at the end of its life.

According to history, it was scrap. Supposedly, all that was left of the ship was its bell, an anchor and the name plaque. Indeed, the name plaque was removed, but the ship itself moved about on the seas like a ghost of decades past, fighting battles under its new name.

The Aido-Hwedo was the great rainbow serpent that both created the world and sustained Earth’s form from falling to chaos -- A great beast that ate iron and, lacking iron, would instead eat its own tail.

Ordinarily, this floating runway would have been decorated with fighter jets, but for this occasion the landing surface was cleared to accommodate its incoming oversized cargo.

Within the control tower a tall man with skin the color of black coffee watched through his binoculars while a woman sat watching the radar screen. He was dressed in a black naval uniform, decorated with gold tassels. He was still, silent, and tense as he prepared to watch the plane land.

Landing on a flight deck is one of the most difficult things a pilot will ever do. The flight deck only had about 500 feet of runway space for landing planes, which wasn’t nearly enough for the heavy, high-speed jets like the modified Beluga coming in. To land on the flight deck, it would need a tailhook, which was exactly what it sounded like — an extended hook attached to the plane’s tail. The pilot’s goal would be to snag the tailhook on one of four arresting wires, sturdy cables woven from high-tensile steel wire. It would be precision flying at low speed and a high angle of attack. It was the definitive skill that tested Navy carrier pilots. The principle on landing would be to fly the plane aboard the ship at the slowest speed at which it can be done safely, to deliberately stall and drop into the landing.

Despite his confidence in the pilot, Foli Abalo looked through his binoculars with anticipation of a close call. The wire system was checked, rechecked and placed under guard. A back up emergency wire system was installed in case it failed anyway.

“Approach speed 450. Tail hook lowered.” The woman murmured. 

The lights of the plane were suddenly visible as it made its approaching turn. It moved incredibly slowly, stalking the ship like a massive fat shark.

“Speed reduced 350…”

It was the moment of truth. By now, the plane was so low and flying so slow, it had two options, land perfectly on the aircraft carrier or land on the ocean. There would be no recovering from this descent.

“On final approach. Flaps full. Speed 300.”

The roar of the engines was now audible in the tower. It rattled the glass. This plane would take up every inch of the runway and its wings would span the full width of the ship. Compared to the plane, this aircraft carrier seemed more like a sheet of notebook paper.

“Landing in five… four, three, two…”

The plane suddenly dwarfed the runway. The weight of it rocked the carrier. A pair of reverse thrusters built into the engines ignited in front of it. The brake lines caught the tailhooks and screamed under the strain. The plane passed the tower, rumbled further and further to the edge and then stopped completely, its nose peeking over the water.

A smattering of applause echoed throughout the tower. “We did it! We did it! That was the hard part wasn’t it? Get the crew down, have medics on board just in case the force of the stop caused any injuries.”

While the crew scattered, Foli smiled, his teeth a brilliant white, his black eyes twinkling. “Grant… it’s been far too long. How have you been doing my friend? Will you still recognize me? I wonder.” He chuckled.

Foli was one of a set of quadruplets. His mother had two eggs fertilized that day and by luck, both of them divided into two sets of twins. They were all born on the same day and seemed to have the same spirit in them so it was impossible to tell them apart as babies even for the most experienced spiritualist. Normally, the children would be named after the day of the week until they were given their permanent names. As it turned out, they were given the names of their birth order and that was that.

The name Foli meant first son, Atsu meant the younger of twins, Do was the first child after twins, and Dofi the second child after twins. His three brothers were also on this ship, scattered throughout the crew. Those onboard had no trouble telling them apart thanks to the uniform system of the West Africa branch. The gold crown on his hat meant he was the First Officer. But without his hat, it was very difficult to tell for those who didn’t know them well, and it wasn’t uncommon for his brothers to disguise themselves as pranks. He wouldn’t meet his friend today. His youngest brother, Dofi, would meet him instead.

He walked out of the tower where his brother was waiting and passed his his hat. Looking at them was like looking at a reflection. The same curled hair, cut short in the same buzzed syle, the same smile, and broad nose.

It was Dofi’s idea to play the prank. He was always the jokester and the one who initiated play on the ship. Atsu, the Chief Engineer was up to his ears after making the modifications to the ship for this mission. And Do had to stay on watch, keeping a careful eye on the stirring atmosphere just a few hundred miles distant. Although they were all the same age, Foli was expected to be the responsible representative and more was required of him as the oldest brother, even if he was only the oldest by a few minutes. So he wasn’t allowed to be seen playing, drinking or smoking.

Dofi screwed the hat on his head. “I’ll say I stole it.” He said, turning on his heel with a wink and then, pulling his face into a stoic frown, marched straight towards the bridge. When the other crew saw him they quickly pulled up in a sharp salute, thinking he was the captain.

The West Africa Branch had managed to remain under the radar for much of history. Africa had few mountains to guarantee a sufficient amount of steady rains. So great buildings and permanent settlements were mostly confined to the coasts and river valleys. The rest of Africa was forced to follow the shifting weather. The most valuable items one had had to be portable. So the hybrids of Africa were always mobile and moving. They kept their secrets with them in oral traditions, and carried their alchemical knowledge in the form of clothing, necklaces and even scars and tattoos. When the tidal wave of destructive colonization smashed to ruins the cultures of millions and the cutting knife of modern country borders separated allies and grouped them with enemies, and the explosion of civil war blew countries into eternal cycles of poverty, the hybrid life of West Africa was like a serpent, sliding under it all, with a secret network of transportation, communication and trade.

Anjou landed on the shores searching for such treasures. They were aware of him immediately and shied away. After all, those Europeans were nothing but looters and could not be trusted. They offered him fakes in hopes of luring him off their land. He saw through their counterfeits, but showed a surprising amount of restraint and tolerance for their hesitance. After a few years of negotiations, they finally trusted him enough to grant him a single piece of exquisite art that contained the alchemical formula for a special kind of dragonslaying metal. In return, he agreed to keep them secret for seven years. 

Those seven years passed and the promise was kept and the relationship grew a bit more open. They began to send their young men and women to the college. Foli attended along with Grant. Sadly, the death of Anjou was an uncertain time for the College. They didn’t know this “Lu Mingfei” or this “Von Frings”. But Foli knew Grant Baldwin and he couldn’t refuse a request for help from a friend. Grant said he needed people who could keep secrets and no one kept secrets like the West African Hybrids.

The crew that would welcome them rolled the tall stairway up to the plane’s door and arranged themselves in a long row spanning its length, hands folded behind their backs, looking like a row of sharply dressed dominoes.

The door finally opened and Grant exited first. He looked out over them and stepped easily down towards the ‘Captain’ who gazed at him with a serious air. For a moment, the two stared at each other not saying anything.

From his perch in the tower, Foli could hear what was being said through the wire Dofi wore. He grinned as he heard his brother say, “Welcome to my ship, Director.”

Grant’s voice, at its most deadpan and dry tone said, “Since when did Foli grow a mole on his cheek? Where is he? Which brother are you?”

Within the tower, Foli tilted his head back and howled with laughter, his joy at his brother’s prank failing was intensified by the fact that his friend still remembered him after all his time. “Which brother are you? Hahaha…” He leaned forward and clicked the PA system and his voice boomed over the speakers attached to the tower. “Good morning, Mr. Baldwin! Long time no see! Hahaha!”

“Was this a test?”

“Yes! And you half passed. For the second half, you will have to find out for yourself which brother is he!”

The rest of the line of crew also grinned but kept their laughter in check as Dofi gave a bow with an elegant leg. “We’ll show your students a good time. They need rest while we prepare the mission.”

The students piled off the plane in a rush, eagerly waving and looking around. Foli watched carefully, making a checklist in his mind of each face. He’d gotten the roster from Baldwin of those approved for the mission, so when he saw a woman get off he straightened with surprise.

He didn’t remember any women being on the roster. She seemed young, her skin was only the color of a latte, but her hair was long, coiled and beautiful. She carefully stepped down to the ground and took her place in line to wait for her luggage.

He turned off the PA. It seemed that Grant had his own surprises. “Ensign… who is the girl?”

The woman at the radar shook her head. She’s not on the roster. There’s no female name on the manifest.

He rubbed his chin. He knew he should trust Mr. Baldwin, but he also knew that he only had so much authority. The School Board would easily overrule him. 

“Find out what you can about her.” He turned. “I will make my way down to the deck.”

[1001galaxies]

Commentary on Netflix’s Cursed: Episode 2

Edited for language, because I have a few younger/more sensitive readers.

THE MONK SPEAKS. HOT DIGGITY DANG.

Well, DAYUM again. The monk meeting Squirrel is delicious. The LOOK in Daniel's eyes. The staging and lighting. A+

“Born in the dawn.” “To pass in the twilight.” I burst out laughing so hard. The cheesiness. But also. When it's DANIEL SHARMAN SAYING THE FIRST LINE, I mean. I M E A N.

Just watch, that’ll be the new 'may we meet again'.

Squirrel is a discount version of Blue from King Arthur: Legend of the Sword, but he's cute, so that makes up for a lot. And he does have some decent lines so far. “Do you hate them because they're so beautiful and you're so ugly.” “Even your horse is ugly.” “And I love horses.”

But, hang on, his line: “You're so ugly.” *looks at Daniel Sharman* *looks at Squirrel* *looks at Daniel* *blinks* Ah, kids.

Dang, they really do give Nimue every single flippin YA teen girl trope in the world, from both fanfic and traditional fic. Wow. That's impressive, even by my standards.

Joss: “Get up you murdering pig...tie him up...I think we've caught the big killer.” Me: You haven't caught anything, and if you think you have the upper hand with the MONK? Oh honey, you poor deluded fool.

Joss: “Ever been dragged by a horse with a hot coal up his bum?” Monk: “Not that I can recall.” Me: Dang, HIS VOICE. Me: Secondly, there are better ways to motivate horses than that, excuse you.

Monk: “I've got no interest in the boy. He's bait.” Joss: “Bait for what.” Me: Oh yeah, here we go, awriiiiiight. Monk: “For YOU.” *kicks Joss*

Who cares that Daniel is the bad guy, he's the only interesting one. Hot DANG, that roll over the horse. HE'S FIGHTING WITH HIS HANDS BOUND. Gives a new meaning to 'hands tied' Also dang. And WHAT DID I SAY, JOSS. You got owned.

Monk: *kills five or six people with //his hands bound//* Me: Now that's what I'm talkin’ about. Me: Wait, he just killed innocent people. Me: Eh, he’s still the best character so far.

How does Daniel manage to sound sexy saying “go.”

Every SINGLE time we come back to Nimue: Me: okay, booooooring.

Obviously, they’re going with the traditional representation of Bors as a brash lout. Eh. Why.

Can I have Bors played by Tom Hopper, please. He was a good Percival, but I'd like to see him play a surprisingly FUNNY and GENTLE and SMART Bors. Twist the traditional representation.

Ah yes. Cursed: LOOK AT US, WE'RE SO ENLIGHTENED AND SUBVERSIVE AND DIFFERENT that we're going to have the guy save the girl the same way 90% of all fantasy saves occur. Much impressed.

I mean, TELL her, Arthur, yes please. She didn't think, that's the problem. She just reacted with the sword. I get she’s a teen, but come ON, why must every single teenager ever—male or female—react with impulsive emotion. Not every single teen in the world always reacts with emotion first.

Well, this heroine rant is like every other YA fantasy heroine guilt-trip rant I’ve ever seen. I get being sad and emotional and being guilt-stricken because of how events have fallen out, but really on the wording? Really.

Arthur: “And I'm not a cutthroat.” And his head tilt. That's cute. Arthur is genuinely likeable so far, which is /good/. Also nice to see the guy taking care of the girl solicitously for once instead of the other way around. I do appreciate that.

And here we have the OH SO ORIGINAL trope where the heroine was bullied as a child and 'oh you made the village boys pay romantic attention to you with your magic' backstory. REALLY. REALLY NOW. I'm absolutely positive I've got YA fantasy heroine bingo at least twice over by now.

Nimue’s mum: “When you were five years old, you faced a dark god alone in the ironwood and survived.” Bingo again.

Let's play a game called: how many times can this show throw out a Game of Thrones reference/imitation?

IRONWOOD. REALLY? REALLY. Here's the thing. a) Game of Thrones did this already and called it the Godswood, and if you think people aren't going to see what you did there, you 100% have another think coming. and b) THE LAST TIME I CHECKED TRADITIONAL FAE LORE, iron KILLED and/or BURNED fae. But THAT is what you unironically* called your SACRED WOOD THAT PROTECTS YOU???? *Only being 2 episodes in, maybe I'll find out later that it was/is an ironic name, but it suuuuuuure doesn't seem like it so far.

Nimue’s mum: “You are not some fragile maid, you are a warrior..." Me: She's going to say 'and you are strong'. Nimue's mum: "And you are strong." Me: See, this isn't even fun. There's no challenge to this. Also, YA fantasy trope bingo again.

Arthur: "It's a rare blade, I'm not sure I've seen its like." AT LEAST THAT is a decent line. Normally, they say “I've never seen its like” with this awed tone, but he's just factually observing. Cool, cool.

ARTHUR WITH THE SWORD. I'm going to be an Arthurian geek for just a minute and revel in this. I know there's more to this story. Much of it is dead boring. But I'm just going to enjoy this minute because //Arthur with the sword//.

I really did not expect to like this Arthur. He's nothing extraordinary yet, but he's fun. Without being a copycat of BBC's Merlin or King Arthur: Legend of the Sword. He's just a young knight (possibly a prince somewhere along the line??) who is genuinely caring, not super arrogant, and just a DECENT AND FUN GUY. So far.

Arthur: “I've seen a lot of lives wasted fulfilling the dreams of the dead.” YES? FINALLY? SOMEONE SAID IT? I'm here for this. Call out that fantasy trope that is all well and good in some doses but is basically THE FOUNDATION OF EVERY SINGLE YA FANTASY ARC EVER, and it's so annoying. Give us some VARIETY now and then.

Nimue to Arthur: “Spoken like a true mercenary.” No, spoken like the only sensible person in the show so far, Nimue, you twit.

AW YEAH. YOU TELL HER, ARTHUR. She's shrugging off everything you say AFTER ASKING FOR YOUR HELP. Geeeeez. It’s so annoying when people do that.

Arthur: “Get an hour of sleep.” Implied: Everything looks better after sleep + you’ll need your strength. Me, who hates sleep: I feel so attacked right now. ...But he’s right.

Merlin is TOTALLY fantasy Haymitch.

Veiled Lady: “You told us the sword of the first kings was destroyed. You lied.” Okay, so MAYBE Merlin's getting mildly interesting...but are they going to do a good job with it? DOUBTFUL.

Veiled Lady: "This affects all of us, not just you. The fae are on the verge of extinction." Um, THEN WHY EXACTLY ARE YOU DOING NOTHING ABOUT IT? Is this another ‘we can’t bend the rules of heaven for mere earthlings’??

Veiled Lady: “If the church acquires the sword of power, then they will decide who wears the crown. Have you forgotten the words?” Merlin: “Forgotten them? I WROTE THEM.” Me: Okay, that's a good delivery. Merlin: “Whosoever wields the sword of power shall be the one true king.” Me: And a nice mocking accent on that, Oooh yeah, I like. Merlin: “But I'm wiser now. There IS no one true king.” Me: Huh. Now see, that's slightly interesting. Give me more of that.

Pretty sure they told Gustaf to model his Merlin on Starz Camelot's Merlin, “but make him fun and drunken.” He's got that whole Fiennes vibe going on, but also definitely fantasy Haymitch. (Someone else on tumblr said Jack Sparrow, and I could see that one too, thought not as much yet. Where I am, Merlin doesn’t seem super keen on adventuring for the sake of adventuring. He has the bitter past and cynicism of Haymitch right now. Maybe he’ll get more Jack Sparrow-y as this goes on.)

MERLIN HAS NO MAGIC BECAUSE HE GAVE IT TO THE SWORD, okay, that right there is a GOOD element, and chock full of potential. Especially his bitterness. And his insistence that he won't touch the sword again. Are they going to do a good job of using it? Dollars to donuts, NO. Ugh.

Veiled Lady: “I sense fear around the sword. But also great power.” And here we have our Galadriel imitator. Dang, I need TWO more bingo cards.

Veiled Lady: “The sword is finding its way to you, Merlin, but which end of the sword, the point or the pommel, is another question.” Me: *snorts* Cute.

Merlin: "The sword was forged in the fae fires, and to the fae fires it shall return. I shall melt it back to its origins."

Let's play another game called: how many times can this show imitate LOTR?

Veiled Lady: "You are aware the fae forges burned out a thousand years ago?" Yeah, cause Frodo and Sam destroyed Mount Doom, guys, go read your history.

Veiled Lady: “Oh dear.” Veiled Lady: “Tell me you're not planning to steal from him. Without your magic.” Merlin: “I still have my wits and my charm.” Veiled Lady: “I fear you overestimate both.” Ahem, the lady has a point.

CONCLUDING THOUGHTS:

- Arthur is still interesting. That could change super quickly, but so far, I like him.

- The Monk is beautiful, and I'm so here for upcoming stuff I won't talk about, but also for his arc period and more interactions with Squirrel.

- Squirrel is cute, but nothing above the average so far. Still, better than almost anyone else on the show.

- Merlin has the potential to be intriguing, if only they use it.

- Obviously, I'm going to keep watching.

Footnote:

I saw spoilers today about the Monk’s arc, and I'm HERE FOR IT, so here, so beyond here for it, GIVE ME THAT RIGHT THE HECK NOW. IT'S THE ONLY REASON I HAVE ANY EXCITEMENT FOR THIS SHOW RIGHT NOW.

THE WEEPING MONK AS *SPOILER* I. CAN'T. FREAKING. WAIT.

[undecidedpersonality]

Writer’s Month 2020 Day Twenty-Three: Poison

Title: “The Royal Murderer”

By: Nalijah Daniels

Word Count: 1874

Genre: Fiction - Fantasy

CW: murder, death, public execution, sacrifice, 

I might as well have been a lab rat under bright-white observation lights. The beige uniform was baggy on my thinning body and made it uncomfortable to sleep. All it did was twist around my body, yanking me out of my dreamless sleep to struggle with it until it was back in place. Every night was like that. Just like every day was the same.

The blinding lights turn on at exactly 8 a.m. I flip onto my stomach and push my face into the thin pillow, trying to make the space behind my closed eyes as dark as possible. The heavy door on the opposite wall slides open, activated by the fingerprint of my security guard, Manuel. He used to be nice to me until I was caught halfway through my only possible escape plan and put his job on the line. I always smile at him when he forces me to sit up on the bed and hauls me out of the room, gripping around my arm just below the armpit. He hasn’t smiled back in 167 days. I know this because I’ve been counting on the wall with a tiny piece of chalk left here from who knows what. I’ve been here for 378 days in total. I marked the day Manuel stopped smiling with a small ‘x’ at the top. Day 211.

Once we’re through the door of my cell, we turn left, a long curve of concrete walls stretch ahead of us. There’s no other doors until we get to the bathroom. This is the only positive part about my prisoner gig; I’m allowed showers every other day. When I was younger, rumors spread around town that royal prisoners were only allowed to shower once a month. Apparently the hygiene of a criminal doesn’t matter. Don’t even get me started on their rumored food schedules. I imagine they let me shower this often because when they finally get to show off my dead body to the public––they’re gonna want to do that––it would be off-putting to see grime on the beautiful young body and face of a twenty-year-old girl, no matter how dangerous I was.

The water shoots out of the rusted head high on the wall at first with a sputter, then a steady stream, pelting my body with near scalding water. The smooth water beads rolling over my body has been the only positive touch I’ve gotten in over a year. I glance over my shoulder to Manuel standing in the opposite corner of the square room, his eyes trained on the wall across from him, hands clasped behind his back. I put an innocent smile on my face and whistle, trying to catch his attention. I’m never getting out of here alive, and he already hates me, so I might as well have as much fun playing mind games as I can. I begin to ramble about anything that I think might draw his eyes towards me. Why I hate the new Duke. My longing for the touches of my pre-imprisonment lovers. My yearning to step under the night sky and not see it through a small barred window five feet above my head. I even begin to sway my bare hips and sing an old lullaby about marriage. I don’t even get a muscle spasm in response.

I roll my eyes when he continues to ignore me and drop the act to focus my mind on something else. Just like every other dull moment, my mind manages to drift to why I’m here. I sacrificed myself for my younger brother, who was almost imprisoned for keeping my identity a secret. Even though they knew my real name, Izetta Llewellyn, they had called me The Royal Murderer around town. The townies whispered around me in the shopping center when I snuck through in disguise, none of them knowing I was right there.

Once, I was the right hand woman of the Duchess, happily waiting on her hand and foot as soon as I turned fifteen. Despite our ten-year age gap, we were the best of friends, the sister I never had. She made sure that my position as her young lady-in-waiting wasn’t taken too seriously so that I could still have “good ol’ teenage fun.” She trusted me with all of her secrets, including how the Duke berates her while throwing her around in their private residence. I helped undo her dress the evening she told me and saw the lightening bruises across her sides and stomach. He told her that he’s only going to stop abusing her because she’s pregnant, but that he wasn’t afraid to punish her again if she messed up just bad enough. I was eighteen then. I wasn’t going to let that possibility happen.

Being young and trusted meant I had a lot of access to the kingdom. I was  never seen as a threat. The tapestries of rich color and stitching that hung down over the charcoal gray stone walls familiar to me in every hallway but one. The one that I walked down that fatal day had paintings with details of greens, golds, and white. The Duke’s favorite color scheme. They were the colors he adorned himself in to attend his most important events. I rapped on the doorframe to his open study and stood with my hands folded in front of me, waiting for him to look up.

He greeted me kindly, like I truly was the little sister-in-law he never had. He often ruffled my hair when seeing me, telling me just how much the Duchess adored me. As if I didn’t know. I put a small smile on my face to appear to be that same honorable, innocent, young girl. When he invited me into the room, I didn’t let much time pass. I would need as much time as possible to get out from the kingdom walls and off the grounds in order to not be caught. They would know it was me. The cameras caught and kept everything they weren’t told to delete.

When I plunged the dagger into his stomach, a true smile, honest and wide, spread on my face as I stared into his angry and scared eyes. They were hard set on mine, yet darting to figure out how to help himself as I whispered into his ear everything that I knew, telling him how happy I was that he would never be able to do them again. 

I’m still not sorry.

I learned I was immune to poison when they caught me. My older brother had been hiding me for a year when royal guard’s found out he was The Royal Killer’s accomplice. They dragged him into town square, pushing him onto his knees on the bottom step of the dais the royal family sat on for public events, like execution. Knowing what this would do to my mother and father––knowing that would be my fault for my brother’s conviction––I wasted no time revealing myself. I pulled the dark cloak’s hood from my head as I stepped out of a shadowed corner, declaring that they could take my life in exchange for my brother’s safe return home. My brother looked at me with wide eyes––bewilderment, terror, and rage dancing across his face–– because I wouldn’t let them take him. He wanted me to be safe from them, but there was no extra time wasted as I got dragged to his place.

The kingdom was never one for mutilating people, no matter how bad their crime, so they could keep their status to their citizens as classy and not blood hungry. Public murders were cold and emotionless instead, making everyone watch the person’s life disappear behind their eyes after forcing them to swallow a vile of poison. The toxin levels were what made the punishment. Some simply fainted in mere seconds and were gone. Others, like the one intended for me, would seize the person’s body for multiple minutes, leaving them writhing and screaming in agony on the ground, unable to pull themselves up and away from the pain. When I was younger watching these events, I had always imagined the toxins feeling like fires burning your body from the inside out, your bones snapping under the pressure of heat until you were nothing but a sack of flesh laying on the ground. None of that happened to me.

After sitting on my knees, waiting for the pain to seize me––nothing. The crowd murmured and the royal family, sitting at the top of the dais the whole time, began to stir. Before I could attempt to run off, I was hauled up by four guards to be taken to the cell I’ve been in ever since. As they marched me past, I saw the Duchess who was already staring at me. Her knuckles were white as they gripped the arms of her chair but her face was soft, one tear falling down her left cheek before I could no longer see her.

The shower water shuts off. My fifteen minutes of warmth finished. I’m hauled back the same way I came after toweling off and putting on a fresh uniform. Now for my first meal of the day.

They never give me much, just enough to put what they hope is the right dose of this and that chemical mixture to end me once and for all. This time it’s a muffin, banana nut. I hate banana nut muffins, but I have no choice but to consume it. Manuel would force it into my mouth if he had to like the first couple of days that I was here.

I lower my head to the plate to stiff it. I expected to be solely repulsed by the sweet banana smell but a wave of nausea washes over me instead. This other thing, I don’t actually smell, but its toxic makeup sends warning signals to my brain right away. I’ve never experienced this before, this sickness. When I look up at Manuel, his eyes burn into mine and he smiles, cruel and excited, breaking the streak.

Letting out a slow breath, I try to swallow but the tightness in my throat makes it nearly impossible. For the first time in 378 days, I am scared. I lift my hands from resting in my lap and they feel heavy, the muffin making them even heavier as I cup it in my hands. My breathing becomes more ragged as I close my eyes and lift the muffin to my mouth. My lips begin to tingle just from touching the muffin to my lips. I try once to open my mouth to take a bite and can’t bring myself to do it. My final bite. I know it will be. Opening my eyes, the white lights and everything it encompasses is blurry and shakes. I don’t know when I started crying. My mouth is finally able to open wide enough to sink my teeth into just one edge of the buttery pastry. The sweet and salty taste seizes my heart before I’m able to swallow and I gasp for air that isn’t there anymore.

This time they found my kryptonite. This time I die.