#best wooden chess board

[chessbazaarusa]

Discover a wide selection of unique chess boards and sets at ChessBazaar. Explore exquisitely crafted designs, exquisite materials, and intricate detailing, perfect for chess enthusiasts and collectors alike. With a range of stunning options, ChessBazaar offers a fantastic selection for players of all levels.

[fist-amidst-the-hands]

kinda want izzy to absolutely decimate stede at chess and I can't explain why

[bunnwich]

Gifts (Leona Kingscholar)🧡

Leona muses on the gift you leave him for Valentine's Day. (Based on the official merch twst 2024 Valentine gift messages)

Characters: Leona Kingscholar, Yuu/MC!Reader (Can be framed as platonic or romantic)

Words: 936 words, Leona's POV

Notes: Wanted to challenge myself to do something short and sweet in a few hours and was inspired to improve upon yet another dry official Leona gift message response.

--

Gifts.

They came easy over the years, like plucking an oversweet tart from a dessert tray. He was disliked, feared even, but lucky for him easy on the eyes — and still a prince to occasionally bow and scrape to. So many folks over the years were eager to oblige him and follow the traditions of the Sunset Savanna. Idolize the royals; the divine oligarchy. He was simply “lucky” enough to be born under that umbrella. That’s all.

Those gifts and attention fed him for a while, but if he was being honest, some part of him always remained hungry. 

After all, shiny trinkets were nothing like a dusty old book or the heady cedar smell of a well-used chess set. What was the value of pretty baubles to sit on shelves of his empty room or clothes that cost more than some folks' houses?

Pillars of sand.

Was it so damn pathetic and vapid to want something not given by his family's twisted obligations or plucked from the hands of a quivering servant?  No games. No more ulterior motives. 

Wishful thinking, maybe or a childish habit that he had dumped in the trash, like all those boxes of sweets that long went bitter on his tongue.

He reminded himself that others had suffered much worse than not being doted on in their preferred way. However, this reality failed to take away his distaste for each and every gift. Tch. How many times would he have to snuff out that damn sentimentality that he had been so “lucky” to inherit?

Leona’s eyes fell upon the small bottle vial in his palm and the wooden lion tag attached, tied carefully around the bottle. It had been nestled on the corner of his bed when he returned from Spelldrive practice this morning, all nice and wrapped in shiny paper.

His mouth crinkled and a small sound rumbled from his chest without his permission. Relief of some kind maybe. It had been one of the first gifts he received that was not for his birthday or from his family.

A friendly gesture or…somethin’ more insidious?

To think, someone who came to this world with nothin’ goin’ outta their way to get him somethin’...special.

But, “friends” weren’t something he kept. Instead, he had a collection of starry-eyed froshes, classmates, rivals, those few worthy of his respect. And then there was Ruggie of course but, would he be around if not for the understanding they had come to? Best not to dwell on it now.

Leona chuckled watching the amber liquid swish around the curved glass like liquid gold. How bold of them to choose a scent for him of all things. Beastfolk were sensitive to ‘em and he especially. But, they had been the brash and precocious type ever since they came to this school. Always skipping steps to pull off an advanced move.

Regardless of how big of a crowd he’d ever have cheerin’ at one of his games or how many brilliant trinkets he’d be gifted, nothing beat his chosen audience of one. Who, even after seeing firsthand all the grimy parts of him...still havin’ the audacity to stick around so long.

His eyes fell over to the chessboard at the corner of his desk. Brave little creature indeed, and brimming with Savanaclaw tenacity. A little pawn that made it to the other side of the board, ready to be crowned.

No way they knew the implication of such a small gesture, how important scents were to beastfolk, not that he was one for tradition, of course. Still, He brought the bottle to his nose for the umpteenth time as he leaned forward on his elbows. In an odd way, it reminded him of the gardens back at home when it rained, all those lonely hours pouring over books and chess games. 

Alone but…if he concreted enough, he was able to catch a whiff of the oil where their fingers touched the glass. Yes, in their note they had mentioned that this scent reminded them of him, but to his nose it was missing something. A key complementing note. A missing piece. 

The scent of a little herbivore turned into a formidable beast that he couldn’t get out of his head.

His brow furrowed as he glanced over at the small pile of notes, discarded by his boots. Then he tried again this time with more wit.

"Hey– Allow me to thank you for your generous gift. Heh. I can’t believe you actually picked out a halfway-decent fragrance. I might actually keep this. I thought about sending you something in return if the mood struck me, but this thank you note should do the job just fine, right?"

Leona kept it short and sweet. He knew they two were past formalities, but it was amusing to still play the game a little. He had been waiting for them to approach him in such a bold way, and finally, he had been rewarded for his saintly patience. Still, he wasn’t ready to show his hand yet, well-

He allowed sentimentality to win this time and flipped over the note, scrawling a little something extra for their eyes only. 

“P.S. If you were gonna treat your lion so nice…the least ya could do is make good on such bold intentions and show him some proper attention.”

He chuckled again as he let the paper slip from his fingers, finally satisfied with what he had come up with. Honestly, it didn't matter much what he wrote. Maybe he was becoming sentimental in his “old” age but he knew...that they would always find each other in the middle.

It was their move again.

Besides, it was only fair that he repay them properly. Etiquette and all that.

[shadowtriovibes]

mind if i move in closer?

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

Word Count: 2.8k

Rating: PG

Summary: sickeningly sweet christmas fic, loosely a continuation of the potioneer's apprentice (not necessary to have read to read this!)

“Do you want to borrow my scarf?” you ask him, teasingly preening as he glances over his shoulder at your new accessory. “It’s charmed to keep you warm.” Sebastian frowns. “Who sent you that? Ominis?” “No,” you say, throwing one of the scarf’s long ends across your shoulder. “Just this handsome fellow in Hogsmeade who’s grown quite fond of me.”

December 25, 1891

Christmas morning at Hogwarts is a surprisingly quiet affair.

Having spent many of your formative Christmas mornings in a Muggle boarding school before arriving at Hogwarts, you’ve grown accustomed to waking up to the sounds of eager whispers and excited squeals as the handful of holiday holdovers awoke to find a small array of presents laid out for them. Gifts were usually provided by the kindly heads of house who’d remained at the school during the break – many of whom were just as lonely as the children they watched.

A few oranges and sweets here and there, some secondhand books, perhaps a wooden puzzle for them all to share… It was always lovely, even during leaner years.

Of course, Christmas at Hogwarts was spectacular – massive fir trees decorated with floating baubles and shining ribbons lined the corridors, beautiful music drifted down from the Bell Tower, and the annual feast on Christmas Eve teemed with seemingly endless platters of food.

Your first holiday season at Hogwarts hadn’t been lonely at all. With Ranrok still at large and dozens of poacher camps causing trouble throughout the Highlands, many students chose to spend their Christmas at Hogwarts rather than risking the lengthy train ride back to London or hiking out to their family homes in nearby hamlets.

This year, however, there were only two Slytherins who remained in the castle over the winter break: you and Sebastian.

While the two of you had each been quietly pleased to learn that the other would be staying, you’d both been surprised to learn that even Ominis would be departing to spend Christmas with his family, per their demand. Before he left, he’d darkly insisted that he’d bet a fistful of Galleons that he’d be back before New Year’s Day if his brothers had anything to say about it.

While Ominis sulked, Sebastian had been the one to explain to you that the older pure blood families, many of whom shared your house, are especially traditional during the holidays.

Or, as he’d so bluntly put it, “All the posh ones will be traveling somewhere warmer, and even the snooty half-bloods don’t want to leave their little sprogs here with all the orphans and the impoverished.”

“That’s lovely,” you grumbled.

He’d merely shrugged and smirked, “At least we’ll have the run of the place.”

Christmas Eve dinner, at least, had been fairly lively thanks to a handful of younger Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors who delighted in joining hands and pulling open wizard crackers. Sebastian had insisted you keep the wizard’s chess set he’d received, as yours had contained a live turtle dove that had promptly flown off to roost in the rafters.

(Professor Black, who had also stayed over the holidays, declined Professor Weasley’s invitation to join the holdovers in the Great Hall, which Sebastian insists was the best gift he could have possibly received.)

The pair of you spent the rest of the evening in the common room, taking turns sipping from a bottle of spiced apple brandy Sebastian had managed to charm out of Sirona’s hands during your last trip to Hogsmeade. By the time you’d wobbled up the stairs to the seventh-year dormitories, you’d been unable to stop giggling while Sebastian walked you to your door.

“Get some rest,” he’d laughed, his cheeks flushed red from the alcohol. “Father Christmas can’t bring you presents if you’re still awake, can he?”

“Father Christmas, hm?” you ask, rolling your eyes. “It’s just the two of us, Sebastian. I think he’ll pass over the Slytherin common room this year.”

Something secret sparkled in his eyes, but he said nothing as you opened the door to your room.

Just as you’d turned around to say goodnight, Sebastian leaned in close and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek.

“Happy Christmas,” he mumbled. “See you in the morning.”

Before you could even exhale, he’d quickly made his way up the opposite steps to his room and firmly shut his door behind him. You felt warm all over as you’d changed into your nightwear and climbed into bed – not just from the brandy, you’re sure.

But when you wake up… There’s nothing but silence.

The fire across the room is muted with its usual silencing charms, the popping and cracking of the firewood kept quiet while you slept. There are no roommates eager to open gifts, no smells of Christmas treats like roasted ham or cinnamon pastries cooking in the dormitory kitchens down the hall, which you’d cherished in your old schools.

…But at the foot of your bed, you find a small pile of presents.

You smile to yourself as you sit up and rub your eyes, half expecting the delicate boxes wrapped in bright paper and gently curling ribbons to dissolve away as your vision comes into focus. When they remain, you dare to gingerly pull one into your lap, tracing your fingertips over the crisp paper wrappings.

The first parcel is from Augustus Hill, who’d sent over a fine woolen scarf charmed to remain warm and dry even if it collects falling snowflakes that melt against its magical heat. It’s a deep forest green and is wonderfully soft, and you can’t resist wrapping it across your shoulders as you reach for a second gift.

From your potions master Parry Pippin, you receive a fine set of measuring spoons made of polished copper – much more attractive and precise than the brushed pewter spoons you’d ordered from a supply shop in Diagon Alley.

Professor Weasley had even gifted you a box of stationery supplies that contained a set of quills, a few rolls of parchment, and even a pot of ink. A practical gift to be sure, but thoughtful (and quite generous, you think).

Your favorite gift is from Ominis, who’d sent a box of French candies with magical molten centers from a wizarding confectionary shop in Paris, where his family always visits for the holidays. Inside he’d tucked a note insisting that Sebastian had been sent his own box as well and you were not to let him coax you into sharing yours. You’d fondly rolled your eyes before pinning it to your ever-growing collection of correspondences affixed to the wall beside your bed.

Of course, you can’t resist treating yourself to a piece of candy or two while you change into a simple dressing robe and freshen yourself in the wash basin beside the fireplace. One tastes like cherries and brings a delightful pink flush to your cheeks and lips, and the other tastes like nougat and makes you whistle like a songbird while you pull back your hair into a loose braid.

By the time you wander downstairs, Sebastian is already poking at the common room fireplace, cursing under his breath.

“Happy Christmas, Seb,” you call out, tucking your dressing robe tighter around your waist.

“Happy Christmas,” he mumbles distractedly. “It’s bloody freezing in here.”

You smile to yourself as you take a seat on the cozy settee across from the fireplace. Sebastian has managed to rustle up some extra firewood, undoubtedly from one of the empty boys’ dormitories, to ward off the chill of the common room.

“Do you want to borrow my scarf?” you ask him, teasingly preening as he glances over his shoulder at your new accessory. “It’s charmed to keep you warm.”

Sebastian frowns. “Who sent you that? Ominis?”

“No,” you say, throwing one of the scarf’s long ends across your shoulder. “Just this handsome fellow in Hogsmeade who’s grown quite fond of me.”

To your delight, Sebastian’s frown deepens. “What? Who?”

“Oh, you’ve met him,” you answer, feigning indifference. “He’s rather posh, very stylish, always dressed impeccably… You and I saved him from a troll once, if you recall.”

Sebastian bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning when he finally catches wind of your little ruse. “Ah, I see. Just playing one of your little games with me.”

“You make it far too easy,” you tease him, unraveling your scarf and gently draping it across his broad shoulders. “There, that ought to warm you up.”

(Immediately your mind starts to wander off as it conjures up images of how else you might warm up your unfairly handsome friend, but you’re quick to chastise it into silence.)

“You’re too kind, love,” he says, that ever-present smirk still on his lips.

Both of you are silent for several long moments while you hang on to the ends of the scarf, staring up into his warm brown eyes. His gaze dips down to your mouth when you bite your lip, and just as you’re about to ask him if he’d like to walk you to the Great Hall for breakfast, he blurts out, “I have a gift for you.”

“You – a gift?” you ask dumbly. “For me?”

“Of course,” he says softly. “Er, I should warn you that it’s nothing big, but… I wanted you to have it, so…”

He trails off quietly, fidgeting with the sleeve of his robe.

“I have a gift for you too,” you admit. “I left it upstairs. Can I go get it for you?”

“S-sure,” he stutters. “You bought me a gift?”

“Don’t be daft, Sallow,” you tease him. “I made you a gift.”

With that you turn on your heel and march back up the stairs to your dormitory, snagging the delicate potion bottle shaped like a cloud with an indigo ribbon wrapped around its neck. You gingerly turn it over in your hands, watching as the light purple draught inside swirls around languidly.

Downstairs, Sebastian waits for you with a small box tucked behind his back. He looks slightly nervous, you think, so you decide to offer him your gift first.

“Alright,” you say as you take a seat. “First, let me just say that I had Mister Pippin check this to make sure I did everything right, and he said it’s perfectly fine.”

(In fact, Pippin had said you’d done a brilliant job, but you don’t want to oversell yourself before Sebastian has had a chance to try your brew.)

Sebastian eyes the glass bottle as you offer it to him, gently turning it over in his hands.

“You made this?” he asks softly, and then he grins and asks, “Did Weasley help you at all? Because I already learned my lesson with his ‘Fizzing Whizzbeer,’ thank you very much.”

“No,” you insist, biting back a laugh as you remember Sebastian chugging a bottle of Garreth’s experimental brew and being stuck levitating a few feet above the ground for an entire afternoon. “No, I made this just for you.”

“What’s it do?” he asks curiously.

“Well, it’s… it’s a sleeping draught, sort of,” you say softly. “It’s got lavender for comfort, and valerian springs for restful sleep, but I added cinnamon and a bit of shrivelfig to create peaceful dreams.”

Sebastian slowly tips the bottle back and forth, watching the thin liquid dance around the bottle. “Peaceful, hm?”

You’ve known about his nightmares for a while now. He doesn’t like to talk about them often, but he’s admitted that since that day in the Catacombs, he’s hardly slept a full night without being plagued by visions of those damned Inferi, of his uncle’s limp body, of Anne’s face…

The bleary eyes and wan expression he sometimes wears to breakfast after a particularly hard night tell you everything you needed to know, and you’ve spent the last several weeks visiting Hogsmeade after class to work with Mister Pippin to create your own special draught. Not dreamless sleep, but better sleep.

“I just thought… that you deserve to have some good dreams,” you mumble.

The corner of Sebastian’s mouth quirks up. “I do have good dreams, sometimes.”

(You miss the way he glances over at you, raking his gaze down the length of your body. You miss how it lingers where your dressing robe has fallen open a bit, showing off the delicate neckline of the thin chemise you’re wearing underneath.)

“O-oh,” you stammer. “W-well, I suppose now you can… have more.”

You frown disappointedly until Sebastian rests his warm hand on your knee, gently holding the bottle against his chest with his other.

“Thank you,” he says. “Really, I can’t believe you made this just for me. Merlin, it’s… it’s a perfect gift.”

His gaze is heated, and intense, and something about it makes you want to squirm, so instead you breathily ask, “May I have my gift?”

Sebastian holds your gaze as he slowly nods, only letting it break it when he turns to grab the box he’d hidden behind himself. With trembling hands you lift the lid to find a small silver badge inside, reverently tucked inside a nest of tissue paper.

Your hands go still.

“Sebastian, is – is this…?” you whisper.

“My family’s crest,” he murmurs. “You’ve seen it once before, in our fifth year.”

Gently, you lift the crest out of the box and cradle it in your hands. The heat from your skin quickly starts to warm the cool metal, and you trace your fingertips over the “S” hammered into the center of the badge.

“What – how–” you stutter.

“Earlier this year, Anne sent it back to me,” he explains softly, watching with dark eyes as you pour over the symbols that adorn the crest: a cauldron, a flowering tree, a pair of crossed daggers, and a crescent moon.

“Why?” you whisper.

“I’m still not sure,” Sebastian says hollowly. “She just sent the crest, with no letter. But if I had to guess, I think… I think she wanted me to know that she’s safe, but not where she is. Not yet.”

You clutch the crest against your breast. “Oh, Sebastian…”

“It’s okay,” he says, his voice going rough. “It’s – that’s what it’s for, the crest. I gave it to her to keep her safe, and she gave it back to… to tell me that she’s alright. If that’s all she wants me to know, then… then it’s enough.”

You shift closer to him on the couch, the flickering fire casting dancing shadows along the side of his face.

“Why are you giving it to me?” you ask him curiously. “It’s beautiful, Sebastian, but – isn’t it important to you? To your family?”

He swallows nervously. “I don’t… have a family anymore. Not really. Anne is out there somewhere, safe without me, but… you and Ominis, you’re my only family now.”

You let the crest fall to your lap before you throw your arms around Sebastian, burying your face against that warm scarf of yours he’s still wearing. You don’t have the words to say how much this gift means to you, but you think he understands when he wraps his arms around you, skimming one of his large palms up and down the length of your back.

“It kept Anne safe, and – and now it will keep you safe,” he murmurs. “I don’t… I’m not sure you understand how much you mean to me. I need you to be safe.”

“S’bst’n,” you mumble into his shoulder. “Y’re m’vry’th’n.”

He laughs softly and asks, “Sorry, what was that?”

You pull back just enough to press your lips against the shell of his ear, knowing that if you meet his eyes you’ll never have the courage to tell him how you’ve truly felt about him since your fifth year.

“I said, ‘Sebastian, you’re my everything.’”

Then the hand he’d cupped around the back of your head slides down, down, until he nudges his thumb along your jaw to coax you out of your little hiding place. His eyes are so dark, and the soft whine he lets out before he crushes his lips to yours is all the warning you get, but then… then he’s kissing you.

“Seb,” you gasp into his mouth, and then he lightly tugs on the tie around your waist until you shift yourself halfway onto his lap. It feels like hours go by just like that, just the two of you alternating between lazy, curious kisses and frantic, needy surges every time one of you lets slip another heated confession.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”“You taste incredible.”“I don’t ever want to stop doing this.”

Eventually, you let your head rest on Sebastian’s shoulder while he trails soft kisses from the hinge of your jaw down to your shoulder and back. He’s ravenous, he’d told you himself, but it’s not until his stomach growls loudly between your bodies that you even remember that other type of hunger.

“We’ll miss breakfast if we don’t leave soon,” you whine.

“Let’s stay here,” he murmurs against your neck. “We can eat those chocolates you got from Ominis for breakfast.”

“That’s… tempting,” you sigh distractedly, and then you pause.

Leaning back, you quirk a brow and ask, “Sorry, the chocolates I got from Ominis?”

“Well, sure,” Sebastian says smoothly. “He sent me a book on cursebreaking, but I can taste fancy chocolate on your lips, so I assumed…”

“You filthy liar, Sebastian Sallow,” you laugh, throwing your head back. “He warned me you’d try to talk me out of my sweets!”

“To be fair, that’s hardly the only thing I’ll try to talk you out of,” he drawls, sliding his hands down to your hips. “Namely this robe of yours…”

“Scoundrel,” you croon, leaning down for another hungry kiss.

(Ominis’ chocolates make a decent breakfast, even if half of them melt by the fire, ignored entirely while Sebastian makes good on his suggestion regarding your robe.)

[headlessdino]

batfam hcs

really mundane headcanons about the batfam if they were a Normal, non-vigilante family with some sibling stuff

dick:

always calls shotgun before anyone else (jason) can and they all (jason) get really dramatic over it, esp when they're younger

liked to play mermaids as a kid

had a really bad rebellious phase and would go to parties every week and bruce could Not keep him in check

decorates his room with band posters and other stuff like that. a lot of photographs too.

weirdly competitive about board games

insanely bisexual

late night snacker

used to sleep walk

whistles while doing random tasks like they do in shows

jason:

really likes orange juice

has tattoos

probably got a good couple of shitty stick n pokes as a teenager that bruce only found out about years later

had a photography phase

decorates his room but not as hardcore about it as dick

reads a lot

hates going to bed hungry

really good at math

latino (chilean maybe)

tim:

"would you look at that! someone came out of his cave" (first time seeing his family in the past three days)

doesn't know how to swim (his parents forgot that was a Thing he had to lean at some point) and just tries his best when he's in the water because he doesn't want to admit he doesn't know how

stoner

is insane about chess

really messy room but he still knows exactly where everything is

picks up hobbies for like 2 weeks and then drops them

has a blog with movie reviews

his socks never match

conspiracy theorist

damian:

when he was younger and short he couldn't reach a lot of the kitchen cupboards so bruce bought a stepstool. he would only ever use it when he was by himself or with dick because of his pride

hates mint toothpaste

weirdly good speller

oil paints and makes sculpture

likes puzzles

goes on a lot of walks

plays tennis for his school team

bruce:

naturally wakes up really early

has mini drawer things on his desk

always wears long socks

has a pair of lucky socks

plays tennis with damian

old useless key collection

had a genuine emo phase as a kid and denies it whenever alfred tries to bring it up

got forced to work at a mcdonalds by alfred so the money wouldn't get to his head too much

extra:

all the kids have their names on their doors with the wooden letters

[emeritusemeritus]

Can we ever just be friends? [Fred Weasley x Reader]

Title: Can we ever just be friends?

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Gryffindor!Reader, Platonic!George x Reader.

Timeline: Non-Specified, though I envisioned GOF era Fred (the long hair has a chokehold on me)

Summary: Can boys and girls ever be friends without wanting to shag? Ginny wants to know.

Warnings: Mentions of shagging? Slightly possessive Fred? Just a silly little drabble.

“Dean tried to kiss me!” Ginny says with a roll of her eyes as she plonks herself down next to you on the couch in the common room. It was a boring Saturday afternoon at school with no Hogsmeade trip planned and so you were wasting time in the common room with your group of friends.

Hermione was sat on one of the armchairs reading, Harry and Ron were in a fierce battle of wizard’s chess sat around the wooden coffee table, their board and pieces littered all around. Your best friends George and Fred were sat on the floor near your feet, fiddling with some new experiment they were working on whilst you read your muggle book in relative piece.

You turned to Ginny with a confused look, sensing her displeasure at the fact Dean had tried to kiss her.

“I thought you liked Dean?” You asked, placing down your book.

“I like him as a friend,” she huffed, “but I thought we were friends, not anything more.” You hummed in reply, understanding what she was saying.

“What’s the issue?” Ron asks, confused. She huffs again and rolls her eyes at her brother’s cluelessness.

“I thought we were just friends, he was nice to me, all this time we’ve spent and he was just a slimeball the entire time! Boys are so frustrating!”

“Woah woah!” George says, trying to defend himself from being lumped together just by his sex, “we’re not all slimeballs.”

You fix him with a look of suspicion, knowing for a fact he was not above slimeball level and he merely sarcastically smiles back at you.

“Oh really?” Ginny says, not believing him one bit. “We’ve been best friends with y/n for years, haven’t made a move on her yet,” George says and you roll your eyes, holding up your middle finger at him.

“So you really think boys and girls can be best friends without wanting to shag each other?” She asks, still not convinced.

“Yes,” George says, nodding.

“No,” Fred says absently, realising a moment later that he’d said that out loud as he looked at you with slightly wide eyes at his outburst. You’re frozen as you look back at him, your own features conveying your surprise.

George coughs, trying to ease the sudden tension but it only seems to increase the awkwardness as you and Fred stare at each other.

“I’m gonna say no too,” you admit, smirking at Fred who bursts out into a smile, a light blush tickling his cheeks. He recovers quickly and shoots you a wink before turning back to his project, each of you following his lead as you try to carry on like normal once again, ignoring the elephant in the room.

“Oh thank god,” George says sarcastically, turning to you, “now we can shag without me feeling like a slimeball.”

He’s immediately hit in the back of the head by his slightly older twin brother as you laugh.

“Get your own best friend to want to shag, she’s mine,” Fred mumbles, “I hear Lee’s free if you need someone.”

[khristie16]

The Fast and Forbidden

Charles is a famous F1 driver with everything one could want: fame, fortune, and fans. But he is missing one thing. Being his new personal assistant changes everything for both of them.

— chapter 2 An unspoken connection gradually weaves between them—forged through chess, shared glances, and a mysterious musical encounter.

warnings: sweet af, sexual tension, invading privacy (not the intention), sentimental and romantic author's note: hi guuys, i missed you, uni gets the best of me the past couple months. I received some new requests and I have them all saved for future work. Don't worry, now I have more free time:) stay awesome! taglist: @buendiabebeta, @pondysselth, @clomo12345, @naty-1001, @maxv33rstappen, @f1lov3r, @cmleitora

The next day, I found myself 10,000 meters in the sky, going at such a fast speed that I was relieved my stomach didn't protest. Our destination was Charles's home. I'd never been to Monaco, and my curiosity grew as we got closer. What would it be like standing in the middle of a street, taking in all the beautiful scenery with my own eyes? I adore the sea and warm weather, the culture, and the food. I appreciate different things. That's one more reason I took this job — the chance to travel. It can really shake up your whole routine, but the opportunity to see Monaco and Singapore in less than a week was unimaginable just two months ago. Thank goodness this job pays well.

Watching Charles absorbed in his iPhone made me feel unwelcome. It seemed like I could make funny faces, and he wouldn't even notice. It wasn't a new feeling for me. Sometimes, during quiet nights, I wondered why he was so distant, especially when I'd seen him be a sunshine around others. Initially, I thought it was because we were purely business for each other. But that could apply to anyone on the Ferrari team. Maybe I was overthinking it, and the simple reason was that he just didn't like me. I decided to let it go; there were better things to focus on. Tilting my head, I wondered if things might improve over time. Silently grumbling, I readjusted my seat, still lost in thoughts about him.

"Hey, do you play chess?"

I looked at him like he was an alien and gulped nervously. Yes, I had played chess — once. And to top it off, I was still learning the basics. Not something I was proud of, but hey, not everyone can be Ron Weasley. I laughed like a maniac at my own joke, resulting in his raised eyebrows.

"Sorry… and no, I've never learned."

Surprise and interest showed in his body language as he leaned closer, his blue T-shirt moving against his skin. With a surprisingly high-pitched voice, he laughed.

"Really?"

Fire me or spare me, but please, not this. I didn't know where to focus first — on his beautiful dimples or the fact that he just laughed at me? The smile vanished from his face as he seemed to notice my confusion, but he still smiled with his eyes.

"I mean, I'm surprised. It's like when Carlos once told me he listens to jazz in the morning."

I burst into laughter. It sounded so much like Carlos.

"I just thought you played chess. You look so serious."

Okay, this is getting worse. I must have looked like a crazy woman with diagnosed schizophrenia, and he tells me I look serious? Tell that to a woman, and you shut her down completely. Readjusting my seat again, I focus on the rug under the wooden table.

"I can teach you if you want."

Lifting my gaze, I try to find some hidden answers behind his green eyes, but all I feel is a hot sensation in the pit of my stomach. Wearing a white tank top, I know it's not because of the fabric. He's genuinely smiling, and I take a pause to exhale before nodding my head.

"Do you like to play a lot?"

I ask to smooth things between us, but he just nods and focuses back on the chess pieces on the board. Turning my head to the side, I notice that the closer, the less cloudy it is outside, and I feel an energetic shiver run down my spine.

"I always win. But for you, — I'll make an exception."

My heart stops beating. Why is it so hot in here all of a sudden?

After we landed, our shared ride slipped into an uneasy quiet. In the midst of my spontaneous chess lesson with Charles, laughter and focus filled the air, creating a vibrant atmosphere akin to the scattered energy of someone wrestling with ADHD. Amid our animated conversation, I lost track of our surroundings; the outside world turned into a distant blur.

A smile graced Charles's lips as he locked eyes with me. In that shared gaze, a fleeting connection unfolded. Happiness shimmered in his green eyes, and an unexplainable urge to draw closer wrapped around me. It felt as if his eyes held a depth I yearned to explore. However, the moment dissolved abruptly. Charles, with a subtle shift in demeanor, reverted to his usual aloofness, extinguishing the warmth that had briefly ignited between us.

"I got my keys copied for you in case you need something from my apartment," he offered, extending the keys.

An unexpected gesture left me grappling with a mix of surprise and uneasiness. Taking the keys, I delicately stashed them into my bag, careful not to make direct contact with his skin.

"My driver will first go to your place. Tell him the address," Charles instructed. Uncomfortable, I shifted in my seat, seeking distraction by scanning the outside world. Families strolled happily, painting picturesque scenes. A flicker of yearning for such simplicity rose within me—an ache for a love that protects and cherishes.

"YN?" Charles's voice interrupted my reverie, demanding my attention.

"I don't have a home," I stated matter-of-factly, my gaze returning to the outside world. Despite the nonchalant tone, the admission carried a weight that lingered in the air.

"I need to visit some company for renting a flat here."

I took in a deep breath, feeling the cool air settle around me. My eyes drifted down, observing how the white tank top hugged my body like a second skin, accentuating the curves beneath. Fingers idly played with the fabric, a quiet excitement brewing inside. In my mind, thoughts twirled, a hidden longing to peel away the clothing, exposing the vulnerability beneath. And this is what Charles does to me. And it is getting dangerous.

"I know a place," Charles declared. He reached for his phone, dialed a number, and engaged in a focused conversation. His determined expression and the play of his toned arms intrigued me. A heat lingered in the air, intensifying the atmosphere within the car.

"Ciao l'amigo," Charles spoke into the phone.

Charles's words flowed, a steady stream escaping his perfect pink lips. My gaze fixated on his profile, an intense scrutiny fueled by a hunger simmering beneath the surface —an irresistible force tempting me to devour him, a longing I hadn't anticipated when accepting this job.

The struggle intensified, threatening to override the professional boundaries I had naively assumed would be steadfast. As Charles's eyes met mine, a sudden freeze paralyzed me in place. His gaze lingered, delight evident in the subtle nuances of his expression, as if he sought to unveil the secrets hidden in the depths of my eyes. The hum of conversation from his friend acted as a backdrop to this silent exchange, heightening the tension that hung between us. I braced myself in anticipation, uncertain of what he sought to uncover.

Abruptly, his attention shifted, his head turning back to its previous position. A wide smile adorned his face as he concluded the call, the sheer charm of it momentarily rendering me breathless. Even without facing me, he seamlessly transitioned to a task on his phone, leaving me suspended in a state of uncertainty and unspoken intrigue.

"I found you a free apartment. Do not worry about money," he said, his attention now absorbed in his phone, leaving me to deal with the unexpected twist.

Days slipped away, and the looming Grand Prix trip to Japan demanded my attention. I meticulously handled remote tasks for Charles, consciously keeping a distance to avoid the unraveling of my composure under the weight of desire. Knowing Charles would be engrossed in a morning squash match with his brothers, I discreetly seized the opportunity to attend to a domestic task: swapping clean laundry for the soiled.

Entering his apartment, arms loaded with bags, I navigated purposefully down the hallway. A distant melody reached my ears, halting my steps. Recognizing the tune, my thoughts paused, and I followed the enchanting notes to their origin.

In the sunlit living room, a grand piano stood like a silent sentinel. There, orchestrating a melancholic melody, was Charles. Our eyes met as I stood there, and he smiled in response to the unexpected serenade.

"That's 'Sadness and Sorrow,'" I stated the obvious, and Charles observed me cautiously. Surprisingly, I overcame hesitation, moving closer and placing my hand on the piano keys. Each note, played with sincerity, carried a hum of remembrance. Charles shifted, creating space for me to join him. As I sat down, my focus on the piano, he positioned his hands beside mine, and we began to play in harmony.

Eyes closed, I allowed the music to transport me, feeling the warmth of our synchronized notes. The vibrational waves between us painted an imagined scene, where I lay on the sea's surface, gently swaying with the waves.

The room resonated with harmonious echoes, our shared melody creating a tangible connection between Charles and me. Vibrational waves seemed to ripple, as if an unseen force wove a tapestry of connection, binding our notes into a seamless symphony. Amid our synchronized play, the world around us faded, and I found myself transported to a different realm.

In my mind's eye, I lay on a mat, gently drifting atop the surface of a tranquil sea. The sun cast a warm embrace, painting the water with hues of gold and azure. The waves, like delicate fingers, played a tender serenade, cradling my body with rhythmic caresses. I surrendered to the immersive sensation, the music becoming the gentle current that carried us on this shared journey.

With Charles beside me, the connection forged through the shared music was palpable, creating a timeless moment where the ordinary world ceased to exist. It was a serendipitous encounter, a convergence of hearts and melodies, leaving me suspended in the beauty of our shared composition on the sea of music.

A genuine smile adorned my face as we played, stealing glances at Charles. His concentration on the music was profound, but when our gazes met, I detected an ocean of emotions in his eyes. The desire to caress his cheek and offer comfort overwhelmed me.

Our fingers danced on the keys, minds lost in the melody. As Charles and I maintained our gaze, I discerned a myriad of colors in his eyes, each shade revealing a facet of emotion that resonated with the melodic symphony we created. In this suspended moment, his face drew nearer, an invisible force pulling us together until we were so close that our breaths mingled, and the air became a shared essence.

The piano keys, now a conduit for our unspoken connection, echoed the final cadence of the song. With a delicate touch, my right arm, closer to him, found a resting place on my thigh, bridging the physical space between us. As the final chords resonated, the room held its breath, encapsulating the unspoken intensity of our shared musical communion. And Charles, hesitating only briefly, mirrored the gesture, his eyes lingering on my lips.

"You're the boat I would protect in my full stormy ocean," he spoke, and the sweet sentiment ignited warmth within. In that moment, nothing else existed but him and his words, a connection forged through music and unspoken understanding.

[nqmonarch]

Afraid of Falling in Love

Short drabble before class

You cared about Jing Yuan more than you liked to admit. The two of you had known each other for a while, you getting to meet the esteemed figure after the fall out of the High Cloud Quintet. You'd been friends for hundreds of years, and for the last hundred or so you've been struggling to keep the relationship together.

You never would've expected it to be so difficult so be friends with someone you loved romantically.

You'd always been afraid of getting close to people, even now Jing Yuan was one of your two friends. You'd been alive hundreds of years and experienced countless betrayals that came with some problems. It wasn't anything big but all of the small things piled up.

You looked at Jing Yuan warily but he remained calm, his catlike smile ever present on his face, laying there lazily. You couldn't understand why he would trust outsiders with such an important task. He should've sent someone like you to go capture Kafka, what if these people were secretly working with Kafka? What if someone on the Xianzhou was working with Kafka?

What if... Jing Yuan himself was working with Kafka? Your heart dropped, quivering fearfully in its cage. He'd sent the outsiders knowing they would fail-- no, no that didn't make any sense.

"Something wrong?" His deep voice pulled you out your thoughts, easing your nerves. It was a wonderful voice, one you could listen to all day, you had to wonder what other noises it could make. How would his-- no, bad thoughts.

You trusted Jing Yuan sure, but... he was a native resident of the Xianzhou he'd eventually succumb to mara, and so would you. How could either of you trust the other?

One day one of you would be replaced by a monstrous creature, one that may threaten to kill not only citizens but the person you hold dearest. One day it would all be over. To love someone is to allow them to hold your vulnerable heart in threatening hands and trust that they won't do anything. It is to know neither of you will ever hurt the other.

It hurts most to be hurt by those you love, even if they're no longer themselves.

"Y/N?" The voice chimed again, and you blinked looking over to Jing Yuan across the chess board, "Are you upset with me?" His eyes looked at you with so much love you wanted to run away.

You moved the chariot piece in an attempt to corner him, "No, I trust in your judgement." He ignored your move, continuing to gaze into your eyes, causing you to shift a bit of anxiety welling up in your heart.

Jing Yuan reached across the board, resting his hand on yours, "But are you upset with me?"

You frowned, looking down at his warm hand feeling the callouses on it, "How could I ever be upset with you?"

"You're upset with yourself then," He concluded, removing his hand, and standing up with ease, walking over to you, his feet hitting the wooden floor.

You looked up at him quizzically, eyes drifting down to the hand he offered you. "Not really," You took his hand, feeling your heart speed up. You felt nauseated at being so close to him. It wasn't a particularly bad feeling though. But you felt sick.

Jing Yuan helped you up and then smiled at you, moving too fast for you to react and placing his lips on your cheek. "Be kind to yourself. Be happy for what we have now."

Sure, the two of you weren't in a relationship. You were pretty sure he was just waiting for you but... one day he won't be him, and you'll be forced to see him become what you've been taught to despise the most. But wouldn't it be best to enjoy his company while you still can?

You can't stop yourself from being in love, no matter how afraid of it you are.

Love is love, that's all.

am slightly sick so missed class today, which included a quiz, emailed teacher about it

teacher is like sorry we don't do makeup work

i'll keep that in mind if ur ever late on a grade i don't accept late grades and if you're ever too sick to teach class i'm not doing the work for that day unless if we do it another day in class.

it's very tilting considering in the past when i was in highschool we had a perfect attendance award (key word had) until some kid threw up 5x in one day while in school. bro refused to go home bcus he wanted the award.

don't incentivize students to come to class sick.

[lady-boketto]

Gaming Headcanons (Call of Duty)

A/n: This is not canon at all and I thought it would be fun to think about what kind of games and gamer the CoD men would be

Price:

Price does not have a lot of gaming experience but he likes to be included in game nights

He's the one who rages the most when he is playing games (but it's mostly when he is playing multiplayer games)

Price prefers board games rather than digital ones (likes the atmosphere that is created when gathering around the table with close friends to sit down and have some fun it)

Don't ever ask him to play poker because he can and will kick your ass (unless you are a poker legend or you manage to cheat without him noticing)

He has his own personal chess board to play with (it's a nice quality wooden one that's not too big so that he can bring it with him to pass time when he doesn't have access to the internet)

Gaz:

A true master of gaming, like there's no game out there that this man won't be good at

Also kind of a sore loser when someone finally manages to beat him, Gaz kind of lets out this big sigh and crosses his arms over his chest while looking off into the corner but he doesn't stay this way for long, it more of a 'in the moment' situation (Gaz is more frustrated that he wasn't good enough to win this round but knows there will be other chances)

Gaz equally enjoys playing digital games as much as he does when he plays a board game (his favorite board game to play is monopoly, since he can get very strategic while he plays and is very easily annoyed when he's sitting in monopoly jail)

Soap:

Johnny is the person who tries to tell stories over the mic only to realize that he's been on mute for the past ten minutes (the rest of the group was wondering why he was so quiet all of the sudden)

He also has a Nintendo switch ( He has a Nintendo lite in the color blue) but he loves playing Mario Kart or any of the Mario Parties and loves it when you get frustrated when he steals first place or star from you (he gives his famous laugh and pecks your cheek while telling you how much he loves you while committing the vile act)

Trolls/griefs a ton. He thinks it's funny when other players scream curse words at him and never misses an opportunity to provoke them even further. (he laughs his ass off when they rage quit or if he has to read their attempt to argue back at him in the game chat)

He actually likes spending multiple hours on a game. Grinding to get the best stuff just so he can brag about it the next day.

Soap also does occasionally broadcast his game play with others (because he likes to look back on the memories when he feeling alone or that he just needs something to cheer his mood up a little)

Ghost:

Ghost is the type of person who would say they only play multiplayer games but likes to secretly play the cozy single player games like animal crossing and Stardew Valley (he rant to you about how unfair Isabella is when rating his island a mere 3 stars or how he often forgets to go back to his house before 2 am because he was too focused on the monsters and loot in the mines.)

Even though he doesn’t mind online multiplayer games to play with the rest of squad 141, he also doesn’t mind to play co-op games with you (his favorites to play are it takes two or playing some version of call of duty zombies on a split screen, he takes pride in protecting you in co-op games or he shyly admits a thank you when you revive him)

He just likes strategic games in general, you will find him often playing chess with Price ( when you watch them play, they always take the longest time possible to make their move, it seems like they both go through every possible move until they find the best position to move forward but the game is always interrupted by something that needs one or the other’s attention)

[chocsra]

"I see sparks, (really?)"

15! Chuuya x chess player! fem! reader - HIGHSCHOOL AU

A/N: hi guys ik i got requests but i found this idea on tiktok and thought it was so cute so apologies <3 content: pre-relationship, highschool au, idiots in love?, smart! reader, reader sucks at sports, soccer player! chuuya, no intimacy, chess player! reader, i suck at chess so bear w me, chuuyas based off daniel padilla in shes dating the gangster, this sucks and i hate it

Nakahara Chuuya wasn't a fan of strategic games,

even though he got straight As in almost every class, Chuuya hated any and every activity that required him to think and use his brain effectively. A memory he particularly remembered was losing over and over in his famous arcade game; Tekken - and to Osamu? The weird guy he found himself begrudgingly calling him a best friend. The short, competitive ginger boy that loved soccer religiously, hated using his brain; he loved thinking with his legs, or mouth. And he enjoyed it that way.

Focusing on tests and studying wasn't at all foreign to you; sometimes you admit, you loved the academic validation - but the habit just came from your parents pushing you further and further to be able to call themselves stable. An activity you particularly enjoyed was chess, a game with simple rules; ran by the crown of a checkered board. You love searching for possibilites, and using that against someone for the sweet feeling of victory. Chess provided endless possibilites of a win, a stretch in the brain that you felt as if nobody else had - a challenge that wallowed in the sense of logic.

So seeing your classmate, Chuuya Nakahara harshly drop his bag off his shoulders and messily take a seat infront of you in the Chess club's room, was indeed very foreign to you.

Your eyes flited towards his sharp ones; a piercing gaze followed by the uproar of azure gems that bored into the hard wooden table seperating you two. The boy was not the tallest, but he was fairly defined with his body and was well-affiliated with sports such as taekwondo. His hair was messily tied into a low ponytail, swooped to the side. He had silky copper locks with pretty bangs that cascaded his appealing face; sweat was mixed within the soft roots of his hair from being in the sun all day; and from the sun peeking through the windows of the classroom, you could see light bits of freckles spread out across his face.

Nakahara Chuuya wasn't popular, not at all to you; you admit, the boy infront of you would be insanely attractive if he had won the genetic lottery regarding height. However, many girls in the school would agree; Nakahara Chuuya was still attractive.

"Do you need anything?" you ask with a cocked brow, shifting around as you rearrange the pieces on your chess board, providing a clean start if he were to start a match. The redhead scratched his temple, his hands were well defined and inherently soft-looking; his pale skin matched right up to his features. "Hey, [Y/N], right?" he asks, staring at you, since the boy's medium hair was unusally thrown into a ponytail, your eyes wandered to his red jersey and matching basketball shorts; defined arms and shoulders peeking out. "Wanna play a match? Just askin'."

"Hmph," you almost cackle in amusement, this dumbass really didn't know what he was getting himself into. You didn't like to call yourself a nerd, but you were definitely the best player in chess in the school. "yeah, sure." you slightly push the board towards the redhead, prepared for by far the easiest game of your life.

Easiest,

Right, easiest.

You could visit and investigate the seven wonder's of the world and the answer to your mystery would be far from solved. Chuuya strikingly muttered "Checkmate," as your knitted brows fell into shocked ones. "Damn," you curse under your breath, the ginger placed a palm under his cheek, a little bit confused that he won too. The boy's sweaty hair dried from the golden sunlight complimenting his dazzling features in the worst timing possible - the sweatband wrapped around his head lifted his ginger bangs slightly.

"Well," the redhead gets up begrudgingly, a proud smile present on his face, leaving you hanging. "I gotta go," he quips happily. "This was really fun." Chuuya smiles, patting your shoulder affectionately as he passes by you to leave. What the fuck?

If word got out that Nakahara Chuuya, beat you fair and square in a chess match, your reputation as a smart kid would be maybe a little tainted. Fret not, you would ask for a rematch with the boy, this time sure you would win. His victory made you a little angry towards him; sometimes wishing he'd get hit with a soccer ball, or stuck in a basketball hoop. But the antagonistic view you had on the ginger changed, as you saw him talking with the gym coach.

"Oh yeah - I got to play a chess match with [Y/N]." The boy added, placing his hands in the pockets of his school uniform, your gym coach's eyebrows raised in curiosity. "Ah, [Y/N]?" The relationship of physical education and you were not on the best terms, so seeing the school's coach talking casually with the shorter boy was definitely unusual. Chuuya softly kicked a rock on the ground, his hair almost perfectly framing his face. "Mhm," he mutters, then turning back to look at your teacher. "So who won?"

A gaping feeling in your chest arose as the words came out of your coach's mouth - if a teacher or two finds out you got wrecked by the athletic delinquent, you would for sure be done for, right? The redhead chuckles and sctratches the side of his temple, seething his teeth as you wait in anticipation,

"She did."

[azulyrae]

❛ —— 𝐈𝐈𝐈 : The Knight.

azriel seemed to be as ruthless with his apprentices as he was with his opponents — and [name] learned soon enough that the title of an archeron did nothing to smooth his edges when it came to her training.

with their hours well-spent and words that lingered amidst the border between the intrinsic fear of vulnerability and the desperate urge for connection, azriel and [name] willingly started to entangle one another in the invisible web placed upon them by fate.

yet, their bond alone is not enough to displace their inner demons, and it is up to them both to establish how far they are willing to allow their secluded training period to take them.

the third chapter of onyx sword of sorrow.

check the original post to be aware of the trigger warnings.

azriel/fem!archeron sister. reader with mind control & the ability to shapeshift.

pinterest board / spotify playlist.

word-count: 7K.

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

— Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare.

The scalding light of the midday Sun made the sweat pool on her nape and bind the light tissue of [Name]’s long-sleeved shirt to the skin underneath. Regardless of her panting, Azriel’s pace remained ruthless, as though the heat was of no bother when it came to his jogging. As she tried — and failed — to reach him, [Name] reminisced the night before, when the moon stood tall and proud in the night sky, and the breeze was refreshing and less erratic. 

Azriel had lost match after match, with [Name] cornering him at each and every strategy that he meant to engage in. Thirty — at best, thirty-five — movements on their part, and the Spymaster was left with a limited amount of choices: to surrender peacefully, or to try to postpone the inevitable and be predictably crushed. Five matches in with the morrow drawing close, [Name] noted that she scarcely had five questions of her own for him to answer. In order to have doubts regarding a person’s life and achievements, one needed to know the basics of the other, and [Name] refused to waste a single question — since she had battled with her wits and strategies to win her matches, — in a stupid inquiry such as what was his favorite food or weather. So, smug and malicious, she had suggested for them to engage in an unprecedented strand of chess: the quick chess. Their plays were less pondered, for their time to move their pieces were scarce, and, therefore, the mental space offered for a well-planned strategy and predictions was close to none. [Name] was sure that she would win yet another match, since her opponent had never engaged in a match of quick chess before, but her arrogance would be soon humbled, since Azriel began to win — round after round, match after match, — until they were tied: each one had the right to ask five questions, where the other was naturally obliged to answer honestly. 

Her competitive spirit and stubbornness muted all but the occurrences on the board as [Name] studied the pieces after a loss, guaranteeing that she would not commit the same error twice. Yet, despite her very efforts, it seemed as though Azriel had been expecting her every move, countering her every strategy, and she was left dumbfounded at the seemingly never-ending streak of defeats that unraveled right before her eyes. The male, however, seemed to have noticed — or either learned for that matter, — something about her during those matches, and his insight was surprising when, roughly four or five hours later, he expressed his thoughts at the table, while [Name] drank a warm cup of black coffee. 

“You were not exactly made for a full-blown sword fight,” he said it back then, and she raised an eyebrow, suddenly on edge.

“What is that supposed to mean?” [Name] had asked carefully, placing her mug on the wooden table.

“Close-ranged fights are chaotic, fast, erratic. They require quick thinking, the confidence that your body and muscles are prepared for the battle at hand: your brain and acts must be in perfect sync, otherwise your head will be sliced from your neck before you can raise your sword in a defensive stance, regardless of either your mind was capable of predicting that the was blow coming or not,” Azriel explained, stirring his porridge bowl. “Quick chess is a lot like it. The time to think is narrowed, and rather than to move a piece while thinking about a distant situation, you need to adapt with what you’re presented and create the best strategy possible with the very few seconds you’re offered. I’m a warrior, a soldier, those confrontations are second nature to me. You’re a strategist.”

“I never believed that to be a bad thing,” she bitterly answered, unsure of what to make of his precise comments.

“It isn’t,” Azriel countered, and [Name] nearly collapsed at the sight of his warm, hazel eyes landing on her face with such consideration. “Battles and wars are doomed without strategy. An army can’t expect to win without order and pre-established positioning, and you’re a fantastic strategist, [Name].”

She blushed, unable to tell whether it was over the sincere compliment, or the fact that he had voiced her name as though it was a natural thing; the sound of it on his tongue presenting itself as a dangerously addictive substance to her ears. Mayhap, she had blushed over both of those.

“You predicted the Mortal Queens’ plans, managed to help us destabilize the formation of Hybern’s army, and went as far as outwitting more experienced and older High-Lords and Generals.”

His praises seemed as though a precedent for a bitter truth, a low punch to her well-placed confidence. “But?”

“But, in a full-blown hand-to-hand battle, you would be useless.”

Azriel was brutal. His analytics were not once incorrect, and he rarely ever did try to sugarcoat his words. He strived for excellence in his students, that much was clear, and she doubted that the Spymaster would take it easy on her merely because she was the older sister of his High-Lady. Unaware of her grim reaction — or not caring about it whatsoever, — Azriel continued.

“Shifting into whichever being you desire and going as far as masking your scent is an incredibly useful ability. That, combined with your commanding voice and the strength granted by the body of a High-Fae is—”

“Catastrophic,” she intervened then, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Incredible,” he corrected, his voice slightly softer. “But mortals as well as faes are well aware of our strength and how to counter it. Faebane, ash-made weaponry: those are threats none of us is immune to.”

[Name] stirred her own porridge, grimacing at the dull taste once the spoon met her lips. “Which means, I will need to learn how to handle myself without those abilities.”

He grinned. “Scared?”

“Excited,” she had corrected. “I’m not used to magic, as you pointed it out. And to be fair, I’d rather never grow to rely on it either.”

[Name] thought she had covered the bitterness in her tone well enough. However, Azriel creased his forehead and tilted his head to the side with curiosity, scanning her features for further understanding. “Why?”

“Is that a chess-question?”

“A chess-question?”

“Yes,” another spoonful of porridge and she was done, grimacing just as much as before. “The question we earned through a victory in chess, whose answer is mandatory and must be sincere.”

Azriel crossed his arms against his chest, and it took her every ounce of focus in her nerves not to stare at the flexed muscles. “Well, then yes. That was a chess-question.”

“I like getting my hands dirty,” she answered him immediately. “I have never once agreed to hiring a maiden to do my tasks. I have learned how to cook; how to tidy my clothes; how to read and write so that I could send my own letters; I remember going as far as learning how to draw my own prototypes of ships, so that I would not need to rely on external brands once my father passed down his legacy to me. I remember refusing further aid as soon as I learned something — whether it was politics, to lie, to tell a seasoning from another by the scent, and many others.”

[Name] stopped for a second, her eyes getting lost on the half-empty mug of coffee as the memories from her earliest years of life came back in a haze of pain and nostalgia. She could feel Azriel’s attention on her, his gaze lingering as though a spark that could set her entire being aflame if she was not careful.

“I was particularly fond of the thought process that came with the activities I engaged with. The path that led to the end was more enjoyable than the end itself. Magic makes it all… easier. I don’t need to cook, or walk down the way to the library to fetch myself a book, or even prepare my own bath. It’s easy to forget the hardships when things start to get offered to you on a silver platter.”

His silence was not one accompanied by uneasiness. In fact, Azriel’s presence was anything but. There were, she presumed, many obvious reasons for that: he was much experienced; had a vast knowledge of combat and strategizing; the shadows answered to his every command, and could hide his figure from the eye-sight in a second; that, combined to his willingness to learn more and to polish fields in which he was yet not perfect at, brewed a capable individual, a lethal weapon built on a muscular body. However, it was not the clear threat that Azriel inspired in their enemies that soothed her nerves. It was his stance towards her; the manner with which his eyes seemed to reflect a pool of warm honey whenever they met hers; it was the lack of judgment, the respect of boundaries, and most importantly: the rare perception of noticing when one didn’t need advices or pity, but simply to vent a little. 

Azriel could’ve said something back then. [Name] was well aware of the fact that he neither agreed nor disagreed with her beliefs regarding magic, but that he had a thing or two to point out whatsoever, and out of respect, chose not to. For decades, she managed to hide her heart well and in plain sight — no one could catch on a single thought of hers through her expressions unless she so desired, no one could predict her next movement until the very last moment, — no one but, as it seemed, Azriel. Her decision not to rely much on magic was based on fear and failed logic, both entangled in roots of [Name]’s mortal past that she was not yet willing to let go. He caught onto that, but didn’t say a thing about it regardless. Because, somehow during the past year and through their previous interactions, he had learned that his interjections in situations such as those wouldn’t be at all welcomed — that [Name] valued ruthlessness and honesty so long as her most hidden feelings were not involved.

The sense of being stripped from her barriers in another person’s presence, to be so deeply seen and understood, was one that she had never experienced before, and [Name] had yet to decide whether she wished for that to linger or not. It would be a relief to be more than an inscrutable puzzle, but the thought was one that brought great dread, for she had hidden below countless facades for a long period of time, and was unsure of what to make of the person awaiting underneath. To shapeshift was to tear a path through another’s skin, to live on another’s body. It was more than fitting for the Cauldron to have given her such an ability, and that statement filled [Name] with a sense of corruption, as if her soul was a fragmented and treacherous thing that deserved to have the means with which to be hidden.

Incredible, Azriel’s voice echoed through her thoughts: his answer to when she had insinuated the vile character of her powers. And while the terror settled at the pit of her stomach whenever she dared to ponder on the possibility of being thoroughly seen by someone else, Azriel’s presence made it seem as though that wasn’t entirely negative.

She wouldn’t ask him to change the subject. She wouldn’t cower if he chose to press on the reasons behind her discomfort with magic. She would neither beg nor argue if Azriel so decided to vex her with questions she was unwilling to answer. However, when he raised from his seat and said: “Let’s craft a warrior out of your strategist’s skin,” [Name] was grateful anyway.

Of course, the Archeron decided that she wouldn’t have been as grateful if she was to know beforehand how demanding his training-style was. After five more laps around the shore, Azriel caved to the sound of her breathless curses and chose to spare her a few minutes of rest. That is if one could even call walking a proper pause. 

“If you were to sit, your muscles would grow lazy, and it would be twice as hard to return to the exercise afterwards,” Azriel had explained with a shrug after noticing her ugly stare, but the grin plastered on his face as he oh-so-thoughtfully matched her pace was enough to let her know that he hadn’t forgotten of her little jest the day before.

The wind did nothing to relieve the heat, for it suffered with the influence of the Sun above them, and as [Name] walked, her feet seemed to succumb to the weight of the sand at each step, and she felt a sudden wave of dizziness.

Fitting enough, as soon as her mind processed the state of her body, a long, dark wing appeared behind her back, meeting her shoulder-blades and bolstering her up. Azriel spared a single side-glance before he mentioned: “You wouldn’t be this lightheaded if you had chosen something suitable for intense training sessions.”

And [Name] was well aware of what he meant: the stupid long-sleeved shirt that she wore was doing nothing to prevent her heat exhaustion. Yet, the thought of uncovering what was underneath the fabric was so unthinkable that she gritted her teeth and straightened her posture.

“I can handle it well enough.”

“You’re smarter than this,” he immediately countered. “And I’m sure that you understand that your choice of clothing is slowing both of us down. This pact of ours won’t work unless I can train you properly.”

“I know,” she snapped, staring at him — or what she figured was him, considering that the sunlight nearly blinded her as she did so, — and Azriel raised an eyebrow as he reciprocated her glance.

“Then, what’s the matter?” The Spymaster insisted, his tone being enough an indicator that he wasn’t planning on changing the subject.

“I’d rather use long-sleeved shirts.”

“No one in their right mind would opt for warm clothes on a beach under the midday Sun.”

“Then we will conclude that I’m both smart and deranged.”

“[Name],” he sternly called, and perhaps it was because he had finally halted in his steps, no longer walking or running, but she turned on her heels to meet his figure, feeling compelled to let that banter go. “What’s the matter?”

At his repetition, the words escaped her mouth before her mind managed to demand otherwise. “Is that a chess-question?”

He blinked, his mouth parting ever-so-slightly in shock. “Is the answer that delicate?”

She merely nodded, freeing her mind from the memories that surfaced at the reason behind her reluctance. Azriel read enough through her reactions though, because he proceeded to scratch his nape with an unusual concern. “One that, I presume, you’re not prepared to answer.”

“I’m not.”

“Meaning that you’re also irreducible in terms of wearing proper clothes for the hot weather,” she cocked her hip, about to give him a verbal answer, when Azriel crossed his arms against his chest with a grumble. “Morning jogs aren’t merely meant to strengthen your physique and stamina, they also take on the position of a warm-up to the rest of our training for the day.”

None of those sentences were unprecedented. [Name] understood both the importance of those hellish laps and the stupidity of her obstinacy regarding the inadequate clothes that she packed. However, it was one thing to have part of her motivations and thoughts laid bare under the preciseness of his glance; it was another thing entirely to offer him the view of the physical scarring that followed-in-suit to the past that [Name] so heavily relied on and ran away from. Azriel’s intonation filled her with reluctance as she pondered on a possible mistake of judgment, fearing a disappointment that would surely occur was he to insist on the subject.

However, Azriel merely bit his lip — vexing her profusely, for that proved to be an efficient distraction, — and continued: “We will still run every day. I chose the beach on purpose, since the sand will help build your musculature faster, and will fix your poor resistance and the bad management of your breathing. However, we can jog under the moonlight for a while.”

She sighed in relief, but the feeling was short-lived as Azriel’s words carried on. “I was planning to train you in the forest above during the afternoon and first hours of the night. It was mainly to increase your fae-senses, as I noticed you’re neither using nor understanding them and their full potential. But for now, I guess we can use the forest to work on your aim and footwork and your fighting abilities overall.”

“Thank you, I—”

“It’s temporary,” he pointed out, interrupting her. “I’m far beyond the idea of forcing you to share painful memories, but I won’t overlook the morning jogs. The heat is crucial to further your resistance and you need to learn how to rely on your other senses in dark environments.” Azriel clicked his tongue. “And we will work twice as hard on your shifting.”

[Name] opened her mouth, bewildered at that sudden demand. “Why?”

“Because it’s useful, and because you’re scared of it,” Azriel answered flatly. “And I plan on leading you to challenging, Illyrian-based training trials once you’re ready for them — trials where paralyzing dread isn’t welcomed.”

Somewhere deep inside her being, the dragon shifted with certain laziness. [Name] could feel it waking up from a boring nap, opening its huge jaw in a yawn filled with anticipation; she could smell the ozone and sense the electricity within her nerves, bringing both an itch and a sudden soreness to her throat. She moved her head in denial. “What’s the problem with fear? It keeps us alive.”

It was a childish, borderline-innocent counter. [Name] had not a chance to win that argument, and her obstinacy was a meek attempt to postpone the inevitable. Azriel’s voice was low and menacing when he answered, staring deep into her eyes. “Fear is a lethal disease that spreads through one’s body like wildfire. By refusing to treat it, you are bound to burn until there’s nothing in your path but certain death.”

[Name] was, too, aware of it all. Yet, her entire life had been a gamble of fear-driven predictions. Logic came to her as a tool to avoid betrayals, disappointments and losses. A merchant had the need to be aware, to observe the patterns and fleets and harvests. It wasn’t merely about being great at smooth talking and forging promising partnerships — it was about perceiving the entire environment and betting on the most profitable option. [Name] wasn’t one to take unnecessary risks, to jump on hasted conclusions or to even indulge herself in the adrenaline of a particularly ambiguous choice. She never had the luxury to get rid of fear — not when she had been, for all her life, the very line that separated her sisters from a miserable life. But she stared at Azriel, the male who managed to be both logical and instinctive; bold and scheming; the spear and the shield; and she had no choice but to believe that the same could, eventually, apply to her.

“And how do I treat fear?” [Name] asked, filled with temptation.

Azriel’s grin stole the breath from both her lungs and crumbled the ground in which she stood. “By facing it.”

Not long after, both were back into the comfort of their hidden cave. [Name] took a fast, yet long-awaited cold bath before changing into clean clothes and returning to the entrance, encountering Azriel at their chess table, observing the scattered pieces from their latest game — one that [Name] had lost. Sensing her presence, whatsoever, he turned to face her, pointing to the board with his head.

“Your movements are mostly based on quick logic, and you have an aggressive and sharp playing style,” he began to say, his eyes drifting to her fallen Queen. “You’re also relentless, creative, smart: you see the entire board, and draw the potential from it.”

When Azriel clicked his tongue and proceeded to grin, she knew that the streak of compliments was over. “That is, of course, unless you’re playing quick chess.”

[Name] scoffed, but drew herself closer to the table regardless, being careful as not to brush past his wings as she did so. “Enlighten me then, how did you manage to beat me?”

“When you’re cornered, without the chance to step back and rely on careful pondering, your aggression turns into recklessness. Recklessness is equal to predictability — I could see your movements as clear as day because you were desperate to win, and desperate at the prospect of losing. It’s fear, isn’t it? You step into unknown territory and all of sudden, your instincts lose accuracy, your sharpness melts, and you turn into a shallow shell of wasted potential.”

She blinked, and the entire board took on a different meaning, the sudden shift in perspective making [Name] understand every grave error, every missed opportunity, and every tactic she could’ve used to defeat him. Under ideal circumstances, her style was ruthless. Where others chose to cower and preserve their pawns, she opted otherwise, sacrificing them to either create a trap or to further the effectiveness of her tactics. Because no one expected her to do such a thing, she, more often than not, won. But her aggressiveness was of no good when she felt threatened. [Name] remembered using similar strategies in real life: to sweet-talk suppliers and merchants into an alliance; to convince someone to do something they would rather not do; to financially demolish those who had wronged her family with the aid of regained fortune brought by Tamlin’s gold. When such matters were at hand, [Name] was not shy: she was relentless. Only once she decided to take a step back, to abandon her well-polished tactics and hide under frail defenses. It had costed, to both her and her family, everything. 

It was briefly after her mother’s death. Grief had seemed to cloud her father’s senses, for he meant to bet their entire revenue on a single crusade. [Name], who had been studying the fairly new science of weather prediction, noted that the seas were wild at that time of the year — that storms were frequent and often devastating, — meaning that it would be unwise to bet it all, since that decision alone was bound to fail. [Name] knew that well, for that decision was taken close to her birthday, and the skies then were a cacophony of thunder, a terrifying spectacle of lightning. She brought her concerns to her father, and pushed the subject as much as she could; relentless, aggressive, obstinate. But her father had snapped at her, denied her insights and said that, were she to insist on the matter any further, he’d quit on making her his heir and find her a suitable husband at once.

Terrified at the idea of losing both her heirdom and freedom, [Name] left the man alone, catering as many jewels and monetary savings as she could, hiding it all under a loose wooden-made tile found at her bed foot. And the abandonment of her tactics had been fatal: she was right; they lost everything; and all of sudden, there was nothing ahead of her family but poverty and hunger and suffering.

“Next time we face one another in a quick-chess match,” Azriel began, tearing her away from her thoughts. “You’ll beat me.”

“You can’t be so sure,” she answered, moving her head in denial.

“You’re now well aware of where you went wrong, and I’m sure you memorized my playing tactics long ago. You, [Name], is a terrifying opponent to go against in a chess match. I’ll make sure that the same thing will be said about you in battle.”

Azriel motioned for them to leave the cavern, and once again, [Name] chose to shift into the comfortable form of a falcon, not quite yet prepared to face the wildfire of her fears. Considering the hellish hours under the Sun, the flight towards the forest was, sadly enough, a short one. Azriel had been the one to carry the bag where [Name] kept her sai blades and throwing knives, and soon, the two were at a small glade amidst the forest, surrounded by tall trees and the pleasant chirping of birds. At the center, three trunks had been cut to create targets for her aim training, hovering above the grass while supported and tied to thinner wooden-piles. Staring left, [Name] found a clean site, with nothing but wooden-swords plastered on the ground. That made her scoff.

“I can handle my blades,” she argued, and Azriel followed her glance.

“Swords, maybe,” he shrugged. “But sai blades are different weapons, less sharp on the edges and more lethal on their tips. They require complete, fast, and immaculate control of your fingers and are meant to be an extension of your forearms.” Azriel pointed to the wooden-swords. “They are great against spears and long blades, and once I’m done polishing your overall blade-like abilities, I’ll use those wooden-swords to teach you how to use the sai to split a real sword in two.”

Azriel moved toward her bag. “Why did you decide that I was suitable for the sais?”

“They’re fast and lethal, meant to be aimed at the weakest parts of one’s body: the throat, the face, the neck and the legs. You can only maneuver a sword by its handle, but the sais can also be held by the fingers at the wing base, allowing you to easily rotate it in your hand. Mor had mentioned you were better with small blades, but I figured that a dagger would be too dull.”

Azriel kneeled, and [Name] could sense a tinge of pride in his voice, showcasing how confident he was in his choice of weaponry. As though it was second nature, she caught herself observing him with unbreakable attention, noticing the pattern of his movements and even catching on the steady sound of his breathing. Perhaps that was why she was startled upon realizing that Azriel’s breath ceased for a second, stuck in his throat. His hands gripped on the set of throwing knives he had given her the year before, polished and sharp as new, but the leather by the handles was slightly sunk in, carrying the marks of her grip. 

Azriel turned to her, as if shocked beyond himself, and his voice had lost all composure when he said: “You’ve been using them.”

Thin tendrils of shadows nestled themselves close to his ear, as if both teasing and reassuring their master. [Name] merely cursed the bright sunlight, as she had been missing the comforting presence of those shadows, somehow filled with personality. “Since the moment I laid my eyes on them.”

“Where?” He seemed to demand, trying — and failing, — to regain his composure. And though [Name] couldn’t quite understand what had brought that sudden wave of emotion on, she knew that this conversation was different than their previous ones: it was crucial for the character of their relationship from then on.

“There’s a small place in the mountains in Velaris. It’s hidden in the middle of the ridges, somehow untouched by the snow. I found it accidentally, and started to fly to it every morning. I used the throwing knives to practice my aim,” she motioned to the weapons, and Azriel cleared his throat, his eyes growing slightly bigger as if he seemed to connect the pieces of a long abandoned puzzle.

“So that’s where you’ve been going to?”

“How did you even know that I was flying around somewhere in the first place?”

Shock gave way to cockiness as Azriel pointed to himself with his index finger. “Spymaster.”

She scoffed. “And why were you spying on me then, Spymaster?”

The humor within his expression had vanished, his grin fading as though leaves flowing away with the breeze. “Chess-question?”

“Will you refuse to answer me otherwise?”

“I might.”

[Name] crossed her arms, slightly puzzled. If she pulled the right strings, tempting Azriel enough to throw him under a trap of their usual banters, it was possible for him to answer her either way, eager to have the last word. It would’ve been an ideal proposition: she’d get her answers without needing to waste a chess-question. But then again, what else would she ask? [Name] barely knew him, and further inquiries about what seemed obvious: his hands, his relationship with the Inner Circle, the many battles he had faced… she didn’t find proper to touch on those subjects — unless he mentioned it first.

Deciding at last that, since his reluctance seemed to be due to embarrassment, his answer would hardly be complicated to him. She shrugged, nodding to herself. He seemed amused whatsoever, and [Name] was slightly compelled to stick her tongue out to him before speaking: “Yes, that’s a chess-question.”

He made a noise that sounded a lot like a curse — one that would have her mother gasping and calling for the house’s guards, — and, shockingly, he seemed to hesitate. Azriel cleared his throat, avoiding her glance, and that alone made her grin widely. 

“I hardly ever sleep, which I’m sure you can relate to,” she hummed, cocking her hip, enjoying that situation more than she believed possible. “And, like any fae that can use their enhanced senses…”

[Name]’s amusement faded at his stirring, and a scowl edged on her features as Azriel continued his speech.

“I was used to hearing some commotion near your window at specific hours,” immediately, she raised an eyebrow.

“Answers to chess-questions are supposed to be honest,” [Name] pointed out, and he stared at her as though she was the most annoying being that had ever stepped on the Land.

“I knew you weren’t well after the last battle against Hybern, but any attempt to speak to you seemed impossible. Not only because it was hard to figure out the place you chose to hide inside for the day, but also because I was prohibited.”

She grew quiet, guilt burning at the pit of her stomach. [Name] overused her abilities against him, constantly repeating words soaked in treacherous power whenever she caught the slightest glint of rebellion within his will. Back then, she was terrified — not to say that she wasn’t still, — and Azriel’s desire to be a recurrent presence was more than merely odd: it was a trigger to painful remembrances that the Cauldron did not erase, but rather increased. 

As a mortal, [Name] was of no interest to immortal and powerful beings that, surely enough, had witnessed more than she could’ve ever dream of. Since a toddler, she has heard of how she was, undeniably, her mother’s daughter: they had the same nose; the same posture; the same sharp eyes and crude judgment; the same height; the same hair. [Name] was her mother’s doppelganger, a fact that neither pleased the mother nor the daughter. But [Name] was not blind to the woman’s beauty, and guessed that she, too, had some attractiveness within herself — a hunch that proved to be correct once poverty closed its talons in the Archerons’ calves and forced her to a life of prostitution. She figured that, to Feyre’s new friends, she was nothing beyond a beautiful face, just as she hadn’t been to the men that called upon her in the brothel. 

However, as her conversations with the males deepened and shifted into political subjects, it was clear that in the very least, her intellect had managed to spike their curiosity more than her external appearance — something that hadn’t happened for years. But it was Azriel who respected her the most back then, who saw her as a fitting opponent, an equal in terms of strategizing and sacrificing, hence why his first reaction upon seeing her as a High-Fae stung the deepest. The usual respect had been replaced, and instead, he eyed her with both awe and a poorly hidden desire. The fae-body made her taller, her legs were longer and her limbs seemed lighter. She was well-aware of every change: from the — previously nonexistent, — brightness of her hair to the new length of her fingers, but [Name] couldn’t stand the prospect of no longer being Azriel’s friend-against-all-odds; one with whom he could speak in puzzles; to instead be turned into a possible notch in his belt. The Cauldron stole enough of her, and she refused to allow it to steal the very few precious memories she still held untouched. Commanding him was not her smartest idea, but at least, she told herself, kept him from desiring her the way those men had.

Seeing him now, free from her powers and with his self-will intact, [Name] could not help but find herself an antrum of stupidity. The predators from the brothel had never cared for her well-being, never bothered to observe her day-by-day moving patterns, not once gave her heartfelt gifts meant for her protection. It had been unfair to judge Azriel so deeply and in the long-term over a single second, a bewildered gaze sent her way in a moment of unprecedented change.

“I made some mistakes,” which both agreed was a feeble attempt at an apology, but [Name] wasn’t quite sure whether or not she would’ve been standing on that same spot, sharing that same conversation, if she hadn’t taken those pre-mentioned precautions regarding their proximity in the past year. Hence why, while she regretted the early judgment and the imposition of her voice, she couldn’t quite say the same about taking a step back from the overall partnership that came with the Inner Circle.

Noticing that he wouldn’t get any further atonement, Azriel held out a throwing knife by the blade, inciting her to grab its handle. [Name] complied and stood in position, the wooden-made target in her line of sight, although far in distance. Azriel had the other nine pieces in hand, his eyes locked on how she held herself.

“Clotho’s weekly reports weren’t enough to settle me down, so I started to track your movements,” he broke the silence at once, and motioned with his head towards the target. “Throw it.”

She raised the blade in her dominant hand, sighting down along the line of her arm. [Name] calculated the overall distance between the weapon and the target, aware that she’d need to aim it a little higher so as to compensate for the weight shift during the trajectory. A memory resurfaced, whispering its existence from the pits of her mind: a fourteen year-old Feyre, with fresh calluses on her fingers, extending the bowstring and releasing a makeshift arrow into the trunk of a tree. It was one of the rare mornings in which [Name] was sober enough — and not as sore as usual, — to observe her sister’s endeavors. Back then, she had been taken by a mix of both dread and pride as she noticed Feyre’s talents and aim, and paid her quiet company until it was time for her sister politely send her off, as [Name] couldn’t follow her inside the forest.

During those years, her life had turned upside down with nights spent inside a brothel: a disposable doll by the hands of men too eager and cruel and rich. She’d stumble back home with a bottle of cheap liquor, tired, humiliated and wishing to be anywhere but inside her own skin. [Name] would never drink it fully, for the alcohol helped them to light the miserable hearth when their stock of coal was scarce. Instead, she’d puke outside if that was necessary, place the half-empty bottle somewhere inside the kitchen, and throw her tired body on the extra mattress that she managed to gamble at the market. Elain was usually the one to wake her up when it was time for her to leave again, straight into the worst nightmare of a woman, and the one that she was forced to call a job. [Name] would bathe in cold water, not wanting to be a bother, and leave their house in a normal attire, since Moira — the headmistress of the brothel, — refused to have [Name] walking around the dirty streets in the silks she oh-so-kindly provided for her employees.

Keeping one’s mind clear was a borderline-impossible task when under the circumstances that [Name] had been during those terrible times, however, she had goals back then: to protect her sisters from the same fate; to make sure they’d have food and a roof over their heads. They were surprisingly simpler times, — that she did not miss whatsoever, — when [Name] knew no magic, trusted no fate, and instead focused entirely on her sisters’ safety. 

Perhaps it was that sudden memory, combined with the absurdity of the present, that led her to such a strained throw, her blade losing both strength and speed as it landed far under the center of the target. Azriel made a noise that resembled a contained laughter and she gritted her teeth. The second after, however, he was in a similar position — only smoother and much more collected, — holding the handle of the throwing knife. [Name] hadn’t thrown knives with Azriel before, yet was unsurprised to see that his posture and grip — his thumb parallel to the blade — were perfect. He seemed nearly bored as he released the knife; it flew through the air and thumped into the central ring of the target. [Name] knew that if the blade had been slightly longer and he used more of his strength, the knife would have destroyed the wood, passing straight through the center and craving itself on the grass underneath. 

“Sometimes I’d go check on you myself, other times I’d ask my shadows. You always left early; a small, lonely swallow soaring through the morrow’s sky; and returned past after midday, taking on the shape of a gyrfalcon,” he stated, offering her yet another throwing knife. “May I?”

He briefly motioned with his hands towards her hips and waist. She nodded, her eyes glued to the target as she sucked in a breath. When Azriel first touched her, correcting her posture, the Archeron had expected a somewhat sudden wave of terror and disgust; she expected her mind to make her travel back to the rooms of the brothel, with its exaggerated silks adorning the walls and the red-colored lightning granted by the candles. However, [Name] felt none of that. Instead, what startled her the most was to ascertain that she grew unused to another’s touch. When had been the last time she had felt the warmth of one’s body against her own? [Name] had hugged her two younger sisters after their father’s burial, but that had happened nearly a year ago: almost three-sixty-five days since she had dared to challenge the boundaries of the mental scarring left by the time spent within the walls of the brothel. 

It took her yet another minute to understand what was different in his touch. It was brief, filled with respect and care, and she flushed with embarrassment and guilt, remembering how reckless she had been upon her judgment of him; how stupid she had been to command him to leave her alone, to place Azriel under the same category of the men [Name] had once laid with. Then, when he moved to fix her elbow and his fingers grazed over the uncovered skin of her wrist, she noticed the texture of his touch: unique in its own way, scarred from the fire and callused from years of sword-training. [Name] couldn’t have confused his hands with another’s even if she wanted to, and that fact alone brought not discomfort but reassurance, as if his hands were an anchor to the present, a sign that she had much to overcome and wouldn’t give a single step forward if all she could do was stare back.

Azriel’s touch didn’t linger whatsoever. Once her posture was fixed, he pointed towards the target. “I’ve heard from Mor that you were skilled — much more skilled than your last throw evidenced. Clear your head, focus on the target, otherwise you’ll be as good as dead on an actual confrontation. Again.”

[Name] took a step back from the invisible throwing line. She wasn’t entirely self-taught in terms of knife throwing and managing small blades in general: the Archeron once had a close friend, a lifetime ago, who made sure to train her the best he could. But after the War and the biting loneliness that accompanied it, [Name] thought it’d be profitable to improve that particular set of abilities. Over the course of a year, she spent hours of her day with blades in her hands, throwing it again and again, watching how the repetition and strength would split the wood, similar to the shattering of nerves and bones. There was only so much one could go in their training while relying on past lessons and step-by-step techniques found in books, but she managed well enough. [Name]’s step back was slowly taking on a more direct trajectory — rather than a diagonal one, — ever since she began to try and be ambidextrous. Her arm went back before she moved it forward; the knife flew from her opened hand as if it was a falcon whose leashes had been ripped. The weapon soared toward the target, slicing the air in a steadier trajectory, and thudded close to its heart, less than two centimeters from where Azriel’s own knife had landed.

“When I first started training in Windhaven, I was older and much less experienced than soldiers who were five, sometimes six years younger than me,” Azriel began, his pace relaxed as he reached the target and plunged the throwing knives from where they were craved on the wood. “Knowing that my abilities weren’t far beyond those of a kid of six vexed me. So, I practiced harder — and by myself, — after every training session. I thought I was being smart, doing great.”

His back was facing her, and [Name] caught on a scent of something uncommon, noticing with certain startle that her senses had opened themselves to Azriel’s hidden emotions; that what she smelt wasn’t from a native flower of the forest or even a curious animal, observing from afar: it was him, somewhat vulnerable, telling a fact from his past that, under different circumstances, could only have been uncovered through a chess-question. So, the Archeron took note of every shift in intonation; every word; every fidget of his scarred fingers; drinking in that sudden proximity, finding that she was starving for meaningful connections after an entire year of self-isolation.

“When Devlon caught me, he scowled. He told me then that the stupidest thing to do as a beginner was to train without guidance,” Azriel turned, and just as he had done before, he held the blade and extended the handle towards her. “Training by oneself serves for a single thing: enhancing your errors. If you’re not well-instructed, lapses in your stance will go unnoticed; those lapses will turn into vices; and vices are not only lethal, but difficult for a warrior to abandon.”

[Name] grabbed the handle, closing her fingers around it. Soon enough, Azriel’s hand covered hers as he corrected her grip — thumb facing the blade. He raised her elbow, straightened her shoulders, and lightly kicked her left foot, instructing her to open a further distance between her feet.

“Your arms are over-bent,” at her puzzled expression, he let out the first smile in almost half-an-hour, and [Name] was shocked to notice how badly she had missed the sight of it. “To throw a knife and land it on the center, it’s crucial to raise your aim a little bit so as to compensate for the loss of momentum caused by the weight shift, you caught that right. However, what you also noticed, at least subconsciously, is that your aim is more precise when you bend your arm more than needed. That unnecessary arc is meant to compensate for the fact that you’re not using your strength correctly, hence why your throws need this extra boost.”

“And that’s a vice,” [Name] pointed out, to which he nodded. The Archeron thought about his initiative to share more of himself — no chess-questions needed, — and sighed as her parted lips shone the light on one of the secrets kept inside the coffins of her chest. “I received just a brief training in knife throwing, and I’m guessing the one to teach me hadn’t caught on that vice.”

“Mor would’ve noticed,” he rebuked, tilting his head ever-so-slightly.

“It wasn’t Mor.”

That caught him off-guard, his previous relaxed stance grew more wary as he seemed to ponder his next words. “You were trained by someone else?”

“Yes, some years ago,” she muttered with her eyes glued to the target. [Name] caught on another odd scent, and failed to assign it to an emotion.

“Who?”

The easy lies came to mind all at once, false-hearted words meant to deceive those who had dared to request an answer whose implications she was not comfortable with. From training received from her father’s sailors to winning a bet against a talented fae-huntress and having to fight a bear for the loser’s most favored dagger, [Name]’s lies ventured from realistic to absurd, each suitable to specific situations. 

But for once, the truth presented itself with more vigor, and she decided to oblige it.

“Some fairly stubborn pirates were stealing provisions and taxes sent to the Queens by sea, so they gathered parts of their armies and scattered them across the shores of the Mortal Lands, one being close to my family’s old village. I was twenty at the time, made an unexpected friendship with three soldiers, and one taught me some nice tricks.”

Azriel grew silent for a second, and his thoughts were a chaotic turmoil, flirting with her senses as she tried her best to keep them out, not daring to read his mind. “What happened to them?”

“Two decided to fight alongside Jurian during the War and are now part of his troops,” she answered, her tone growing sharper. Her scent must’ve been a strong indicator of the unraveling of the third one’s story — and oh, how she envied the Spymaster for being able to tell them apart, — and soon enough, Azriel dropped the subject.

“Remember that your mind must be clear while handling a blade,” he told her instead.

[Name] noticed the implication underneath: forget we ever talked about that. And so, she nodded, filled with relief. Her arm was pulled back; Azriel corrected her small vice with a push of his fingers. [Name] stabilized her breath, calculating the distance; Azriel stepped aside. The Archeron released the knife; it sliced through the air, carrying a strength she was still unused to using, and landed on the center of the target, just where Azriel’s previous blade had been, shattering wood and paint until the handle was the only thing stopping it from going through the target entirely. The male at her side grinned, and she figured that at last, the idea of taking profit of the abilities and magic granted by her fae-body didn’t sound entirely too bad.

She lost their third match, but surprisingly enough, wasn’t bothered by it.

general notes: me when I’m a pathological liar that swore she wouldn’t take too long to release the new chapter and ended up taking too long anyway. I wish I had those cool stories found in AO3 like: I robbed a bank and went to jail or I fought with my mother over a racoon and was homeless for three months, but my life isn’t that exciting lmao I’m just a slow writer!! anyways, please reblog it and tell me your thoughts on this chapter. lots of love <3

taglist [comment to be added]: @nyotamalfoy @arilindemann @bsenpai @rachelnicolee @piceous21 @forsiriussake @sassybluebird @esposadomd

[milky-aeons]

[1] — STARGAZER

a/n: i wrote this story years ago! and while i was rereading it out of pure boredom, i decided i wanted to breathe some life back into it again. this shall be multi-chaptered! take your time with it, and please read the warnings before you embark, loves!

warnings: class differences, oppression of women, mentions of illness, mentions of death, depression, violence against women, mentions of abuse, mentions of rape, superstitious natures, spoilers, mdni, w.c 7.4k

౨ৎ . . . chapter ONE of CROWNS OF STARDUST

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜.

— Grace Willows, To Kiss a King.

𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆. Dotted studs of white fire, splattered over a glassy night sky that sometimes bloomed with purples and indigos of rare supernovas, if you were lucky enough to see them.

You could lie here for hours, like this, gazing at the wonders above. Counting as they winked at you from far away, feeling the evening breeze nip at your cheeks and whisper through the field. And above everything; allow yourself to imagine. To think, secretly, what it would be like if everyone thought like the stars did.

They didn't discriminate, stratify, hate or detest. They simply shined brightly, each of them made of that very same material everyone in the world was also made up of; incandescent, special speckles of stardust.

If only they could see that. If there could be some way to force through the social ladders of your society, to break away from the labels placed upon you. Perhaps the world would be a better place if we thought how the stars did — believed that everyone, no matter how rich or poor, was the very same on that fundamental level.

Intertwined within our souls was the stuff of stars that made us no better or worse than the person next.

Perhaps the world would be just as beautiful as a sky on a peaceful, undisturbed night when every person was allowed to shine just as brightly as the stars above. But this stargazer locked that thought up deep within her heart, just like all others that expected too much from her rank, her social label, and staggered to her feet with a heavy sigh.

The Village of Yo, January, 1831

A chipped, wooden horse came down hard against the worn chess board with a force that rattled all the other pieces. Hand-carven, they were fragile and you should have been a little less vigorous. But caught in the grips of victory, you had little room for such caution.

"Checkmate," You smiled giddily, knocking the King piece off the board. "I win."

Your opponent; a willowy old man with lines streaked across his forehead and an impressive beard grumbled with narrowed eyes. Reaching up, he rubbed a hand down his face. "My, lass. I knew one day you'd catch up to me, but I didn't think it'd be this quick."

Still smiling, you reached down to pick up the King from the floor where it'd landed. You brushed off the delicate carvings on the piece with care, hoping you hadn't damaged it any more. A terrible habit of yours it was; becoming too excited about games and strategy. It was bad enough that one of the castles was missing its parapet because you had become angry at a sneaky strategy your teacher had used. And hurtled the poor piece across the room.

But now, you placed it carefully back, it looks as if said teacher has been bested by the student.

"You should take pride," You assured through a grin. "It means you're a great teacher."

"Teachers don't teach to be bested by their students, lass. Maybe it's my eyes. I didn't even see your counterattack in place, at all."

"Ah, I see. Go on, then. Blame your eyesight." Your lip jutted in a playful frown. "God forbid that a woman beats you at anything. What will the village think? You'd be locked up and subject to a shower of rotten fruit."

"[Name]!" The wood whined as he rapped on it three times. Superstitious to an art form, your Grandfather has always been. Which of course, was why you spoke so loosely to him in the first place. Receiving a rise out of him was one of the ways you loved to keep entertained in this small, handwoven cabin typical to that of common folk.

His cheeks tipped rose when he exclaimed, "You mustn't feed the air with talk of such events!"

You, the victorious Chess Champion, stared your Grandfather in the eye. The pair of you didn't reach the third second before a low chuckle escaped the older man. It was hoarse in a way that spoke of his age, an obvious hallmark of his weakening health you didn't think about so much.

He shook his head. "Aye, my Granddaughter has bested me. Are these lungs of mine finally getting to my head?"

Three consecutive knocks rang through the air. This time, it was you who had copied your Grandfather's superstitious habit and tapped the table. "Now who is feeding the air with bad thinking?" You asked him softly.

"Not bad thinking, lass. Pure truth."

"Grandfather." You frowned even more. Talk of your Grandfather's weakening health sent a thousand small stabs through your heart, opened doors to thoughts of an empty cabin without him there. You couldn't bear to entertain anything but the thought that the new medicine you've received would work. No, it had to.

It must.

The man gave another rattling cough, followed by a scowl. "Rather than wasting money on all that fancy apothecary, why not more food? You're an awful liar, [Name]." His eyes similar to your own — that clear tone which rivalled the smoothest of glass — riveted into you. "You believe you hide your stomach growls, but you doubt the hearing of an old man with poor sight."

On instinct, you placed a hand to your stomach, pressing hard. Through the simple dress tied off at the waist, you could feel the tight skin, the lumps of your protruding ribcage. The hunger spasms had drawn your muscles taut, but the pain was tolerable. Grandfather needed the food more than you, after all. He needed to get better.

"It is nothing," You mumbled. "There has been drought throughout the summer. You know that. Food is sparse. I'm young, I'll live."

The older man studied you with a shaky hand stroking over his beard. It was a long moment before he let out a chuckle. "You've got your Mother's selflessness and your Father's poor deceit. Really, what'll I do with you?"

Images of the young couple that birthed you were gone as quickly as they came. It didn't hurt as much to think about them anymore, as you knew they too, existed in the stars that looked down upon you all. [Name] of the Willows family was strong and always kept her backbone in check, but would be lying if you said you were ready to be completely alone. Not after the sudden passing of your parents.

Even if you had to work in a farm trudging through mud picking up weeds and other unpleasantries, you would keep your Grandfather here on this earth. Your only living relative — one you couldn't bear to let go.

It did not help in the slightest that this drought was financially crippling not only the farming community in the village, but the whole Kingdom of Yo as a nation. They were mainly an agrarian province that got most of its income off of produce. Drought of any kind, especially one lasting this long, was bound to cause chaos in every aspect of the Kingdom. And it had — chaos that was quickly balanced by raising taxes in order to stabilize the economy.

An idea offered by the Royal Family of the Yo Palace.

You ground your teeth every time you thought about the monarchs all were meant to bow down to, to marvel and respect. When they were treated like nothing but cattle to be milked of everything they had? The Miyazawa farm you worked on hardly has any money for themselves in this current climate, not concerning your wages, which had been shaved down as of recently. You had no reason to blame them. No, the people you directed such distaste to were the money-laundering aristocrats that stood on top of it all.

If anyone was responsible for your forced fasting in order to afford basic medicines for your Grandfather's health, it was them.

You were unsure about many things in life; marriage, family, food, but if you could count on one thing; it was that you hated the Royal Family. With everything you could possibly gather within you.

"It's a terrible thing you can't get rid of me," You continued with Grandfather's remark, trying to distract yourself from the depravity of it all. You carefully set up another chess game with the delicate, whittled pieces. Your favourite game. "Who would wake you up in the morning, then?"

"The taxman at the door, that's who." He scoffed.

Whatever water you had in your stomach went sour. "The Royals ought to be ashamed of themselves, taxing us like we have it all to give. Do they not know the people they rule over? How we're struggling?"

A sigh filtered through the air. "Don't be quick to blame the Royals for everything, [Name]. Running a Kingdom is not often black and white. If I had to guess, I believe they don't have a choice."

Suddenly very taken aback by your Grandfather's point of view when his very body was wasting away because of the people he was defending, you shot up. Eyes blazing a bright inferno, neck tight. "How could you defend them?"

"I'm not defending them, lass. But it is wise to think before you project." He rounded his own clear eyes on you. "How would you save a Kingdom if it was falling apart?"

You were about to give into that same habit of reacting when worked up and lash out. They tax us silly, uncaring of how many lives they leave in ruins! But before you barely got a word out, there was a loud commotion outside.

An explosion of high, excited chatter that caught both your attention. Cautiously, you left the chessboard and Grandfather's company to venture to the front door and peer outside. What could it possibly be at this early hour? You wondered with a huff, blinking the sunlight from your narrowed eyes. It was midday; the time of lunch, if one was lucky enough, and perhaps quiet work.

Not an entire gaggle of women hurriedly knocking on doors and running around with their skirts gathered up in their fists.

Wary, you almost scowled at the lady who scurried towards you. The lady was too excited to notice, it would seem.

"Oh, darling!" She gushed, taking you by the hands. "Oh, it's amazing! A miracle!"

"What is?"

The lady shook her clasped hands. "You truly don't know? You have not heard?"

I would have not asked if I did, you wished to remark. Women such as these who were nothing but charm and gossip unnerved you the most. But instead, you remembered basic propriety. "Pray tell? For I have not."

"The Royals, my darling! They've smiled down on us and heard our cries! Recruitment, they have just promised, for all young women under forty and unwedded. With a promised wage! They wish to help those in need in these taxing times! Oh, we've been saved. Saved, my darling!" 

Your twitching brows knitted. You were having serious trouble understanding what you had just been told. "Pardon, Miss?"

"The day is wonderful, my Darling!" The lady took her hands away from you and twirled happily on the spot. Her cheeks were stained a delicate rose when she stopped. "I'd place my name down quickly with the Registrar, [Name] Willows! Unwedded and in these troubled times, a servant's job will be a blessing to you!"

Servant's job?

The woman was already scurrying off to the nearest house ready to spill the news when it caught up to you. Your mouth parted to draw a shaky, disbelieved breath. No, this can't be. You turned to look at the other houses along this path. Each and every one of them looked busy, some already ushering their daughters out the door so they could place their names down and help the family income. 

Hold on a moment, the Castle is suddenly accepting women to become servants for the Court?

In this financial climate? 

Such a handful of women who were desperate for income, like you, were currently taking to the streets with hastily wrapped scarves around their heads. It was a sea of excited commoners, close in age and status to you. Some of which, you were close friends to.

The sight of it all made you suddenly take the severity of what was happening seriously and gather your skirts to turn back into the house.

"Grandfather," It was a hurried whisper on your tongue. "Grandfather, where are you?"

The older man was already standing at the small kitchen you shared, his back turned. Unbothered, he never really was one for dramatics when they arose in the society. "Why do you sound like you've seen a ghost, lass?" He asked while pouring a shaky cup of water. "Don't bring any of that societal malarkey into this home."

"No, Grandfather, this is not—this is," You were having trouble getting coherent words out. Because surely, this couldn't be true. "The Castle—they're—?"

"Use words correctly," A small tap on your forehead that made you blink. You hadn't been flicked as such since your teenage years. But it seemed to do the trick — because your were shaken right out of your startled haze. One tight swallow and you were right back in the room.

"The women," You began quickly. "They've come saying that the Castle is looking for new workers. Servant women, able and unwedded. They promise of a wage, Grandfather." Your expression suddenly grew tight. "Do they mean to mock us? First they take away our taxes, now they take any women who are able for a family?"

Silence followed your obvious open question. It made you frown when he stared into the murky water with quiet contemplation.

"Grandfather?" You pressed, now confused. 

It was a few more moments of a now heavy silence before he tipped the water down his throat, followed by a rattled cough. "So, what are you waiting for?" He suddenly piqued, irritated. The cup came down heavily onto the kitchen table. "Where is your scarf, your bags, your birth papers? You'll be a fool to think that they will accept just any woman who doesn't get there first!"

Warmth spread quickly from your chest up to the top of your neck. Like a slap to the cheek, the words from your Grandfather were hard and unexpected in their impact. Your hands clasped into shaking fists at your sides.

"What are you saying? Do you honestly believe I would work as a servant woman in their Castle—?"

"Better a servant girl than pulling weeds up in that Miyataza farm you work on."

"Miyazawa farm, Grandfather. It is the Miyazawa family."

"Does it matter, lass? I could bet a Castle job would pay you far more generously than weeding. Servants are treated well. They are fed and warm when they sleep."

The heat was creeping into your cheeks now. How dare he try to send you away? How dare he even think you would consider being sent away?

"I'm not leaving you." Was the hard-line, final statement. You stood straight and taut, daring your Grandfather to wish you away.

Truthfully — due to the mechanisms of this time and the harsh needs of society; you really couldn't stand in the way if Grandfather truly wished to send you to the Castle. Because you were a woman, and he led the house as a man. Misogyny was the only thing a tomboy, unwedded woman like you could not break down with nothing but her soul and stubbornness. 

But you could damn well try. Every day, you could try.

"Grandfather," You put every emotion into the soft plea. Begging him to understand that this would rip a hole in your heart. That you would better uproot weeds from a farm with your skirts bunched than polish a lavish Palace hall. Would rather feel the pang in your stomach from days of foodless meals than not see him every morning and night. "Please, don't send me away."

The answer which greeted you was icy and so unlike the man who cared for you. "That's enough, lass. You're going. It's an opportunity not to be missed."

"I don't want to leave you!"

At that, Grandfather glared at you. But it was softer around the edges — the glass of his eyes now a gentle powdery colour. For a spared moment, you were hopeful that guilt had finally swayed him. Even more so when he reached up to pet your hair; an affectionate gesture of his own. You dropped your eyes and leaned into the pat, knowing that the hope would crackle and burn around you. Like everything else in your miserable life you continued to struggle against.

"Servants of the Castle are permitted to return once a month. You won't miss this ol' shack that much, lass. Tending to me and my rotten coughing. Your parents would have wanted it for you," He spoke softly. The gravel of his lung condition made the words a raspy wheeze. "A servant woman of the Palace. You couldn't ask for anything better when we're all drownin' in poverty."

A choked sob was steadily rising in your throat, but you pushed it down and averted your eyes. In a shaky whisper, you attempted one last time, "The Royals are the last people I would ever serve, Grandfather. Even if they promise of a wage."

You could hear it in his chuckle — the knowing grin he always wore. Oftentimes, it reminded you vaguely of your Father.

"Remember, [Name]. If your Kingdom was in ruins, how would you save it?"

The village of the Yo Kingdom was still buzzing with excitement hours after the news was relayed to every single door. Mothers and Grandmothers alike who did not meet the criteria for work waved their younger daughters off, some with cloths up to their mouths to hide the tears. Of elation or despair, you didn't know.

It was with a heavy heart that you packed your things in the small area you and Grandfather shared for sleep; him on the bed while you took to the floor most nights. Not that it ever bothered you. Something about the musty scent of oakwood and the tuft of hay you treated as a pillow stayed with you as you wrapped the scarf around your head. Home, you thought with lines bracketing your frown, this was your home and you were only permitted to return once a month.

Could you truly serve the family you hated so much?

You didn't let the hope in your heart dwindle. Having spent a generous deal of time arguing with Grandfather while getting ready — perhaps the Registrar was no longer there. Maybe a good number of women had beat you to it first and you were too late. With a deep breath did you continue your walk across the small village street — following some stray women as they hurried along the same route. Constantly, you turned around to look at your Grandfather once more. But you had ventured far into the city now — your home was around the bend and well out of eye's view.

If the Gods smile down on you, then perhaps you wouldn't have to leave for too long. The Registrar will be full, and you could return right back to where you wanted to be.

Perking a little, you entertained how you would laugh right in his face when you returned home. Ha! Would you look at that, you senile old man. It just wasn't meant to be! A servant woman is not where the Heavens want me to go! A small giggle rushed through you, lifting your spirits ever so. It seemed more probable now the more you walked; there was a high chance the Palace would not accept any more applicants after the previous sea of women bombarded them.

Yes, you told yourself, that's right. And then I can think of what to make Grandfather for dinner tonight. No more will I have to entertain the thought of aiding that horrid, despicable family—

You rounded the sharp bend, only to feel your stomach plummet to the floor.

Sitting in the middle of the cobblestone pave-way was the table you were desperately hoping would not be. Women flocked around it; an ocean of scarfed heads and chattering voices. If it wasn't for another lady brushing passed you would have stayed there frozen and allowed the small sack to fall through your fingers. The Registrar, you quickly realised with dread, he's still here.

You hadn't been too late, after all.

The Gods continued to hold their frown on you.

"Oi, you!"

You snapped to attention when someone singled you out. A burly man, dressed in robes of blue and pure white with a sword at his hilt. The Palace colours. Everything about his demeanour told you swiftly that he was a Royal Knight.

And this Royal Knight was glaring at you intensely.

"I asked you to move into line!" He thrust a gloved hand to the suddenly startled row of women, whose eyes darted frantically. "You block any woman attempting to come through standing there!"

Survival instincts instructed your body to move on command, knowing full well a Royal Knight was not a man to be trifled with. Especially one twice your size and brandishing a terrifying sword. But because you had a stubbornness that could border dangerous in the wrong situations, you projected a tempered glare his way.

"Forgive me, my Lord." You said through tight teeth.

The Knight bared his own teeth and opened his mouth — obviously, he was unused to common village girls who didn't bend underneath his command. Damned Knights, it was a bitter thought quick in your mind as the Knight brought his hand up, everyone attached to those Royals believed they were above everyone else!

Bracing for a crack to your cheek — like so many others you had witnessed, especially when commoners were loose-lipped with those in high command — your eyes snapped shut. Women shrieked and moved away from the scuffle. Your whole body tensed in expectation.

"Sir Francis!"

It was a strong, steely voice that sliced through the air. Because it was taking too long for the pompous Knight to impact, you risked opening one eye. Then the other when your possible assailant wasn't looking your way any more. What in the world...? 

The Knight was staring over to where the table was when you trained your eyes there, following every other woman's gawks, also. Seated at the table and the obvious owner of the words was the man that took the names down of possible servant candidates. 

The Registrar.

His grey eyes gleamed impatiently underneath the square glasses he donned, mouth stitched.

"—disrespectful, my Lord." You caught the tail-end of what the Knight was saying. "I was teaching her a lesson."

"A lesson, huh?" The Registrar wondered. If you could believe, it looked like he was displeased with the Knight's actions. Surely not, you shook your head minutely amidst the surprise, it was common knowledge that most Knights mistreated commoners. Slapping women was not the worst they could do.

The Knight nodded stoically.

"Bring her here." The Registrar asked with a quick flick of his wrist. "Quickly. Hindrances will only delay the schedule."

"M-My Lord?"

"Are you wasting my time, Sir Francis?"

"A-Absolutely not!" The Knight exclaimed. Then before you could react, he wrapped a strong hand around your frail arm and roughly hauled you forward. Your habit kicked up again on reflex, hurling every disrespectful word you could at the Knight — even attempting to kick him in the shin. But he was Palace trained and you hadn't eaten in days. Any attack you attempted would have been laughably akin to a toddler's in your state.

An unhinged, furious wreck; you were thrown before the Registrar's small table. Your hands flew out to brace yourself against the wood so you wouldn't sink to your knees. No man would make you result to your knees; Royal Guard or the King himself.

But your fumble did result in an ink bottle tipping over and spreading a river of black all over the parchment of names. 

"Ahh! T-The names!" One voice wailed. Another Royal Guard. His tone quickly became seething when directed your way. "You useless cur! You'll atone for this with a whipping—!"

"There will be no whipping." 

Blinking, you shot up to see the face of the Registrar staring you down. Tall and faintly handsome; he had smooth skin of porcelain that threw his grey eyes into sharp focus. A mane of golden hair was kept neatly in a tail at the back of his head — not a piece out of place. You hated how his heavy stare made you gulp. Especially when there was an irritated tick to his jaw.

But then, he sighed. "Fetch me another bottle of ink," He spoke to the Knight over his shoulder. "There should be a Craftsman nearby. You have two minutes."

"My Lord, this behaviour is uncanny. You should not allow her to—!"

"Whipping is a sore waste of time when we have so much women to get through." The Registrar hissed in a tempered whisper that could very well be a chilly breeze. He tossed his eyes back to the Knight, and you noticed the bob of his throat. "Are you attempting to tell me what to do?"

It wasn't a question. It was a careful, dangerous threat.

And the Royal Knight answered him correctly. "N-Never, My Lord!" And with that, he was spun around and off he scurried to find the ink bottle. You noticed the barest droop in the Registrar's tense shoulders, and couldn't help it when the words came tumbling forth;

"You saved me from a beating." 

The Registrar slid his eyes to you. You knew you shouldn't have said it — not because it was improper and lacked propriety, because it did. You had no care for that. It was because he was looking at you now as a human would stare at an insect, and you were reminded of why Royal Court Members were people you'd never show gratitude to.

Straightening, you steeled your spine and hardened your glare. "I don't know what I can offer you." You hissed.

The Registrar may appear as if he is looking at a bug, but now his eyebrow raised. An interesting bug, perhaps. "I do hope you don't believe you can become a servant with no etiquette."

"Oh, I don't want to be a servant." You said proudly. "It was my Grandfather who sent me."

"Surely, he does not place the hopes of income on you?" The faintest ribbon of amusement in his tone. You caught it, and grinned.

"Better on me than a useless airhead woman who has no backbone when expected to serve in a Castle of Thieves."

Were you purposely attempting to jeopardise your chances? Perhaps. Your sharp tongue was more to do with the gleam of jest in the Registrar's cool grey eyes. It rubbed your nerves wrongly, how the Royal Workers thought the people they ruled were amusing little rodents; only to give money and anything else material. 

"The Castle of Thieves?" He ventured, albeit lowly. It would surely be odd if the Registrar repeated such accusations of his place of work. You couldn't help but be taken aback by his curious manner, but hid it well.  

The Registrar leaned back. No longer an insect, you thought as he regarded you with indifference. You had upgraded to a comical animal. The barest smile on his lips gave it away.

"You speak boldly." Was all he offered.

"Someone in this village has to." You countered.

"Speaking boldly in the Palace will result with your skin being littered with scars. Court Members are everything but lenient."

"Well, then that's that settled! I'm just too improper to be a servant woman. Truly, a shame." Secretly elated, you were preparing to turn right around. "I thank you for listening to me, My—"

"Wait."

Your bones and muscles snapped, froze. With an uneasy feeling in your gut that your habit had just upset the Registrar, who commanded the Knights around him, did you hesitantly look over your shoulder. When he said nothing but stared did you hold back a sigh and turn right around.

"Yes, My Lord?" You got out. A beating? Or perhaps you will be forcefully robbed of your innocence? It was unwise to question the extent of punishment a high-standing Official could mete out. But were you sorry? You grit your teeth, never in an aeon of existence.

The Registrar was quiet for a second, only studying you with everything but a livid expression. It not only made you perplexed, it also made you more nervous than what a glare would do. "Do you have your birth papers?" 

You blinked. "Pardon?"

"Your birth papers. I expect you have them on you?"

Indeed, but you weren't about to give them up to this man. Although two Royal Knights had suddenly flanked either side of you — attracted by the commotion and why you were taking so long. So, with a jaw locked and eyes daggering into the man before you, did you reach into your sack and produce the heavy parchment. 

He took it in his long, nimble fingers. Studied it with eyes downcast under his peculiar frames.

"[Name] Willows. Of childbearing age," He glanced up. "I assume you are unwedded?"

He assumes. You forced the annoyance down into your gut. Right where the other hatred for the Royals and their henchmen resided. "No." The Royal Knights and their weapons made you spit, "My Lord."

You and the grey-eyed Registrar didn't break the stare-off, not even when the Knight came stumbling back with the fresh ink-bottle in hand.

"My Lord!" He yelled breathlessly. "My Lord, I have fetched the ink. Some new parchment too. Courtesy of the Craftsmen Charlisle."

"He has my thanks," The Registrar opened his palm behind so the bottle could be placed there. When it was, did he spread the new parchment out and dip a fine quill in. "[Name] Willows," He said the name like a condemning sentence. The very end to all of your happiness. Your wide eyes tracked each swirl of the quill, every dot and dab. No way —

The Registrar sat up and smiled at you. It was that unnerving half smile. One that set all your nerves alight and spread fire coursing throughout your bloodstream. "Congratulations. Starting today, you shall be a training servant woman. May you enjoy your stay in the Castle of Thieves."

You let every bit of your pride go in the moment of shock. Mouth gaping, eyes widened. Surely there had been a mistake. There was no way the Castle accepted women who didn't keep their thoughts, voices and tongues to themselves. It was a matter of propriety, and in the Castle — propriety was held at the highest value. The Registrar was still studying you when the red cleared from your vision.

"Miss [Name]," He questioned. "Did you hear me correctly? There are others we must see to."

This damn Registrar, your fists clasped at your sides, practically vibrating with rage, this man was messing with you! He had to be!

"You can't be serious." You whispered. "The Castle would never allow it."

"I'm the Registrar. My duty is to choose what women I believe will make the most able servants. And perhaps, dare I say, you've enlightened me. It's true. Women who, as you say, 'have no backbone' will never survive serving under the Prince and King of the Yo Court."

The sentence was sealed in stone. Due to your habit, your humanly need to not be treated as scum by the higher-ups in society had just landed you in your worst nightmare. A job at the Caste, serving under the monarchs you hated the most. Being given a wage made from the taxes these villagers were being squeezed of. And there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.

Already plunged into hell, you figured you may as well go out with a bang while you descended.

"What is your name?" You whispered to him. 

His golden brow cocked. "I'm the Registrar."

"You mean to tell me your Mother gifted you with that name?"

A beats silence. The Registrar stayed still, contemplating long enough to deceive you into thinking he would not answer. Of course he wouldn't, pompous Court Official that he was. But after the silence was up, he leaned over the table. This wicked grey-eyed man who had just sealed your fate under lock and key.

"Kunikida Doppo," He said to you. "Secretary to The Throne. I will also be controlling your wages, Miss [Name]. I do hope your time-wasting habit does not carry over to your work."

You met him with a challenging smirk. "My Lord, Kunikida Doppo. How grateful I am to be granted this chance. Of course, I won't waste my time." Then, your voice dipped into a deadly whisper. One that was uncanny to any woman of society. Or any woman who wished to keep alive, period. Yet you, in that moment, couldn't find it in yourself to give a damn. "But I can promise you that I'll do everything to waste yours."

Outside the Throne Room, the Royal Palace of Yo

Court Officials; dressed in their beautiful garments of fine silks and studded gems, waited cautiously outside the Throne Room. The women with fans open in front of their faces to hide their frowns. Frowns, after all, stressed the skin to a point of wrinkles. No woman of the Court should be caught doing such a thing. The men had their hands of the hilt of their swords, swearing under their breaths and chattering in low voices.

"What do they think the Prince will do? If none of us could crack 'em, why do they think a pampered Royal can?"

He was met with violent shushing of another man. This one was a lot older and therefore, not as arrogant. Arrogance in the Palace of Yo got any man killed.

"Idiot!" He hushed. "Don't speak so easily of the Prince! Have you not heard his name in the halls?"

"His name?" The other man wasn't impressed. "'Course I have. It's common knowledge to know our Prince's—"

"No, his nickname. 'Demon Prince' is what the walls call him! You would be wise not to doubt his abilities of cruelty. Especially during interrogation."

The nickname of the Prince, the only Prince of Yo and heir to The Throne, sent violent shivers down each spine in the room. Women recoiled further behind their embellished fans, men cast their faces to the shadows with thin lips. It was all except for the gaudy original man, who had recently only joined the Court and was foolish in his thinking.

"Pwah!" He scoffed. The soft whisper of metal as he took out his sword. "I don't believe for a second that a spoiled Prince could do what actual Guards couldn't do! He was a lapdog his whole life — an only child!" There was an arrogant smile on his face. Perhaps the reason why he didn't notice the heavy sounds of doors opening behind him, or the desperate quiet pleas of the Court Members, was because he was so caught up in his bragging.

Whoosh, his sword sliced lazily through the air and he declared loudly, "I wager I could knock the brat on his behind with just one match!"

"Truly?"

It was a new voice that filtered through the air, stiffening everyone's bones in the hallway. Soft and mellifluous, the tone of the Yo Prince was rumoured to send men to their knees, women shaking with uncontrollable sobs, and government officials to tighten their jaws.

Today, his voice was echoed by the hiccups and tears from inside the Throne Room. The man that every Guard was interrogating without success was resulted to a blubbering, pathetic mess with just ten minutes alone with the First Prince.

The man brandishing the sword swivelled right around.

It wasn't only his voice that could break even the most hardened souls with wicked words. Rumours circled that it was his eyes — the shade of mahogany, of whiskey mixed with deep coffee. They bore into your spirit. Scanned deeply until you were stripped bare of everything you attempted to hide.

There was a sudden clang of metal on the tiles. The Prince didn't even flinch. He continued to stare at the now defenceless man, who was shaking in his boots.

The Prince cocked his head. "Would you be so kind to repeat yourself? I don't think I heard correctly."

Perspiration broke out everywhere along the man's skin. He was shaking so much now that he was sure of collapse. No one in the hallway was surprised, and braced themselves for the fate of the arrogant Court Official. He barely had lasted a week, and proceeded to insult the Prince to his face. Death, or something far worse, was imminent.

"N-N-Nothing—Nothing, My Liege." The shaking man regurgitated the words. Unashamedly, there was a growing patch of wet taking form in his tights. "I-I-I assure you."

 The Demon Prince let absolutely nothing change in his expression. Silence befell over them, heavy and thick, coating everyone in a layer of sticky oil. No one dared breathe, blink or even move. Not when an execution was about to be sentenced.

But the Prince did something more than that, and objectively a lot more terrifying.

He smiled.

"Ah, is that so? Forgive me, Guard-san. It appears the interrogation has left me tired~" His eyes blinked once, twice, and the dark coffee was now a bright whiskey. That was the other rumoured thing about the Demon Prince; his usual persona was calm and silly, yet underneath there housed a terrible monster no one should get in the way of.

He turned to another Guard. "Officer-san?"

"Y-Yes!" The older man stood to stoic solute.

"He's a spy of the Ko Kingdom," The Prince said easily, gesturing to the man who was crying on the floor in the Throne Room. No doubt his soul had ben fractured into thousand irreparable pieces. "Was sent to gather information on our economy. Word is spreading quickly that our drought is near crippling. He was due to report back to the Kingdom yesterday," He let out a light, almost playful sigh. "But you see, the man got greedy and enjoyed himself too much in a brothel house last night~! Spilled his entire guts to a lovely whore he was accompanying. What do you say to that, Officer-san?"

The man almost turned green with pressure. "I—I have nothing to offer, only that it was a life threatening mistake on his part, My Liege."

"Ehhh, you think brothels are 'life threatening', Officer-san?"

"T-That is not at all what I was—"

A peal of perfect laughter rang out when the Prince threw his head back. His mass of brown curls fell perfectly over his eyes when he straightened, those eyes decorated with long dark lashed were shut in happy moons. Deceitful, that was the First Prince of Yo, and God love anyone who fell for his blindingly attractive charm.

"My, my, Officer-san. You're like an innocent school-girl! How about we go to a brothel and find a lovely lady to not tell your wife about~?"

"M-My Liege!" 

"Come now, don't be nervous. Life if all about new experiences."

"I can assure you that I have—I have—!"

The atmosphere around the hallway was gently eased until the air was at least breathable again. Some brazen women snapped their fans shut now that their lips were upturned into a smile. Many of the men engaged in the Prince's easy banter. It was no small secret that, when he was in the correct mood, that the Prince had his way with people. Those who never touched or saw the other side to him naturally flocked to his presence.

The only remnants of his commanding, terrifying side was the sounds of wails in the Throne Room; a spy who stood no chance against the Prince's careful questions that everyone decided to stay ignorant to.

That and the shaken man who had been on the receiving end of the Prince's stare. The man who stared death right in the face through eyes of the darkest brown, and escaped, but was now resulted to a soiled, sword-less mess. Frozen to the spot, staring at the open Throne Room and unable to escape from the nightmare the Prince has traumatised him into.

"Were you successful?"

The Prince of Yo, nicknamed the 'Demon Prince'  by many of those who were unfortunate enough to encounter that side, strolled into the Quarters he was summoned to. This room was laved in gold and expensive jewels, silk bedsheets and grand oil paintings. In those paintings was the man who ruled over the entire Kingdom of Yo. And, the owner of the voice that called to his visitor.

The King of Yo; King Dietrich. He rarely uses his family name, although the house they lived in was brandished with the surname Dazai.

With a sigh, the Prince waved his hand. "The man was like an open book. Too easy to read, I got him to talk within a minute."

The King turned from the window to gaze at his son. His only son, and yet, there was a rift between them that was too cold to be one of family. They were simply King and Prince, and their fondness never extended past those titles. 

He raised a brow. "Officer Hijikata told me you were in there for ten minutes."

At that, the Prince smiled. It was a bone-chilling smile, one that sucked the light from his eyes. "There are other things to do to a man's mind when you take away all his secrets."

The King regarded his son for a long moment, through the brown eyes so similar to his. Then, let out the most regal of sighs. "Such an unsightly habit you have, Dazai. You'd be careful not to terrorise the new servants being trained. It's taxing enough that your branded with a nickname."

"Nicknames are commoner games. Do you think they use them to feel power? That brandishing another with labels is how they humanise?"

"There you go again, speaking so unsightly. These manners will slip out to the public."

Dazai Osamu, the Prince of Yo and Heir to the Throne, waltzed lazily over to his Father's desk and picked up a tumbler. It was gorgeously carved out of magnificent glass, intended truly to be a gift for the King.

He poured himself a healthy serving of whiskey and downed it in one go. Alcohol never did much to fill the indescribably gaping hole in his existence, but it made him feel something.

"Then let them. It'll only produce more labels. More ways of pointless humanising," He brought the empty glass to his lips and stared distantly. Through those eyes that broke men down, that instilled fear into those older than him, that yearned for amusement to distract himself from his outlook on life. "It matters not. I don't deserve the title of human, any way."

ྀི. Chapter Notes:

↣ "The Registrar" is a title I gave to Kunikida as he was taking names from the women who were registering to become a servant of the Castle. It's not his official title, however. His official title is The Secretary of the Palace.  ↣ A "Secretary" to a Throne is someone who supports many aspects of a monarch's private affairs; such as finances, schedules and correspondence. The main duty of The Secretary is to communicate the monarchs wishes to different areas of Government. Sometimes, a Court Secretary can also be The Secretary of State. ↣ Prince Dazai's nickname; "The Demon Prince of Yo" is a direct play on his nickname "Demon Executive" of the Port Mafia during the Dark Era arc of the anime. And the Fifteen Light Novel arc, I think? I tend to mention these plays throughout the book as I don't want to discredit Asagiri and make it clear what are my ideas an what is parody. ヾ(≧▽≦*)o ↣ Dazai's closing dialogue of; "I don't deserve the title of human, any way" is drawn from both Osamu Dazai's book No Longer Human and his ability in the anime, No Longer Human.

ʚɞ . . . 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

ʚɞ . . . 𝐌𝐘 𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐄

[crepesuzette2023]

“To the best of our ability Paul!”: The Paperback Writer session [and fashion show]

By Johnny Dean. From: The Beatles Book Monthly, Issue 35. June 1966.

As we walked down the corridor towards E.M.I.’s No. 2 studio (where else would one go when sitting-in on a Beatles recording session), the commissionaire pointed out to us that the boys were in No. 3 instead. So we made our way back to the front of the building and as we approached the studio door, the red light went on—which meant that they were recording. So we waited for them to finish. Three minutes later we walked in.

On entering the studio, we found John and Paul surrounded by a mass of equipment—most significant of all, were their new massive amplifiers. Paul was clad in his distinctive casual recording gear of black trousers, black moccasin-type shoes, white shirt with fawn stripes, a black sleeveless pullover and to top it all orange—tinted specs. John sported green velvet trousers, a blue buttoned up wool vest and black suede boots.

The basic track of "Paperback Writer" had been recorded the previous day, and now John and Paul were working out a detailed backing. Paul was perched on a stool thumbing away at a red and white Rickenbacker guitar, (moving with the music as he does on stage) whilst the Iyrics boomed through the studio speakers—so we were very honoured at being the first to hear their new single besides George Martin and of course, the Beatles.

We then spotted Ringo's head behind the screen in the far corner—he was playing chess with Neil. So we walked over. "Who's winning?", I asked. "Neil's the expert”, Ringo replied, and went back to the chess board to concentrate on how to get his king out of danger from an attack by Neil's bishop and castle.

The music stopped. George Martin came into the studio from the control room to have a tete-a-tete with Paul as to what they could do to improve the backing.

"What are you trying to do with this one?", I asked Paul. "Have you heard the lyrics?", came the reply. "Yes, I think it's very unusual”. "The trouble is", said Paul,"That we've done everything we can with four people, so it's always a problem to ring the changes and make it sound different. That's why we have got all these guitars and equipment here." That must have been the understatement of the year, because the studio was littered with pianos, grand pianos, amplifiers, guitars, percussion instruments, and other odd bits and pieces which were strewn over the studio floor.

The studio was sectioned-off with brown canvas screens and what seemed like thousands of black cables running from the amps and other electrical equipment to the control room over the heavily marked wooden floor. To stop the echo, E.M.I. have covered some of the floor with old carpets.

The big heavy sound-proof door which stops any of the noise of the outside world seeping into the studio, burst open, and in strolled George looking very elegant in his Mongolian lamb fur coat with black cap and oblong metal specs.

He was obviously on top of the world and bubbling over with enthusiasm, ready to record a dozen numbers. He threw his coat along side Paul's fur jacket and got down to work out the backing with John and Paul.

John, George and George Martin huddled round Paul, who was seated at the piano trying to work out a bass bit, before asking George Martin to play it. John leaned on the piano while he listened to Paul's ideas for a while. Then he picked up his orange Gretsch guitar and proceeded to pick away at it. At the same time Paul transferred to a Vox organ.

Although John and Paul were both working on the song together, it was originally Paul's idea. He asked the engineer to play it back at half speed so that John and George could do some vocal bits.

They were now all set to go. George Martin gave the O.K. The recording light went on and the basic sound track was played back through the "cans" they each had clamped over their heads. They did several takes. John and George hit some very high notes, but their voices kept cracking. "I don't think I can make it" said George, "unless I have a cup of tea. Where’s Mal?”

Right on cue at the end of the fourth take Mal emerged into the studio laden with tea, biscuits and something very special—toast and strawberry jam. Everything was immediately dropped and a sudden swoop was made on the toast and jam. Ringo, who was still in the corner trying to work out his next move, only got one piece of toast, so Mal offered to make another batch as it had proved so popular.

Meanwhile Beatles Book photographer Leslie Bryce was clicking away.

After the toast and jam had been devoured it was back to work. Paul suddenly got an inspiration he dived across to the piano and started playing bits of "Free Jacques" he was highly delighted at the thought of having it in the new single.

"O.K. let's try it", said George Martin. So John and George gathered round the mike and off they went. But it was a false start. Paul's head appeared over the top of the piano and he queried "Did you come in at the right place?". "We can't hear it properly" , said John, "anyway I thought that was the end of it.” George promptly told him it was the beginning!

After they had finished taping these bits, the tracks were played back into the studio while everyone listened in silence. George Martin was the first to speak-"I think that the best thing we've added are the 'Frere Jacques’ bits. Ringo who had finally beaten Neil at a game of chess by check-mating him in several brilliant moves involving a queen, a bishop and a castle, said that he thought John and Paul sounded as though they were singing through water! Highly uncomplimentary, so Paul then made for the organ once again and started to work out a sound which resembled that of Scottish bag pipes.

John then came swooping across the studio and shouted out—“You've got it. You've got it". Paul then started dum-dee-dumming away at everyone else—it was just like a scene from "My Fair Lady”!

George Martin appeared over John's shoulder and said "I see what you mean”. Paul announced that someone else should play it—meaning George Martin. John and George then went back to their mikes and added the vocals over the top.

After the first track Paul looked over the top of the piano and asked John and George if they were singing it right.

George turned round, lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose and looked down at Paul in a typical school-masterish fashion and said "To the best of our ability Paul!" And so the boys went on getting the sound that you will hear on "Paperback Writer”.

It was a long session. It took something like ten hours to record because the Beatles insisted on sticking at it until they were completely satisfied that they can do no more.

When you listen to "Paperback Writer" bear in mind what went on beforehand to achieve this really great sound, and I'm sure you'll appreciate it all the more.

"The very first shot of Paul we took when we arrived in the studio." (Photo by Leslie Bryce)

"Paul's hit on something. Waving his 'ciggie' he dee-dums his way through the bit he's just thought up while George sings with him." (Photo by Leslie Bryce)

Ringo's chess pieces and John's green velvet trousers. (Photos by Leslie Bryce)

[penkura]

Reader from where you belong: *staring intensely at chess board*

Luffy: *is eating her chess pieces when she isn't looking and hoping for the best*

Ehehehe I had to turn this into a little blurb thing cause it made me laugh.

You don't get it.

You don't get it.

How on earth was Luffy beating you at chess? Luffy, of all people! He's only twelve, Garp tried to teach him to play once, and you've been trying more lately, but he just hasn't gotten it yet.

Until today somehow?? Your pieces seem like they're disappearing slowly but you don't want to accuse him of cheating, he's just a kid. Ace keeps distracting you with new fighting moves he's come up with, but you still bring your attention back to the gameboard, lost on what exactly is happening.

Luffy is trying to hard not choke, literally. He watches you stare atbthe board, giving him a slight look each time you seem to notice a piece is missing, but you don't say anything. You instead make your next move and try to watch Luffy before Ace calls for your attention again. Each time you do, your brother snatches a piece and stuffs it in his mouth like a chipmunk. He's got so many he's trying not to choke, he doesn't want to swallow the wooden pieces that Dogra had made for you when you asked him.

"Hey. Hey, [Y/N], check this out!"

You nearly roll your eyes when Ace calls for you again but you do look, missing the moment Luffy takes and stuffs another chess piece into his mouth. This one is the last straw, he feels one nearly stabbing the back of his throat, but tries to keep from coughing too badly.

"Yeah, okay, Ace," you sigh and turn back to the board, hoping to be left to finish the game now, "Lu, did you--Luffy? Are you okay...?"

You can tell he isn't, with how he's almost grasping at his throat and your eyes widen.

"Ace, Luffy’s choking!!"

"What?! On what?!"

"I don't know!!"

Ace hurries over and starts smacking Luffy on the back, while you say you're going to run and get Dadan, before your little brother finally coughs hard enough that the chess pieces he'd stuck in his mouth fly out. His coughing is loud and rough, but at least he's not choking now, right?

Ace bursts out laughing as you shove water into Luffy’s hands and he immediately starts to chug it down. You're not even concerned over the fact he'd been hiding your pieces, just glad he's okay.

"He's just like a chipmunk! I can't believe you fit all those Luffy!"

"Ace, shut up!! He almost choked to death!!"

As you all settle down, Luffy thankful to breathe again, you take in what happened and pout, staring him down. He knows he messed up, you probably won't want to play against him again, not if he's going to be sneaking pieces into his mouth. Maybe you won't tell Garp, or anyone else, about this?

"Luffy...you do that again, one of the pieces might be poisoned next time~"

"...you'll have an antidote right?"

You just give him a smile that tells Luffy you're willing to risk it.

He never plays you again, no matter how many times to try to get him to. When Law, one day, sets up a game for you to play against him, you tell him the story, and he has to take several minutes to settle his own laughter down before you can start your game. Even then, he snickers every little bit as you both move your pieces on the board.

[lilyharvord]

that maven corianne interaction u posted was truly insane and i have not stopped thinking about it and how much i love there dynamic

I have brainrot about young Coriane and her strangely Loner™️ uncle who is staying with her family, and her parents struggle to be in the same room as the guy, and she is not allowed to talk to him or be near him, but she is and always will be Mare Barrow's kid and that makes her a Problem™️. So she decides to invite him to play games with her when they are not home. First, she asks him to play hide and seek. He looks over the faded edge of the book he is scowling at and says, "fine, go hide." She giggles and runs away as he "counts". She uses her best hiding place, the one her dad can't find her in, and she waits and waits and waits (she hides for a good two hours) and then she comes out to see him still sitting in the exact same place and says, "You're bad at this game." And he just turns the page and says, "I found you didn't I?" He looks up from the book with a bored raised eyebrow and says, "So clearly you are bad at it." And she is fucking GOBSMACKED, her little mouth falls open in horror and she stares at him for a solid few seconds. He expects her to argue, to stomp her foot and be mad, but instead she just crosses her arms and glares at him in a very "Mare Barrow" fashion and it kinda unsettles him. He pulled an Uno Reverse (not that that exists in this universe but whatever) on her and she is like: I will not be fooled into losing my favorite game again. So she keeps finding all these games to rope him into: cards, a board game she realizes her parents have just been letting her win at after he wins four times in a row, a different card game that she makes up (she cheats and keeps changing the rules to try and beat him but he finds a way to out-craft her every time), and then finally one day she brings him an old faded wooden box and sets it on the kitchen table where he is reading in the sunlight and then climbs on the chair across from him and sitting on her knees takes the top off and flips it around to show him a chess board and the pieces in the box. He tenses and she very awkwardly starts setting the pieces up incorrectly (she's only seen Cal set it up once or twice when Julian comes over) but with absolute confidence that she is correct. She crosses her arms, stares him down, and says, "we are going to play." and he just stares at the board between them before closing his book with a snap and rising. "No." he says and walks away. He's never said no before and she is furious. She chases after him, begging him to come play with her, grabbing his hand and pleading until she is almost crying. Eventually she lets go of his hand in the hallway and just sits down and starts crying. He is frozen and that is when Cal pokes his head out and is like: what happened? And she runs to him crying and Cal just takes her in his office and closes the door. And then like 30 minutes later, Cal finds Maven and is holding a sniffling and puffy eyed Coriane who clings to his neck and hides her face there when Cal stands there in silence for a few seconds. Maven watches him struggle for a bit before raising a brow and saying, "yes?" Cal inhales deeply and then says, "get the board set up, we're going to teach her how to play." And then just goes into the kitchen where the board is still waiting. Maven hesitates, then slowly follows and eyeing them like a cornered animal as Cal gives Coriane a glass of water and calms her down a little more. He brings her over at the time as Maven readjusts the pieces and sits down with her in his lap and begins explaining the pieces, what they can do, etc. And Maven watches her purse her little lips, and laughs internally because she is literally 5 years old why the heck would she be able to play chess? And then they start playing and she is getting it (kinda sorta, she's getting it for a 5 year old), guarantee she has Cal helping her and it is mostly him playing, but she is asking all the questions and understanding his answers and she has more than glimmer (more like a shine) of a strategic brain. And then when they win she is so excited and Maven smiles at them, and then Cal smiles at him.

[the-traveling-poet]

Can’t help but think about Erwin’s friend group dynamic.

Just imagine; It’s a rare day off for the veterans. For some god forsaken reason, Erwin’s office had become the usual ’hangout’ spot, not that he had had any say in the matter. So there he sat at his desk, slightly lounging on the wooden frame, watching as Hange laid on the floor just before the desk talking animatedly with their hands.

Levi sat on the man’s couch, legs crossed and a book in his hands. Apparently he couldn’t just read in his own room or his office.

Mike sat on the back of the couch to Levi’s right, a drink in his hand as he talked to Nanaba, who leaned on Erwin’s desk lazily picking up a chess piece to move across the board.

It was a common occurrence for them to take turns trying to best Erwin in a game of chess. So far, he remained undefeated, and today was apparently Nanaba’s turn.

Or.

A single person task split between the five of them.

Was it sensible? No. Was it practical? No. But yet again, Erwin didn’t have a say. Wether it be a trip to Trost for resources, cleaning around HQ, or writing up reports, Erwin didn’t get much time to himself.

But would he have it any other way? I think not.

pls i need more platonic bonding between these 5