#master chess happening everywhere

[purplepixel]

So.

I read issue 44 of idw.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Yandere Brother Pt 3

Tw: suffocating unbearable love, violence, general yandere, female reader shenanigans, infantilization, and of course incest. also christmas

minors and ageless blogs dni please <3

click here for part 1 and part 2

Click here for my new oc Yves (PLEASE READ IT I LOVE YVES)

plotholes and emglish errors everywhere and i could not be bothered :100emoji: please dont point it out thanks xoxo

Caught the Covid fuk now i cant leave my bed im so damn sick and pukey all the time, i dont fuckin know where my roommate is but at least they're not here to get infected, feeling like a busted up rustbucket rn

So this was originally written last year, couldnt find what else to write but this christmas time is perfect, so like dont mind the shoehorning of Christmas somewhere in this fic

You're having your summer break and you plan to pick up on a new hobby. Crocheting, perhaps.

Fuck, your brother picked up your search history from his spyware. Now you're left to deal with $1000 worth of wonderful quality crocheting materials and your big brother being your personal crocheting mentor.

This is where it gets frustrating. Yes, if you have the resources, you would enjoy your hobbies more. But, just like... What if you didn't like crocheting in the end? You're stuck with all these.

It happens to every single potential hobby. Stamp collecting? Your big brother will bid to the death for an extremely rare stamp from the 1900. You're not even fucking collecting the stamps, the stamp book already comes arranged with all the stamps ever produced. A collection that would only give a hardcore stamp collector an instant orgasm upon sniffing it.

Nail art? Where the hell should you keep all the acrylic powders, fake nails, drills and drill bits? Not to mention the dizzying numbers of nail polishes, nail brushes, nail stickers and cuticle sticks. Of course, your big brother is going to hire a professional nail artist to make sure you're practicing your hobby safely while he's learning how to do it himself, so he could replace your mentor too. He would become so skilled that he could qualify to open up a 5 star nail salon. But he's not interested unless you are.

Painting? you absolutely do NOT need all of those tubes of paint. The difference in shades for some of them are so small that you mistook it for the same colour. You would have a headache choosing the right type of paper, right type of primer and right type of fixative to use.

Are you having troubles on painting? Let big brother teach you. You would sit on his lap as he guide your hands across the canvas. Don't you think his warm hand enveloping yours feel nice? Doesn't his free hand feels nice sensually rubbing your thigh? Don't you just feel protected in his hold?

Makeup? Same situation with your nail hobby. You're essentially being babied by him and experienced celebrity makeup artists, you would drown in a mountain of eyeshadow palettes, primers, setting sprays, skin care products, anything and everything related to makeup.

Every instrument ever? Big brother would insist lovingly providing all the music lessons you need. He is a musical prodigy after all. If it's something ridiculously obscure like a Glass Armonica or the Theremin, big brother would master it in a couple of weeks, earn a fucking pHD in it and THEN teach you. No instrument is too expensive or hard for him. Your big brother is crossing his fingers HARD for you to have this hobby.

Chess? Oh, he is also a prodigy in it. He could teach you. Your chess pieces would be custom made to your liking, by the way. It would be the perfect density, perfect size, perfect texture for you. He knows what you like and you hate that.

Sports? Take a look at his "achievement room". It's filled to the brim with golden medals and trophies of every sport competition ever. He's not leaving you alone for this one.

Pottery? Welcome to your very own personal pottery studio, furnished with all types of drying racks, ovens, kilns, turntables and equipments you have never heard of. Big brother is always there to supervise you, making sure there won't be any accidents.

Cooking and baking? You get to have an industrial sized kitchen all for yourself. Everything is decorated such that it looks like you would be on television, starring in a cooking show. You don't need to clean anything, or prep anything, or actually do anything, really. There's a team of professional chefs and assistants to do everything for you. They're paid to cheer and clap and celebrate when you pour cake batter into a pan.

Gardening? Well, there's a massive plot of fertile land for you to garden to your heart's content at the house he bought as your 18th birthday gift. If you want a big project, it will be done overnight. You wouldn't hear the gigantic machineries and vehicles tumbling about due to the soundproof walls he installed. No one would be able to hear you both either, doing god-knows-what inside.

Video games? Your big brother personally do not encourage you to pursue this. But... Nonetheless, he would spoil you rotten with all the latest gaming consoles, limited edition merchandises, pre release copies of your favorite game franchises and whatever your gamer heart desires. All at a hefty price of... Daily cuddles and kisses. And you also have to move in with him. And he gets to decide what game you're playing, if he deems it a "bad influence"? It is not staying in his house.

You rather not.

Nothing is fun because the fun parts are already done for you. You don't get to experience the highs and lows of picking up a hobby, you don't get to explore and experiment. You're literally cursed with luxury.

So imagine your boredom, stress and paranoia during summer break. All your friends are spies for your brother, your hobbies aren't even "yours", leaving your house would inevitably lead you to your brother and all digital footprints are heavily scrutinized by him too. No privacy, no autonomy, all monotony.

You juggled three smartphones at once. Throwing one up in the air, catching the other one with your dominant hand, throwing the last to your other hand. Who gives a damn if one, or all of them breaks? It's riddled with spyware and your big brother would buy you every time a new model is released anyways. Which is... A new phone, a month?

You stopped caring where he gets the money. Obviously he has an assload and can afford to wipe his ass with thousand dollar bills regularly.

It's summer break. One last resort to try and spend your time like a regular ol teenager is taking up a part time summer job. There is a wide variety of jobs to choose from with your qualification. Granted, it's minimum wage and mostly customer service.

If you work as a barista, the cafe or juice bar you'll be working at will LOVE the crap out of you.

Your older brother will visit daily and increase their sales tenfold. Of course, he would pick the drinks that you like doing. It's okay if you fucked up, its only your beloved big brother's order, you can add as much sugar, salt, pepper, cyanide as you want. He will never yell at you, never tell you that you made anything wrong or never even die.

The management will suddenly see a surge in daily customer count. Thanks to big brother's networking. And like him, they also will accept anything you make with no complaint... As per his instructions. You could go full on ridiculous and give them a cup of ice drizzled with strawberry scented dish soap and call it Tutti Frutti, they would still pay for it and take it with them. Though, you're not sure if they ever consumed anything from you.

Without fail, your brother would visit you during every break and hand you your meal along with a kiss on the forehead or the cheek. He would bring you out to eat but you would refuse everytime. You also didn't want his company, which made him pout and whine without fail. But it's nice that he would actually back off after the sixth "no".

However, you know that fucker is watching you from a hidden camera somewhere in the nooks and crannies of whatever breakroom you're resting in.

He would engulf you in a big hug when you get off work, telling you how proud he is of you for getting through another workday like a champ. Praising you for all the hard work and excellent performance, making sure to soothe and comfort you if you happen to come across a rude customer earlier in the day.

You try not to think too much about their fate.

You will be fed, bathed and loved after every shift.

Hell, he would even build up a company from scratch just to hire you. Any position you want, barista, manager, cashier, back office work, janitor- you name it, you get the "job" and get paid a pretty penny. All your other coworkers and customers are probably paid actors and actresses to simulate a "real life working experience" safely. He controls it all, making sure you have just the right amount of drama, the right amount of diplomacy and the right amount of gossiping. You're rarely pushed out of your comfort zone, though. Big brother always has your safety and best interests at heart.

Of course, he will never tell you all of this, to keep the immersion going. You're going to feel sad that you're not exactly experiencing reality. But a bastardization of it. Might as well star in a trashy reality TV show instead, at least, it's much more authentic than whatever your big brother has going on for you.

He doesn't need to even tell you though. You would pick it up easily and quickly especially if you already watched the Truman Show. Don't tell him you did, god help you if he ever gets an inkling that you knew about the existence of the Truman Show. He deemed that movie as demonic propaganda and he needs to lecture some sense into you. If you want out, just say that you're 'bored' and want to do something else. Your big brother will gladly drop everything and do anything in his power to help you "achieve" what you want.

But for the sake of "plot" in this latest installment, you agreed to work in a quaint little bubble tea stall. Where you're the only employee, making drinks for whoever is ordering in front of the shop's decorated window.

Of course, your big brother miraculously happens to work in a nearby skyscraper as one does. It's not that you didn't do your research, you were a hundred percent certain he didn't work in that building, because that fucker never goes to work... At least, physically. Perhaps he does his job, whatever that may be, through online means.

You were planning to use your bicycle to get there that you got yourself with "your" money. He never bought you a car or a bike or anything that would get you around, he saw it as something unnecessary. Why would you need it when big brother is available 24/7 to bring you anywhere?

Actually, you could have gotten yourself a car with the allowance he gives you every day for being cute and adorable, and being patient with his incessant kisses and hugs and cuddles and love and touches and his fucking insanity in general.

But you know that he's going to kick up a massive fuss about driving alone. It was hell to even get your license with him actively trying to sabotage you at every exam- which includes him stooping so low to bribe the examiner to fail you. However, you persevered, and you got that stupid license. All the while, he was lamenting about how you're going to leave him all alone, how you don't need big brother anymore, how society pressured you to grow up too fast and recklessly drive off wherever.

You knew better than to fall for that. Or even entertain it either. Eventually, he gave up trying to guilt trip you into crying, apologizing to him and sobbing in his arms, promising that you won't leave him.

It's not like he DIDN'T kick up a fuss when you said you're using a bicycle either. He began freaking out about your safety, fearing that you might get run over.

Well. You admitted defeat. He's driving you to fucking work and back. It's not worth it to fight this battle.

So you began working in the stall. You had someone train you for your first 2 weeks. Then you were on your own.

The owner, who is also the person who showed you the ropes around there, said business isn't good, but it isn't bad either. So you didn't need to worry about rush hour where hoards of thirsty, sleep deprived office workers trample over each other to get their daily boba fix. It's pretty peaceful working there.

But what you do need to worry about, is your fucking big brother.

He would come and buy a drink, whichever you like to make. It can be the most expensive one, or the cheapest one, the most elaborate one or the simplest one. It's up to you, he will pay for it and happily drink what you made.

You could make him pay for the most expensive drink there is but serve him a cup of lukewarm water, and he would still drink it with glee and fork over his money, telling you to keep the change (which is usually a hundred bucks extra).

Let's say you want to be decent and make him drink that you know he would actually like. Which is anything that tastes generally fruity. And insist that you like making it even though it actually sucks.

He knows. He can tell that you're specially making his favourite drink. And that makes him happy and more obsessed with you if that's even possible at this point.

He would leave a massive tip and a kiss on your forehead.

Although your brother is fucking gross and weird like that, you still love him. Probably a bad idea but you're working so hard, trying your best to earn money honestly just to get him a Christmas gift.

Despite the restraining order between your parents and him, your brother is still invited back home each year to be jolly together. Preparations start a few days before Christmas, where you would see an unusual sight.

All of your immediate family members in the same room, or at least in the same house together without fighting to the death. Your dad's bones are intact, your mom didn't have her insecurities jabbed on for once. They're not exactly on speaking terms, per se.

You woke up one morning to see an... appropriate sized tree for your parent's house, erected in the middle of the living room. Adorned with beautiful ornaments and... are those pictures of you on the ornaments?

Wrapped presents were patiently sitting under the tree. There was a small box with your father's name on its tag, another small one with your mother's name on it. A decent sized box was addressed to your brother, must be a combined present from your parents.

Your shoulders sagged in defeat when you saw your presents took up the perimeter of the tree and even conquered the couch, the back of the couch and under the coffee table. You lost count after gift box #27.

Since everyone is in the kitchen, you quickly place the presents you got for your parents... and your brother.

You panned to the fireplace. Your Christmas stocking is filled so much to the brim that your brother must have added 5 more next to your original one. Your parents' and your brother's stockings are relatively empty. You stuffed them with candies and nuts to make them look less embarrassing.

You straightened your back, that should do it. Your ears perked up when you heard some clamoring in the kitchen. It must be your brother.

You let out a surprised yelp when you're yanked back by a pair of arms that snuck around your waist. "Merry Christmas, my little wittle precious baby!" You squeezed your eyes shut and scrunched your face as he attacked you with a barrage of kisses.

He giggled and squealed as he held you in his arms and twirled you around in glee. You let out a scream of horror as your feet dangle off the ground. He does this every Christmas morning when you were a child to wake you up further and get you excited for the holiday. But you're not a kid anymore, and this is horrifying.

Finally, he stopped and put you down. Your hair is frazzled and the world around you is gyrating. He squeezed you in another hug and gently rocked you side to side.

He immediately unlatched when you said you're hungry. Your big brother gleefully lead you to the dining table, where he fixes up a napkin around your neck like a bib. You asked him why is he tying a ribbon on your hair, he said that you are his Christmas present and he is spoiling himself this year.

Before you could respond, he gave you a brief peck on the head before frolicking away into the kitchen.

Your parents came out of the kitchen, greeting you. They're holding a tray full of steaming hot breakfast foods, no doubt your brother forced them to make it for you. Every Christmas generated a metric ton of leftovers. It's because your brother wanted you to try all of the foods from all over the world. But don't worry though, the leftovers could be so intact that it was given out to neighbors and friends and extended families. Some didn't even need to cook after that, the sheer amount of leftovers was enough to fuel ten more Christmas gatherings.

Croissants, quiches, various types of bread, eggs, ham, bacon even panettone made from scratch. Looking at the spread in front of you is dizzying, your big brother sets down the last plate right between your hands. It's a breakfast plate your brother customized to fit your usual preference, everything is shaped into a heart. He patted your head as he took a seat next to you.

Everyone ate in silence. Everyone was focusing on their own meal except... your brother. Who else would rather stare at you adoringly instead?

He asked if you wanted to go make snowmen outside. Not without proper winter protection, that is. You shrugged, it's not like you could escape your family anyway. Your friends are all busy with their own families, and you don't even have friends. Everything is closed and if you lock yourself in your room, your brother will just pick the fucking lock and force his way in.

Your parents tried making small talk, this earned a feral glare from your brother because it interrupted the connection between the both of you. They paid him no mind and began asking about your life. You tiredly replied to their questions and asked some back yourself, to try to find any sense of normalcy. Your brother would be disengaged with the words coming out of your parents mouth, but highly interested in what you had to say.

The rest of the morning went by uneventfully. You offered to help clear the table and do the dishes. Your brother just 'aww'd at you and gave you an appreciative kiss on your forehead. That wasn't an explicit yes, he appreciated the gesture, but he wouldn't allow you to dirty your hands doing chores.

He told you to wait for him to clean up. In the mean time, he gave you permission to open some of the gifts he got you. Frankly, you don't even want to deal with it at all, it's just too much crap. You decided to go through the stockings instead and grab some snacks for yourself.

As expected, he filled it with the most expensive treats and the freshest oranges. These types of foods are usually served in a formal setting, like eating gold crusted caviar at a 10 star restaurant, all dressed up in fancy clothes. But he just... shoved it in a Christmas stocking as if they're mundane chocolates.

Whatever, you shoved some into your pockets.

You turned around to see your brother smiling lovingly at you. He wrapped a puffer jacket around you, his scarf with his cologne on it, a pair of thick mittens on your hands , a winter hat snuggly fitted to your head, and a pair of thick pants he made you wear in front of him.

He picked one of your numerous christmas presents and handed it to you. He clasped his hands together expectedly as he watches you.

Your brother urged you to open it, go wild. Rip the wrapping to shreds. You felt so bad seeing how well wrapped it is and the quality of the wrapping paper is... indescribably good. It doesn't even feel like paper, it feels like silk.

So your carefully dismantled it, trying not to tear anything. You look up to see that your brother is pointing his camera at you, capturing this very precious moment. He encouraged you to go on.

You managed to remove the packaging and revealed a box of expensive winter boots. These are high quality and you would have been the source of envy even though most of your "friends" are also from wealthy families. Not everyone gets to have these.

You appreciate it but... You already had a pair of winter boots, the ones from last year, and the year before that. And the year before that, and a week ago where your brother is freaking out about you potentially having frostbite on your toes.

"It's the latest model! It was released as a part of a Christmas special, it will keep you warm and protect your feet too. It was selling out fast, I'm so glad I managed to get a pair for you, I can't have my sweetiepie sad on Christmas day!" Gushed your brother. You slipped them on.

You can't tell the difference between the one you had last year and the one on your feet now. Maybe some minor difference in it's stylistic design but... they're equally as comfortable.

You thanked your brother and finally gave him what he actually wanted from all this: a hug. He put away his phone and returned the embrace, sinking so deep into your jacket that neither of you can move without stumbling. You know he expected you to show gratitude for all his gifts through his main love language; touch.

It is exhausting.

After that, he brought you out to his private plot of land which he made into a park, complete with swingsets, monkey bars and slides. But these aren't for the public, it's for you. All the equipment are well maintained and look brand new even though you know it's been there for years.

He's not fond of throwing snowballs because it could hurt you. But he allows you to throw as much as you want at him. Even after the stunt you pulled last year.

You packed snow around a rock and hurled at him with all your might, it went straight to his head and his right eye was busted for months. Your brother didn't see that as something wrong, though. Even if you tried to apologize, he said that it was an accident and it was alright, he still loves you dearly and you did 'nothing wrong'. The first thing he did after recovering from his injuries at the hospital is to take you out for hot chocolate and then give you a backrub back home because winter could make your muscles stiff; and hence you must feel strained and sore.

He was still mildly bleeding from his gauze at the time, it was covering at least 70% of his upper head. Your brother was clueless when you asked if he needs any painkiller for his recent injury. He claimed to not feel the pain, but his wincing tells you otherwise. He rewarded you for your concern nonetheless with hugs and kisses and another massage.

You laid yourself on the snowy ground and started making snow angels. Your brother had his camera out and began capturing every moment he has with you.

You felt uncomfortable. And the cold is nipping at your bones even though you're thoroughly insulated by the sophisticated winter gear your brother made you wear. You're ready to go home now.

It shocked your brother and made him a bit desperate. He stammered and stumbled over his words, asking you if you wanted to play on the swing, build a snow man, play on the slides, the merry go around and... throw snowballs at him. Are you cold? He was in the middle of removing his own jacket to layer it onto you, but you stopped him.

You said you're tired. You don't find this fun and you're too old for this.

Maybe you're thirsty? He packed a flask filed with steaming hot chocolate for you- no? You're not thirsty or hungry? Maybe you wanted to use the bathroom-- no? You don't have to go?

He tried listing out all the possible reasons you wanted to go home and all its' solutions. Desperately wanting you to stop growing up so fast.

You got sick and tired of this, you yelled at him at the top of your lungs that you wanted to go home. You then stormed away towards the car, leaving your brother to stand there in silence, his camera capturing your explosive outburst.

Your brother saw you slamming the door angrily as you got in.

He sighed, gulping and hovering his finger over the delete button. But he ultimately decided against erasing the footage, it's still a video of you after all. Your brother assured that he's coming to the car, he wipes a stray tear away as he heads to his vehicle.

The both of you stayed silent as he drove you home.

Once you arrived, you bolted out of the car and ran back in. Locking yourself in the bedroom and barricading the door with random furniture. Hugging your knees close to your chest as you pray that your brother does not go after you by climbing into your windows.

And... he didn't. He left you alone for once. For a few hours too. It gave you the much needed relief, you felt like you could breathe now.

You're starting to feel a bit hungry. And you're hungry enough to be willing to face your older brother. So you began unbarricading, placing your dressers to it's original place.

You carefully unlocked the door, fully expecting him to be waiting outside for you. To your surprise, no one was in the hallway. You could hear some noises downstairs, in the kitchen.

You cautiously went down, the tree is still intact. Nothing is broken and there doesn't seem to be signs of a fight. You released a breath that you didn't know that you were holding, happy to know that you don't need to spend another Christmas at the hospital visiting your badly battered parents.

You whipped your head to the sound of your brother calling your name softly. He's holding a baking tray and a bowl, you can't tell what is in there because he's too tall. He smiled at you as he set it down on the dining table. The tray contained freshly baked parts of a gingerbread house and the bowl contained vanilla frosting.

You scanned the rest of the table. There are numerous small glass bowls containing different types of candy and snacks; from pretzel sticks to colourful chocolate rocks, to real gold leaves. Piping bags with metal tips are present too next to a box of plastic gloves.

Your brother pulled your chair out and invited you to sit there. You did, and he called you a good girl. His good girl. As you put on a pair of plastic gloves, he kissed you on the temple.

You asked where your parents are. He said that they're preparing the food for dinner, which includes ham and a roast turkey. And 15 other dishes.

You quizzed on, asking if there will be more people coming in. He shook his head: no. It's only the four of you. In the meantime, you should enjoy yourself building this gingerbread house. He puts on his own pair of plastic gloves too and began filling the piping bag with icing.

The two of you worked in peace, you opting to decorate the house while he pipes the details on the gingerbread men.

There is only two, a large one and a smaller one. You can guess which represents who.

You noticed the odd choice of attaching the small one to the large one's torso. With strategic use of the candies and frosting, he made it look like the larger gingerbread man is carrying the smaller one on its hip. He piped your defining features onto the baby gingerbread, and piped his features on the larger one.

He noticed you staring, your brother asked if you had a hard time connecting the pieces with frosting and if you needed his help. You said no, you just need a spatula from the kitchen. He tried to get up from his seat, but you pushed him back down, saying that you can get it yourself. He pouted, telling you to be careful and not touch the knives or stoves. Your brother went back to obsessing over the details on his gingerbread men.

You went inside the kitchen and greeted your parents who are busy cooking. You go through the drawers to find a silicone spatula and decided to help pick up some stray food scraps on the floor, throwing them into the bin. But as soon as you step on the pedal and have the lid swing open, you saw two crushed, but perfectly edible, gingerbread men in the garbage bin.

You returned to the dining table to see that your big brother is proudly presenting his work. He said this represents you and him... as if you already haven't figured it out. He said he dreams of having you live with him in a perfect fantasy house, fantasy world where you never have to grow up. And he will always be there by your side, taking care of you till the end of time. You will be pampered and spoiled rotten, you don't have to do anything, you don't have to lift a finger. Your big brother will do everything for you. He would even breathe for you if he could.

You nodded in acknowledgement, too tired to engage with him. You sat back down, continued with the gingerbread house. You failed to notice the flicker of sadness in his eyes, your brother felt so neglected and unwanted these few years. He wished that you were a kid again so the both of you could play together and be happy. The more he tries to win your favour, the more distant you get from him. He is endlessly chasing and you are running non-stop.

The rest of the afternoon went by uneventfully, other than the fact that your big brother rests his head on your shoulder the whole time.

Now, it's time for dinner. You tried helping them bring out the dishes, your brother praised you for being a darling as usual. He lets you have the first bite of the turkey, tearing a small inconspicuous piece of flesh from the bird and hand feeding it to you. It's still warm, juicy and delicious. Maybe it's the feeling of being special that makes it even tastier.

You chew as you brought out the casserole, setting it down on the table.

You looked at the spread. It looks like a buffet at a high end hotel. So many varieties and extremely nutritious.

Your brother fixed your napkin bib for you again and took food for you. Slumping in your seat, you were thinking of protesting but you knew it's easier to just wait for him to carve the best parts of the turkey for you and let the food pile up neatly on your plate first. He returned it to you, all your favourite dishes are on it within sensible portions. But these are still a lot of food for a person.

He didn't care about praying. Your brother wanted you to eat as soon as possible because you must be hungry. And it is absolute sacrilege to let you go hungry.

You insisted that you join your parents in saying grace and you're not that hungry. Your brother looks uncomfortable, still believing in his sick mind that you're starving to the point of emaciation. But since you are adamant in doing such 'pointless' things In his mind, he agrees, only if he leads it.

Everyone bowed their head down and held each others' hands.

Your brother said the shortest, most insincere, laziest grace ever. Once he fulfilled your requirement, he urged you to eat.

You're upset, you felt really angry and you thought he was mocking you instead. So you opted to eat alone in your room, you made it clear that you didn't want anyone in. Especially not your big brother.

He cried out a desperate plea to get you to stay with him. You ignored him and took a couple more of your favourite finger foods. Predicting a fight between your brother and your parents.

You wrenched your arm away from his powerful grip and fled the scene, hurrying up the flight of stairs. Only slowing down when you're out of sight.

As you thought, sounds of verbal fighting started resonating throughout the house. You heard your brother screaming his head off at your parents for being bad influences and poisoning you to hate him. Your parents defended themselves and this only fuelled the fire. You didn't want to be around when your brother started hurling chairs, so you slammed the door as hard as you could. The sudden loud noise did stop the commotion downstairs briefly. But it continued soon after.

You ate alone, in your barricaded room. Wishing that you're born into a 'normal' family, with 'normal' trauma. To a lot of people, you are complaining about a blessing. But you are always feeling alone, the only person facing a problem which everyone sees as a solution.

You scraped the last bits of food with your spoon. Waiting for the sounds of the ambulance or at least for the fighting to quiet down.

You looked at the clock. It's 1 AM. It's been relatively quiet for a while now, they should be finishing up their fight or cleaning up. Time for you to return your plate.

You grunted as you pushed the furniture away from your door which felt like the umpteenth time. You left your room and head downstairs.

Hearing soft sobs from one person, your brother. He's sitting in front of the tree, hugging the present you left for him earlier. The presents addressed to your parents are both missing, presumably being taken back to their room. A blanket is loosely draped around his shoulders.

You took slow steps, unsure if you should comfort him or not. But before you can even decide to chicken out, he spotted you. However, to your surprise, he didn't approach you or tell you to come forward. He gave you a soft assuring smile, before returning his attention to the tree.

You set your plate aside and went by his side. Your brother watched you with puffy eyes full of love, yet it tells you that he has been irreparably hurt by something... or an accumulation of things.

"Thank you..." He whispered, refering to the gift you gave him. It isn't something particularly valuable to you. It's a picture of the entire family in a photo frame. Your brother is going to cherish it, because it is a gift from the person he loves most in the world. But deep down, he secretly wishes that it was a photo of you and him alone.

He still looks extremely upset and distraught. Almost like he is at the brink of a breakdown. Your brother usually verbalizes what he wanted, but he couldn't this time.

You wonder what your parents got for him. You peeked over his shoulder to see that an unopened box containing a plain T-shirt and a pair of socks is carelessly discarded to the corner of the room.

Then, it clicked. Just like you, he felt alone. Maybe you will never understand why he holds you so dear in his heart. Just like how no one will understand him either, his struggles are unique to him with no one to relate.

He destroyed the relationship between himself and your parents. His friends are all superficial. You're grown up and constantly rejecting his love.

Not a single one of you paid attention to him. Yes, it is hard to think of a present for someone who has everything. But they could have put in a bit more effort, the colour of the shirt and socks aren't even in his favourite colour or in the correct size. You could have removed your parents from the photo, your brother will never remove it himself. Because that would mean defacing your gift for him.

And growing up, your parents never saw him as... a person. As someone with feelings and a personality. They only saw his value as a trophy piece to show off to their friends and family. Same goes to his friends now, if it wasn't for his skills and possessions, he would be nothing to anyone.

He had to beg to be loved. Even that isn't reliable, he could give it his all and everyone around him will expect more. Your brother could never dream of being the receiving end of his own affection. It seems like an impossibility to him.

Perhaps he is doing all of these despite getting nothing but disgust and disdain from you is all to protect your innocence, to not put you through what he had to face. It's just that he went about it the wrong way. Or maybe he is just... wrong in the head. Or maybe he was hoping by loving you so much, you would give him the intense type of love he was yearning for his entire life.

Either way, he is alone.

The both of you are now seated in front of the fireplace. You didn't want to open presents, your brother is okay with that. He did not nag you to do it for once. Snuggling closer, the both of you shared a blanket. He still looks unhappy and crestfallen.

You remember you still had the ribbon bow on your head.

He hovered his arms around you as you squirm in his grip. You managed to crawl into his lap and rest your head on his chest. He lets out a chuckle and some sniffles, clamping his arms back down around you.

You reminded him of one last gift. Your brother is confused until he saw your ribbon.

From that moment on, he burst into tears of joy. He found you so unbearably adorable, so unbearably cute that his heart couldn't take it. An excited squeak escaped his lips as he held you even tighter. Peppering kisses all over your face, neck and head.

He started blabbering in baby talk, calling you every pet name and listing out everything he loved about his 'gift'. Repeating that this is the best gift he ever received and this is all he ever wanted. You are all he ever wanted. Praising that you remembered what he loves.

You hope that he could feel a little less lonely tonight. You can't peer into his head and know exactly what is going on inside. But you knew, he was happy.

Your breathing calmed him down and he closed his eyes, nuzzling against your neck. The collar of your shirt wet from his tears and your arms are secure around him. Your brother mumbled "I love you." as he adjusted you on his lap. Pressing your form against his, enjoying the heat that the both of you shared. Wishing that this moment will never end and you will never part from him.

You realized another thing too as he strokes your hair.

Your older brother is the only person in the world who harbors true, undying, unconditional love for you.

Even though he has his flaws, there will be no one else like him. Ever.

So you closed your eyes and melt into him. Just like before, you felt safe.

The both of you fell alseep in front of the hearth, surrounded by gifts, mostly unopened ones. Snowflakes floating down from the skies and landing delicately at the edge of the roof. Feeling unburdened and content in the living room.

Merry Christmas.

[wistfulnightingale]

The Chess Moves Theory Set -- Why Chess & Magic? (A Final 15 MetaTheory)

The Final Episode of Good Omens S2 is full of moments that caught our attention. We cried, we rewatched in disbelief, and some of us generated speculation and theories. Yet it remained difficult to find a solid "other" explanation for everything that occurred. Maybe it really was an incredibly painful breakup. The Ineffable Divorce.

Speculation about any one of the key moments, looked at individually, leave gaps and questions and uncertainties. But together, they might propose a different picture. I think it's a piece by piece jigsaw puzzle, or the sequences in a Regency Era dance, or --- A complex game of chess.

Over many months, I've put together a set of 8 scenes/theories, Eight Chess Moves that, together, might prove that what we saw wasn't all there was. Some might seem exciting, some might seem bonkers. Personally, I think there's reasons (or sometimes even proof) for each of them, or I wouldn't propose them to you. I've listed and linked each one below. I hope you'll at least enjoy them!

Now, I'm not a skilled chess player, not at all. But The Metatron is. He's a Chess Master (at manipulation), and Our Ineffables have had to quickly develop their skills, anticipating moves and creating counter moves. Hopefully they are skilled enough to shift the board and win this deadly game.

Like Fell the Marvelous Magician, flicking the envelope after the incriminating photo has been tucked away, magic and Misdirection are also used. Misdirection means that the magician is not "hiding" the trick -- they convince you to start looking for the trick after it's already happened. Magicians Penn and Teller are quoted as saying, "The strongest lie is the lie that the audience tells itself."

This Masterclass article on What Is Misdirection in Magic tells exactly how it's done:

Social Cues -- Look where they look, not where we should look

Multitasking/Split Focus -- Distractions

Patter -- Rapid talking & questions (Lookin' at you, Nina!)

Emotional Manipulation -- Yeah, that Crowley moment with Nina

Time Misdirection -- It already happens before we know to look

Convincers -- Someone validates that everything's normal

Repetition -- We get used to seeing something, and don't question it anymore

I'll be refering to most of these in the theory breakdowns, since they're a huge part of how a lot of this managed to sneak under our radar.

The Eight Chess Moves Theory Set:

1 - The Metatron Misdirection

2 - The Metatron's Second Coming

3 - Ineffables in Check

4 - A Hefty Jigger of Death

5 - Nothing Lasts Forever

6 - The Circle Kiss Theory

7 - The Nightingale DID Sing

8 - Aziraphale's Jubilant Smile (NOT the crazy elevator grin)

Also: The Metatron Misdirection New Note (Is it a Shell Game of White-Haired Men?)

(Please go to @wistfulnightingale for my pinned post if these aren't linked up here! My Apologies! I've been scurrying to get it all linked)

No single chess move on the board wins a match. It is the series of moves, each decision, each part of the strategy, that leads to the victory. For nearly a year and a half, the fandom has been analyzing various scenes that raised questions in our minds. We get closest to figuring it out, I believe, if we look at all those mysterious moments together. None of my theories is convincing if it stands alone. However, as a SET, each leading to the next, they might make a more compelling case for the moves and countermoves that were happening in S2.

The opening credits sequence has a lot of clues about Magic in it (like rabbits Everywhere!!), letting us know that Magic is gonna be important in S2, as detailed in @sendarya 's YouTube video:

Good Omens Title Sequence, EASTER EGGS and hidden clues uncovered!

Interestingly, I think we've actually also been told to look for a chess metaphor, just as we were given clues to look for Magic Tricks. There are chess pieces and a chess board visible behind Crowley (next to the fateful grandfather clock!) in much of the end of E6. And earlier, in E3 when Jimbriel is swatting at the fly and demonstrating gravity, we are given a very clear shot of the book "My Best Games of Chess."

That same book is also featured several times in the 1946 Powell and Pressburger movie "Stairway to Heaven," as @sendarya noticed. (The multiple connections of chess and "Stairway to Heaaven" with S2 is wonderfully explained in another YouTube video by @sendarya ,

Good Omens Love or Law, which is stronger?

I highly recommend checking it out!) The movie poster on the left for "Stairway to Heaven" is seen twice in Good Omens S2, in the opening credit sequence (seen below) and in Maggie's record shop.

The poster on the right also shows the movie's U.K. release name, "A Matter of Life and Death." As fun and fluffy as Good Omens S2 began, the reference to this other title becomes too fitting for our Ineffables by the final episode.

The Chess book and the repeated presence of the movie poster certainly seem to mean Something. The video by @sendarya is what inspired me to look at all the mysteriously odd moments of S2 as related parts of a Chess Game, "A Matter of Life and Death" between the Metatron and Our Ineffables. Each moment looked at alone just leads to more questions. Together, they might start to make sense.

I hope you enjoy all of the parts of my Chess Match Theory Set. (I've been neurotically pondering and examining and rewriting this stuff for months!) Hopefully, these ideas are still consistent with Terry Pratchett's ideas for where these two characters who began as one will end up. I'm hopeful that I'm onto something here, but I also hope (tentatively believe?) that the plot they suggest still fits with the Rescued 90, the Finale of our Ineffable Adventures. And, if I'm mistaken, at least it gives us something to talk about in the meantime!

Thanks for coming with me on this crazy ride!

To Our World!

[stormxpadme]

AO3 has been kicking me out for around 10mins bcs of pages loading too slow on wifi and data both so it wont let me post a comment on ch 7 (i think) SO HERE IT IS i will not go to sleep till i send it to you PUBLICALLY ! (gonna also paste it into ao3 tmrw but i need to send it now and then pass out for at least 3 more hrs xD):

REMYYYYYY AAAA i literally firgot everything i was gonna say when i figured out its gambjt j'fucking adoreeeee 🥰🥰🥰

one bad mutant for eric one food mutant fir charles. theyre just playing chess at this point. assholes. also with the like killing and mystiques comment abt another talk between erik and charles i had a thiught there... hmmmm.... i wish i rmbrd what kt was. OH YEAH. it hink i said this a while ago somewhere that its like. Its a draw, and impasse, and until either one of them crossed any of the arbitrary lines they drew in the sand nothing will change

Also scott is a dumbass and katja is so extremely like. Idealistic. I love that for her bcs she still has enthusiasm amd has that righteous anger that comes off as either annoying or hopeful to someone whos been fighting a war for so long such as scott. And i love that part of the convo where scott is like we cant save the whole world. It made me think of schindlers list and that quite - the man who saves a life has saved a world entire. Which is ironic given that its eriks goons doing this, which AGAIN brings me to erkis hypocrisy this time and like. Him and charles are just two sides of a same coin arent they?

The encounter with that girl yesterday had left him more confused than he had experienced in years. - side eyeing you for this 👀🤨😤😹❤️

With this weapon, we can turn all of New York into mutants in a few days and all of humanity in six months - oh i rmbrd now! (I cooy some quites to clipboard not to forget to comment on them xd) - what i wanted to say here is that i have all the love and none of the respect for cartoonish villain plans ised to attract the attention of your ex boyfriend xD "imma turn the whole new york into SHARKS and i'll be the SHARK MASTER" like dude chill ffs just text him its okay its cool xD.

❤️

It sent, actually! But yeah, everything's lagging there right now including my answers to you and I'm getting unnerved bc AO3 GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER. So I will answer here :D And then I will send you to bed BECAUSE REASONS.

And hey, there's a definite advantage to posting here: You can include visuals :D.

I needed my red eyed Cajun baby in there :D. I mean obviously, since the team is what it's like in the 90s cartoon plus one additional weather-witch, but also because Remy is too fucking cute (and Taylor Kitsch was too fucking hot playing him).

Yeep, exactly. Charles and Erik love each other far too much still for their own good. This whole thing would long have been over with everyone dead if they didn't hold their respective people back. With how it's going, there's just more and more collateral damage on the way, and those two still will just fuck it out and cry on each other's shoulder in the end, and they deserve all the shade thrown at them for it.

Uuugh now I get emotional about Schindler's list again, never managed to rewatch that, it broke me so much the first time already. I think it's really the hardest part about this job? Getting to terms that you can't be everywhere at once and that making as much of a difference as you can is what counts and not saving everyone because that simply won't work. And my girl is still at the beginning of learning that sigh. It's really chilling seeing Erik walk around killing off random people in this franchise just because they're normal people bc like. This is what happens when someone's been on the receiving end of this and then gets the power to turn the tables on the fascist assholes. The moral dilemma of the whole thing ugh.

Oh god, I'm so sorry for this storyline already LOL. Poor Ororo really needs better taste in men …

thanks, now I can never take that plan seriously again LOOOL. I mean, when Erik finally gets up to get this plan up and started, Charles will indeed be there in person, so I guess in the end the plan worked? :D

[lcfthaunted]

Meeting Mazie for the first time is only ever meeting her first mask. Her outward presentation gives to underestimation: the sweet and gentle cafe owner, the pretty and vapid celebrity, the ignorant if attractive “secretary”. It is a way to protect herself from others while also convincing them to let down their guard around her—if they believe she is, ultimately, harmless, they will not expend so much energy protecting themselves and their interests from her. The more dismissive someone is to that first mask, the less likely she is to ever let them see more. It's not entirely untrue; she does want to be harmless, she's just too aware of herself to believe she could be.

The first layer under the mask is her terrifying observational brilliance. She is terribly perceptive and well-versed in human psychology, so she can frequently make inductions about someone’s life or mental state simply by watching them. She enjoys this, enjoys learning things about people and fitting the information into a puzzle, figuring out everything about them, solving them. It is the first thing that breaks through the harmless mask—sometimes she can't help but show off a little. Genius needs an audience. It is the thing that keeps her from being harmless, no matter how she may try. No one likes having their inner selves known quite so well. It's this cleverness that makes her a formidable opponent, though; a chess master, through and through, whether you realize that is the game she's playing or not.

Hiding under that are her neuroses, starting with her attachment issues. This is where she is still that little girl, sitting on her aunt’s porch with her little sister, waiting for someone to come for them and realizing no one is. The one who spent hours trying to figure out what she did wrong to make their father abandon them. She still wonders, and it’s a fear she carries with her everywhere; that she’ll do something wrong and make someone she loves leave her again. She tries so very hard to be what others want from her, so starved for affection she will debase herself for it, try to hide the parts of herself that are unpalatable. She is manipulative; she is manipulable.

Next, her suffocating desire for silence. Existing in her brain is so very loud, all the time; if she doesn’t have enough stimulation, or if she has too much, or if she has the wrong kind, her own mind will overwhelm her. Because of how her memory works, it’s incredibly easy for her to get stuck in flashbacks, and equally difficult to pull herself out of them. It’s exhausting. Between the constant battle with stimulation, the ease of traumatic memories surfacing, and the taxation of her own poor emotional health, she desperately wants it to stop. (This is what most people would recognize as suicidal ideation, a common symptom of clinical depression. She has not yet made that realization.) It’s not an active desire to die, but it does frequently express itself as disregard for her safety. This and the previous layer go hand in hand, presenting as low self-worth.

Hidden under all of that, very nearly to her core, is a constant, simmering, vicious anger. She is so very furious about everything she tries to say she’s fine with, tries to say she’s over. There’s anger at the trauma she’s survived, anger at the people who’ve hurt her and her loved ones, anger at a world that would allow any of that to happen. There’s anger at people who underestimate how difficult her life has been, at everyone who hasn’t taken her pain seriously, at every minimization she’s suffered. There’s anger at how her own head works, how it hurts, at the chronic pain and nerve damage she lives with now, with no known recovery. She is always, constantly, so very, very angry, burning through her veins. It just takes quite a bit for it to finally show, buried as it is, but when she’s worn down, in pain, it tends to flare up easier.

And then, at her very core, driving her every decision, is love. She is so very full of love, and she loves so fully and easily. Everything she does, she does in love, hidden as it might be under anger-depression-desperation-curiosity. It may not be the most direct or visible connection, but there is no exception. She is all love, and doesn’t know how to be anything else. It brings her to the wrong conclusions, sometimes, but she never intentionally hurts the people she loves, and always does everything she can to minimize the damage she might cause. Once someone sees it, it explains nearly everything about her.

[queenoftheboard]

The way to the Count's estate was not that far away from the meeting Eirene had been at, but the drive seemed to stretch over time. When they finally arrived, the woman was uncharacteristically agitated, and got out of the vehicle without waiting for the door to be opened or for any assistance to be offered by her driver - an act that was part of the routine of the head of the Campbell family not because she required help, but rather due to the fact it was always a show of power.

With Eirene, most gestures were calculated, planned and had a reason to be executed, not unlike moves over a chess board. Her visit to Chelsea, however, lacked that careful scheming aspect - it was an emergency which had disturbed the usual flow of events for the Quinn's CEO, and the woman was now improvising. Luckily for the Sinner, despite the adrenaline poured in her bloodstream, she was still incredibly rational even in the face of the unexpected.

This was why the Campbell heiress did not use her powers to break into the mansion - creating a minuscule field of energy to destroy the lock would have been easily masked from the detection system in place for the district, particularly when there was already an active alarm at that part of the city; but it would leave evidence of some tampering with the property, and Eirene couldn't risk it. Instead, the woman rounded the building - quick steps took her through the garden, looking for an alternative way in; the lack of any security told her that whatever happened inside... It couldn't be good.

The blonde finally found a window open - one that was big enough and offered access to the dining room, and that was where Eirene slipped inside. Seeing no signs of any residents around (or even servants), she inhaled deeply and started to search the rooms - a stupid idea for many who were unaware of the Sinner's powers; but rather than a fragile woman in heels, the CEO of the Quinn Group had enough destructive capacity at her own hands to bring the manor down.

Luckily, it wasn't necessary - the sounds of someone sobbing (Chelsea?) and heavy objects being dragged over polished floors ultimately led the businesswoman towards her friend, seeing Chelsea in the middle of a most bizarre scene: there were human-like statues in the room, blood spatters among them and on her friend, not to mention an odd number of precious stones scattered everywhere and the gem-cutter turned Countess looking like she had been hurt... Or worse.

"Chelsea!" Eirene's voice was louder than usual; there was something deeply emotional distorting her typical business tone, the same feeling that fueled hurried steps and the way the Quinn's president went straight for the other woman, holding her in a hug uncaring for the impact it could have on the fine gown covering her body. "Chelsea, I'm here - it's Eirene. You're safe now," the older woman murmured, ungloved hand seeking to caress and pat the long pink tresses of the other female. In a lot of ways, the manner in which the Campbell heiress held the count was surprisingly sweet - personal, kind and intimate, even. A display many would believe Eirene to be incapable of.

"What happened, my dear? Did they hurt you?" They didn't have a lot of time before officers arrived to check on the alarm triggered around that address - and it had to be Chelsea, Eirene realized; an awakening of her powers, probably as a result of whatever horrible thing had been underway before the younger woman put a stop to all of it. The solidified form of the Count and of these other men - the clock was ticking and they needed to vanish; but before taking care of it, Eirene needed more.

All the bits and pieces of information were vital if the most skilled chess master that DisCity had ever seen was to create a bullet proof plan to get her (only) friend out of imprisonment and detainment, possibly for life.

Blood, Chelsea thinks, shines a lot like well-cut rubies. In the right light, of course.

But isn't that the case with everything? Held at the right angle, anything can catch the light in a way that'll make it sparkle and shine. That's what makes Chelsea sparkle and shine. Her ability to see beauty in the dullest things. Where to chip a little off, where to chisel. How best to expose the facets of a thing--the beautiful and inevitably the ugly, too. It was only a matter of time.

Blood makes her hands slick, and she has to try once, twice, three times before she manages to seize the Count by his clothes, fabric bunched between her fingers, and roll him over onto his back. Even like this, it takes a little doing--he's bigger than her, and heavier. Little Chelsea; weak Chelsea. Can't do anything on her own, Chelsea. Chelsea's never been all that strong. Ha. Not that it'd mattered in the end.

His eyes are still open, but glassy. His mouth, gaping, as he'd tried to take one last, wretched gasp. There's no movement, no reaction as she slaps a hand clean across his face, leaving a wet handprint. His head snaps to the side with the force of it. It stays there, hung at an awkward angle, in a congealing pool of his own blood.

... Disgusting. How truly disgusting. He disgusts her. He should have always disgusted her--should have saved her the trouble of a year of pain and anguish. But that's not his fault. She's just the fool who had been too desperate--too hopeful--too stupid seen it sooner. After all this, she still feels disgusting. Dirty. But it could be worse. They could have--

No. She doesn't want to think about that right now. She wouldn't have let it get that far. She wouldn't. She didn't.

... But she's definitely made a bit of a mess now...

She only begins to tremble as she pushes herself to her feet, feeling sticky as she tracks bloody footprints across the floor as she goes in search of her clothing, strewn across the floor. Hands trembling as she reaches for what remains of her dress, discarded somewhere earlier by one of those... Those...

There's a long, large rip on one side. It must have been torn when one of them had tried to grab at her. It's a pity. Chelsea had liked that dress. A pretty, silky affair--red to bring out her eyes. It feels, in places, heavy and wet. She's not sure which one had dirtied it with their blood, but it doesn't matter. They'd all ended more or less the same way. And a ruined dress is the least of her problems. She can buy a new dress--or a hundred more. She can have this dress remade--better and more beautiful than the first. The Count could snap his fingers and have the world heel for him. All of that--his title, his money, his power--is hers, now. All of it.

But that won't mean a thing if she's thrown in prison. Locked away--left to rot. Without her freedom, and without options, either. No better than she'd started.

... What should she do? What can she do? Despair is starting to prick hotly at the backs of her eyeballs; starting to make her chest feel tight. She barely notices the hot, wet feeling of tears sliding down her cheeks at first. Not until the sound of muted splattering becomes the sound of something hard falling against marbled flooring instead.

A little pile of diamonds rests at her feet. ... It'd probably fallen from her dress in the heat of the moment, or from one of her necklaces, or something like that. But she can't afford to be distracted now--not when she can hear alarms going off--and it doesn't seem to just be in her head, for once--she has to do something. Before she loses everything.

There's a vault under the the Count's Court. It's usually used to store valuables. Chelsea had seen it once--near the beginning, she thinks, back when the Count had still cared what she thought about him. Back when he had cared about impressing her--with his wealth, with his power, with how much he truly loved her--really. With how he couldn't live without her. How she surely wouldn't be able to live without him.

... It comes to mind now, because no one has access to it. No staff member, not even Chelsea herself. Not without the Count's permission, or the key he always keeps on his person. ... Always.

She's not sure how she'll manage to drag him down there. Not sure how she'll manage to get the others, too. Not without alerting half the Court's staff members--not without leaving a bloody trail--and not even considering all those things. She's weak, after all. Little Chelsea. Weak Chelsea. Can't do anything on her own Chelsea.

But she still has to try. She doesn't have a choice but to cross the room once more and try to find purchase with her arms, with her hands--some way to be able to move him. It's hard to see still, with her tears clouding her vision. But she doesn't think the Count had ever been this heavy. Or it being this difficult to hold on. Or that his body would be this could, this quickly...

She doesn't understand how or why it could have happened. How the Count's body could have transformed, as though by magic, into solid gemstone. Doesn't understand--but understands, at least, that it doesn't matter. They can't blame her if they can't find a body. And they won't. Not a single one.

Blood still slicks the marble floor, but it shines like so many of the diamonds that the Count likes to keep in his court. An accident, Chelsea is already planning to tell them. She'd slipped and gotten hurt on one of these garish gemstone sculptures (she had been hurt--they had hurt her) and made a mess of herself. That silly Countess. That stupid Chelsea.

[slytherinsnekxvii]

let's talk about lily evans and the marauders, aka moony, wormtail, padfoot and prongs. given that i didn't use their actual names, i think you can figure out where this is going. it's also long as hell, so. canon vs fanon, marauder edition, except snek is sleep deprived.

now, before we begin, i don't dislike the marauders. or lily, tbh. if I'm being perfectly, genuinely honest, i still go back and forth sometimes but they've been growing on me for a while now. the canon versions, at least. fanon does them real dirty, and that's part of why i'm writing this, because i'm genuinely tired of it. it's an injustice.

you can at least make excuses for james and lily, who were so undeveloped that jkr practically dropped a fill-in-the-blank sheet of character information in our laps, but sirius, remus and peter were around long enough for y'all to get real acquainted with them.

in canon, sirius black is an unhinged mf. genuinely. this isn't to say he's a bad guy, in fact, we see that he's still capable of doing good things, still capable of love, still capable of all the things that prove he's actually not bad at heart, just,,, severely traumatised and very steeped in negativity from his time with the dementors. what i'm saying is that this man is absolutely, no questions asked, no holds barred demented, and how could he not be? the guy sat wrongfully imprisoned in azkaban for twelve years, a good portion of which he spent as a dog in order to protect himself from the dementors. he certainly wasn't completely insane, but you cannot tell me that he was all there. he got out of azkaban fuelled almost solely by the intent to get revenge on pettigrew, tried to commit murder in front of three witnesses who were also children—one of whom was his godson—ate rats and was also malnourished, which i'm certain did not help the situation any. this man is off his goddamn rocker, and you know what? you love to see it. good for him.

oh, but, snek, that's what he's like as an adult. what about when they were at school? before azkaban? my guy, the reaction he has to grimmauld place is not the reaction of someone without trauma. i don't believe that walburga and orion were the type to physically abuse their children, but whatever happened in that house helped to fuck him up enough that he skipped the joke of part of practical joke, and pranked snape by telling him how to meet a werewolf that he knew would be fully transformed and dangerous to humans. more than that, the werewolf was remus, whom he's friends with, and who—best case scenario—would be facing a trial if james hadn't stepped in. you can say that maybe he didn't think about or understand the gravitas of his actions, but at the end of it, that's not how properly sane people react to people they dislike, and that's not how they treat their friends. if anything, it reads like he was in the middle of a breakdown and absolutely losing his shit and he wasn't thinking at all.

my guy went through some serious shit, and was in no way completely mentally stable. we can see pretty clearly that he's got a serious dark side to him that probably would have gone unbridled had he not disagreed with his family, and yet, fanon took one look at him and went, "teehee, uwu bad boi go vroom."

fanon said padfoot is a pretty boy with nice hair who is tastefully traumatised from his horribly abusive household. sirius rides his motorcycle and plays jokes and flirts with anything that moves, but he can do no real wrong and always comes back to his soft, bookish, chocolate-loving boyfriend remus, who will laugh about his lycanthropy and quietly disapprove but secretly laugh at his friends' antics while hiding his smile in his cardigan.

respectfully, what in the absolute fuck.

i'd put that meme in here if i could, the one that's like, "well done, you've broken _______ down to its bare essentials," but no. i can't bc it doesn't even apply. this isn't a meme, it's theseus' fucking ship.

fanon broke it down, and replaced the pieces one by one until we got to this point, where we need to sit down and ask ourselves, "is this even the same character?"

the answer is no, by the way. it isn't. when people talk about woobifying characters—you know, taking away every flaw they have, romanticising everything they do and making them only capable of doing good, wonderful, lovely things?—this is what we mean.

and it'd be one thing if it was just the one character, but, no. fanon went all in and made them all squeaky clean and boring, especially peter, who draws the shortest of the straws.

remus got fucked, too. not just because fanon insists on sticking him into a relationship with sirius. which, we'll tackle wolfstar in a bit, but that's not even the worst of it. here, we have yet another example of blatant, rampant woobifying. again, is he a bad person? no. we know he's a good guy, we know he's generally kind and well-mannered, we know that he wants to fo the right thing but hey, fun fact. did you know that you can be nice and a coward? did you know that you can be benevolent and good and kindly and have the greatest of intentions and still be shady as fuck? no? ask dumbledore. the man played people like chess pieces when he needed to, and he was a twinkly grandpa. these are things that can coexist.

teenage remus is a coward who, understandably, does not stand up to his friends, likely for fear of being ostracised, and doesn't uphold his prefect duties as he should and takes part in their bullying of snape as a result. he lets them romp with him in werewolf form while they are in their animagus forms and then, he lets them continue to do so even after they have multiple close calls, which, again, had anything happened, would have resulted in a trial in the best case scenario.

grownup remus is still a coward, he tells no one that sirius can move about the school in his animagus form despite wholeheartedly believing that he's a mass murderer, he tries to run out on his wife and unborn kid. he isn't deliberately making attempts to harm anyone, but he's content to sit back and let things happen to him and around him so he doesn't rock the boat, although he is capable of action, which we see when he is more than willing to help sirius merk pettigrew in the shack. he can be careless, he runs out to the shack knowing he hasn't taken his wolfsbane and ends up transforming in front of the students he, as a teacher, is meant to be protecting. of course, this doesn't negate his good qualities, it just bears repeating that his flaws do exist, and they're pretty serious.

fanon moony is always pleasant and kind and soft-spoken and bookish, and he always has to have his chocolate. he knows when to tell off his friends, and he'll do it, even if he's secretly amused by everything they do and laughs about it with his best friend, lily evans, who coincidentally spends all her time with them so he and sirius can go on double dates with james and lily and no one has to remember peter exists.

why. theseus' ship 2.0. does the actual character still exist or is this something entirely different thing bearing the same name?

as for peter, who needs peter pettigrew, the actual, legitimate, fourth marauder when you have lily evans? canon pettigrew is opportunistic as fuck. he's latching himself to the biggest bad on the block and he's going all in. for teenage peter, that was james and sirius, and for adult peter, that's voldemort. canon peter is good enough at transfiguration to master the animagus transformation, just like his friends, and he's good enough at potions to brew the potion that gives voldemort a body. and honestly, you can't say he wasn't brave. he could've run off somewhere and died, or changed his identity or something after he faked his death and framed sirius, but, no. he goes and resurrects voldemort. that's fucked up, yeah, but it happened and honestly, i respect that it. he stuck to his guns.

fanon wormtail is lucky if he exists beyond being a spineless sycophant for james and sirius, or an evil conniving little rat who's looking to toss his entire friend group to the wolves at eleven.

of course, this isn't meant to negate his bad qualities, he still murdered people and framed sirius and sold out the potters to die, but his good characteristics do exist, and james, sirius and remus genuinely were his friends.

and now, we get to lily and james.

we have hardly any information on either of them. they're a pair of cardboard cutouts that we can paint and stick flyers to and colour outside the lines however we want. we can do whatever the fuck, as long lily is brave and smart and somewhat kind and james is brave and willing to die for his family. we were essentially handed a pair of ocs.

and yet.

what little bits of canon we have are thrown out of the window regardless.

james is privileged and rich, and he throws hexes for fun. he's willing to hex lily when she disagrees with him, and then, he goes behind her back to continue hexing snape after she believes that he's stopped doing so. and that's all we know about him until he dies for his family at twenty-one years old. once again, say it with me: this does not negate his good qualities. he definitely had them, he took sirius in when sirius ran away from home, he became an animagus to keep remus company as a wolf, and he saved snape in the shack, thereby saving remus and sirius by extension. him having flaws does not make him a bad person.

fanon prongs is a feminist. he fights for equal rights for women everywhere, and he constantly treats his girlfriend, lily, like an absolute queen. he's the hottest boy in school and everyone claps when he walks through the halls. mcgonagall and dumbledore are always patting him on the back and making jokes with him. he has a built-in dark detector that helps him sense when someone is a evil and needs to he punished.

give me a break. the dude's cool and all, but was the gary stu treatment necessary?

...oh, he needed to match fanon lily? right, right.

canon lily is a contradiction unto herself. she's supposedly a great friend, but since we see her at a point where they were already drifting apart, we see her putting little effort into keeping their friendship afloat. she victim blames based on rumours, she doesn't seem to care over much about what snape has to say about the people who have been tormenting him since day one. and she's justified, of course, she doesn't have to stick around. canon lily is a bit of hypocrite, she says that snape calls everyone of her birth mudblood, but then that begs the question why she still hangs around with him if that's the case. he calls her mudblood, she retaliates by calling him snivellus, and finishes up with a dig about his underwear, which, sure, it's kicking a man with a rusty spoon and pouring salt in the wound, but she's, again, justified. i get where she was coming from. and then, of course, she dies for her kid after marrying the guy who relentlessly bullied her quote-unquote best friend for their entire school careers. but, like i said, canon lily is, in many ways, a contradiction.

lily is basically a plot device. she pushes everyone's narrative but her own, and does little else.

of course, this trend would continue in fanon. fanon lily exists to be the perfect girl who gets really angry over the slightest injustice, and of course, she gets to be one half of one of the oldest enemies-to-lovers "it was just sexual tension" cliche pairings in the book. she's just,,, a mary sue. in so many fics, so many headcanons, she's just pettigrew's stand-in, a girl to form a gang with marlene, mary and dorcas—who happen to be more undeveloped ocs who also get the woobify mary sue treatment—to parallel the marauders. there is nothing compelling about her character when she's presented as a saint, and even less when she's supposedly the other moral compass for the marauders that doesn't actually work because she thinks that james is cute.

and this brings me to the next topic. jily. what, why, how. this was supposed to be a healthy, happy relationship that would have lasted in the long run? absolutely not. even for its time, i can't say that i see it lasting.

first of all, jkr presents james' crush on lily as just that: a crush. a mildly obsessive one, but a crush nonetheless, which she tries to liken to the pulling of pigtails. and then, we see that james' way of getting her to go out with him consists of blackmail, and when that doesn't work, he resorts to threatening her. this could have been set aside if he had actually, genuinely changed when they started spending more time together, but as we're told by sirius and remus, he didn't. he just got better at hiding what he was up to. and it has to be that he hid it, because if she knew, this further damages the character that she's set up to have and paints her out to be either unable to stand up to him or an enabler.

regardless, they get married. and while i have trouble believing that it was out of genuine love, there are scenarios that could make some semblance of sense. it's wartime, after all, and maybe lily is worried about her stability in the wizarding world, so why not marry into an established family whose son is already showing interest? or perhaps, she falls into the trap of every bad boy cliche ever, and she thinks to herself, well, i got him to be better then, maybe i can get him to do even better in the future. or maybe, she doesn't get into a relationship with him immediately and sees him on and off, until eventually, she accidentally gets pregnant and they scramble to have a shotgun wedding so as not to leave lily alone at nineteen with a baby. or maybe they marry each other because they're there and sure, neither of then is ready and they don't know what love even is but what else is there to do when there's a dark lord about? anyways, the point is, they get married.

and then what? if we count pottermore into canon, he goes on to further damage her relationship with petunia and vernon, to the point where she ends up crying. if we don't, she fades into the background enough that nobody has anything to say about her. she's harry's mum, she's james' wife, lily potter, she was kind and smart and brave and that's it. her agency is gone, anything else we have of her personality is gone.

jily just,,, wasn't built to last. and, yeah, this,,, this is a hill i'll die on.

same with wolfstar, honestly. there are so many reasons why it wouldn't work, but fanon has made it so fucking prevalent that it's literally everywhere no matter where you look.

first of all, i've said it before and i'll say it again. sirius is more likely to get with james that he is to ever end up in a relationship with remus. their chemistry is just,,, underdeveloped. net zero for a relationship.

secondly, sirius instigated the werewolf prank, and lupin would have paid the price for it. this could have been overlooked, but he doesn't seem the slightest bit guilty about any of it when it's brought up in poa. he could have been responsible for lupin losing the security of his place at hogwarts in the best case scenario, and in the worst case, his life. and he seems to look forward to full moons, even though they clearly aren't pleasant for remus, which,,, yeah, you're going to have fun, but like, maybe be concerned about the fact that your friend undergoes excruciating pain and it isn't a pleasant time for him? read the room, my g.

thirdly, they don't trust each other as much as fanon seems to think they do. they were both willing to believe each other the traitor before ever suspecting pettigrew. sirius thought remus gave away the potters, hell, he thought remus was a spy for voldemort, and remus was convinced that sirius was a mass murderer. neither of them needed to be convinced.

fourthly, maybe i'm reading too much into it, but like. sirius had money. remus had no money, since, yk, he was a werewolf and struggling for cash and still, sirius,,, did not leave him any money. i feel like if you had money to spare, you would give to your friend who is literally poor. but, again, maybe i'm reading too much into it and this isn't as valid a point as i think it is.

and ehh, the fifth reason is that it's,,, actually very much not the representation for the ltgbt community that fanon says it is but y'all aren't ready for that conversation.

anyways, just,,, even when you set the couple shit aside, the power dynamics between everyone here is fucked. like, james and sirius are clearly at the top of food chain calling the shots and egging each other on. then there's lily, who isn't even a marauder, but is always ever-so-slightly above remus but still not on their level, because, well. neither of them actually listen to her. remus is the novelty friend, the friend who's,,, alright, i guess, but you keep them around specifically because they're funny or they can dance or they have something that you can either show off to other people or keep as your little inside joke, your little secret, yk? and peter is just sort of there. like, yeah, he can do what we can but does that make him as good as we are? no. does he have a funny little something about him that we can exploit? nah. therefore he sits at the bottom. and like, yeah, james and sirius are on the same level, but james is yanking sirius' chain, not the other way around. anyways, like i said. power dynamic's fucked and it bothers me that we were given all of this, and fanon decided to take it all and throw it away so they could give us flamboyant!badboi!sirius black x softboi!motherhen!remus lupin going on double dates with feminist!trustfundbaby!james potter and saint!lily evans while ignoring peter pettiwho?

theseus' fucking ship, indeed.

anyways, this needed to be said. it might not make as much sense as i want it to, considering it's 4:12 in the morning as i'm posting this, after taking a break from writing to do some research and coming across way too much content about fanon marauders, but it's here and it still makes enough sense that you can read it and understand what i mean. and like, at the end of the day, you can go ahead and headcanon whatever you please, you can write fic and make art and do whatever you like, just,,, remember that they're exactly that. headcanons. stop presenting fanon as canon. please. i'm literally begging. we actually have evidence against it. just,,, acknowledge that they're headcanons and stop putting them forward as though they're able to fit into canon. please.

[scienceoftheidiot]

@qs63 keeps feeding me ideas, and thus very serious meta discussion ends up with me having to write a silly fic. Expect this to happen regularly.

Summary :

Roy's a liar and a manipulator, but we have canon examples of him showing he doesn't really like lying or when other people lie, and notably when they do so to themselves. What if.... That makes him horrendously bad at poker?

End is not what I expected but I can't really say I'm sorry.

You can read it under the cut here or over on AO3

The atmosphere in the office was tense.

Or maybe it was just him.

Roy shot a suspicious glance over his hand at the whole party, sat at the table with him.

The office was filled with Havoc's cigarette smoke, and lit brightly by the neons on the ceiling. The whole team sat around the central table, cards and multi coloured chips disorderly spread on the dark wooden surface.

Havoc looked back, his face blank, an arm casually thrown over the back of his chair in his usual laid back manner. His hand that was not holding his cards shot up to his mouth to take the cigarette he'd planted there, shook the cinders in the ashtray he kept near him, then put the cigarette back. He did everything without breaking eye contact, his face betraying nothing.

Breda was munching on bretzels he'd taken out of nowhere, and returned his stare with a raised eyebrow, shaking the piece of bread around.

"Want one, boss?"

Roy shook his head with a frown. Breda better clean off the crumbs he was throwing everywhere on the office meeting table when they'd be done.

Hawkeye and Falman, both at opposite ends, looked incredibly sereine, unfazed by anything. Falman was looking at his hand calmly. Hawkeye gave Roy his glance back with a solicitous "Sir?" and an incredibly deadpan face.

And Fuery, small Fuery, on his left, was sweating buckets, and kept pushing his glasses up his nose.

Roy felt a muscle spasm in his cheek, tugging at his lips.

Havoc let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Take your time, boss. Take all your time. After all, none of us have a girlfriend or family. We can stay here until the end of time and no one will ask about us. We can wait."

"Speak for yourself, Havoc."

"What, Breda, cause you got a beautiful creature waiting for you right now, in your bed, with big –"

"Havoc." Hawkeye tutted without even looking up from her cards.

"Big breasts ain't really my thing," Breda replied with a lot more seriousness than necessary. "Besides, right now, the only thing I want is for our dear Colonel to decide if he will follow or fold so we can finally get to showdown."

Roy, his eyes on his cards, right hand fingers drumming on the table, grumbled.

"Don't be so loud about wanting me, Breda."

"Shut up and play, Colonel. We're all waiting." Hawkeye's face was just about as blank as all of the others.

The only one displaying anything was Fuery, on his left, practically vibrating. He was the next in line to play.

A simple pair of jacks. That was all Roy got. He'd lost all the turns until now. Damn it, he was the boss! He was the youngest Alchemist to ever get the State license! He was smart! He was brave, reckless, even! He never went down, whatever hand he was dealt with! How come he was always defeated by Breda or Hawkeye, no matter what they had in hand?

Falman, too.

In fact, the only one who had, like him, not won any round was Fuery.

Roy shot him a side glance as the Master Sergeant took off his glasses to wipe off the condensation on them.

Roy ran the numbers in his head again. Falman had a pretty good straight at the precedent turn. That was 0,39% in odds, before the first draw. What were the odds, now? Havoc had folded, which meant his hand must have been awful - no figures, nothing. Falman, Breda and Hawkeye had bet. Fuery would probably fold, considering the –

"Come on, Boss, this isn't a fucking game of chess!" Havoc was making big gestures with his arms, ready to light another cigarette.

"Of course it's not, I'd have beaten you up all long ago!"

"Colonel," Hawkeye scolded him. "Stop being a child, and tell us if you follow or if you fold."

"Yeah, Colonel," Breda quipped while picking up a new bretzel. "Well all know you got a shitty hand. Either own it or not, but please free us."

Roy's head jerked up from his hand.

"What? How?"

"You're a terrible liar, sir. And terrible at seeing through us, too."

Havoc snickered at Breda's retort, Falman and Fuery hid their faces behind their cards, and even Hawkeye couldn't stop the corner of her mouth from twitching up for a split second.

Roy scowled, deeply offended.

"I am the best liar in this room. And you all know it."

Hawkeye leaned towards him.

"Of course, sir, in the right context. You're calculating. You can talk anyone out of their wits, seduce them and turn them around like no one else."

Roy frowned at the mocking glance Breda and Havoc exchanged.

"But poker doesn't ask of you to talk and manipulate people with speech. It asks for a pokerface," Hawkeye continued, giving him her best rendition of it.

"I don't think his hand is that bad," she concluded placidly as she turned to Breda, "I think he's got a couple of figures and he's calculating the probabilities for each one of us to have a better game."

Roy scrunched up his nose and opened his mouth, ready to reply. But nothing came out, and he closed his mouth again with a sour scowl. Looked at his hand. And sighed.

"Alright, alright."

He knocked on the table once. He would not fold. He had honour.

"Thank you, sir." Breda said with a flourish. "Fuery?"

Fuery, blinking rapidly, placed his hand down on the table.

"I – folding."

"I'm glad we opted out of the strip poker option," Havoc sneered, and it pulled a short laugh from poor Fuery.

"You were the only one who wanted it, Havoc." Hawkeye said in her usual dry tone.

"No one can be foolish enough to play strip poker against Lieutenant Hawkeye," Falman added, extremely serious.

"Now, now that you say it," Hawkeye frowned, side eyeing Roy, who felt a sudden wave of warmth climb up his nape, "Maybe this is what we should have done, so I could be kept up on how that scar's healing, sir."

Hawkeye. Good old Hawkeye, throwing her lines like a bucket of ice cold water onto his head, as usual.

"None of your business, Lieutenant."

"I'm your bodyguard, sir. If I want to do my job properly I have to assess your health. Be sure you won't start limping if we ever need to make for a quick cover."

"I do not –"

"Right, showdown," Breda interrupted, just as Roy's hand uncontrollably shot down to the top of his right thigh, where a bullet had grazed a week before.

"You got hurt, sir?" Fuery piped, oblivious of the dark look Roy threw at him for keeping Riza focused on him this way, and the glare Breda and Havoc shot him for yet again derailing from the game.

"Yeah, during the operation last week," Riza stated in a slightly too formal voice as she showed her hand. Three of a kind, queens. "He managed to hide it until I saw him limp around the day after," she added with a scowl, avoiding Roy's annoyed looks.

"It was just a scratch," Roy grumbled, his mood plummeting yet lower when Breda uncovered a flush in hearts.

Falman showed a pair of tens with a sheepish smile.

"I tried," he said, pushing his chips towards Breda.

Roy groaned and hid his face behind his right hand as he showed his cards.

He groaned yet lounder when Fuery quipped from over his shoulder : "Oh, I had a pair of kings !"

"That's it, I'm done," Roy pushed all his chips and cards towards Breda. "This game is only about luck. There is no skill and no honour in winning at poker."

"No honour, maybe, but you owe me a hundred cenz, boss," laughed Breda as he grabbed the chips and counted them. "And I won two rounds with less than what you had on your current hand."

"Pokerface, boss! Gotta work on yours." Havoc clapped Roy's back.

"Work on being a better loser, too, maybe?" Breda snatched the couple of notes Roy was handing him. "At least Fuery is gracious about it."

Roy got up with another groan, leaning on his closed fists on the table.

"I should have you sacked, the lot of you."

"Nah, boss, you'd miss us."

"Everyone's so fond of you, where else would you get your reality check?"

Roy glared at Havoc. The line was very fine between playful banter and insubordination, and he and Breda were currently doing somersaults over it.

"Clean this all and get out, before I snap."

The two of them sneered, but did as they were ordered, picking up the cards and chips. Falman and Fuery cleaned where they'd sat, pushing their chairs in place. All of them saluted and bid the others – and their boss – good night before they took their leave.

Hawkeye took her time, turning around the central table to look for forgotten chips or bretzel crumbs, checking some papers on her own desk that didn't need to be checked, before she walked towards Roy's desk, where he'd retreated to sulk in peace.

He observed her little game from the corner of his eye until she stopped in front of him.

She placed something he'd seen her retrieve from her desk drawer in front of him.

One painkiller and one antibiotic. When had she taken those from him, already?

"Oh, so that's why I played so bad. Drugging our superior, are we, Lieutenant?"

"I wish. You should have taken those two hours ago."

Roy's first impulse was to tell her to get lost, still grumpy as he was to have been made to look like a fool in front of his subordinates. Then he remembered. All those years ago, he'd pushed the same pills in her hand. And when she couldn't herself, he'd pushed them through her lips, and held her head for her to drink some water to swallow. He'd done that for days. Watched her sleep, guilt and fear for this girl he in fact barely knew gnawing at his brain. He hoped he would never have to do it again, but if he had to, he would.

That instantly wiped any offended ego feelings off his mind. Who was he to push her away when she wanted to show the same concern?

Roy shrugged, but he grabbed the pills, and gulped them down, using what remained of cold coffee in a cup that was lying around his desk. Hawkeye went on, sitting on the desk, while he winced – that coffee had been older than he thought.

"And no, I don't think you lost because of this, and pain is no excuse either – you might not lie to people or even yourself that well, and I know you don't like it, but where pain is concerned I know you can be stubborn enough to forget it."

"That bad, uh?"

Hawkeye had left her pokerface behind – her subtle expressions might not be noticeably different for the untrained eye, but Roy'd had years to train. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, and her mouth imperceptibly curved upwards.

He smiled in return.

"That bad. Please do not play poker ever again. It was awful."

"Oh, not gonna happen, Lieutenant. I don't like to lose."

"Oh, really? Didn't notice." Hawkeye saluted, the small smile not leaving her lips. "Good night, Colonel."

She turned around and went to leave, but Roy called her.

"Hawkeye?"

She turned back.

"Sir?"

"The wound is alright. Cleaned and closed and supervised. Don't worry, please."

"Take your antibiotics, sir."

"Promise, Lieutenant. Good night."

"Good night."

[crypticcodexcreations]

While I'm here, what about 7 and 43 for the demon and 100 for Hector? :O

Oooooooh, very good questions!

The Demon

7. Does your oc collect anything? What about of knowledge or facts? How big is their collection? - Yes! He collects games! Masters all the rules to have them committed to memory, has all kinds of decks of cards, dice everywhere, chess sets galore, you name a game and he could provide for hundreds, if not thousands of people to play! If there's a game under the sun he doesn't already have mastered, and own everything necessary to play, he'll find out about it soon enough!

43. How important are the rules to your oc? Do they follow them to a t, or do they enjoy breaking them? - I think this is my absolute favorite question, especially for The Demon. Rules are a very weird thing for him. He cares greatly about them, will know the letter and intent of every rule in every game, but he will always know how to break them. He enjoys a certain type of rule breaking, that being the kind that requires skill. The demons around him can all easily use magic to make what they want happen in games, and that's boring and pisses him off. Knowing how to break the rules in clever ways, especially ways that aren't quite breaking the letter of them, or are ways a human might do it are fun for him. He's absolutely the one at the poker table with a card up his sleeve, or tossing loaded dice, but never will you catch him doing anything a human couldn't throw back against him. The one rule he values above all is that the humans he interacts with should have a fair chance at out smarting him.

Hector

100. Does your character ever swear? How often? How vulgar is their swearing? - Oh yes, he swears. He tries his best to be conscious of the situation, and adjust accordingly, although he has a bit of a tendency to stay in "work mode" so to speak, and not say anything he wouldn't in the office where his boss might hear him. Better safe than sorry after all, especially for someone who grew up somewhat sheltered like he did. However, he does have a breaking point, and the Casino is probably it. After all, there's no rules, and some of these people are absolutely willing to get violent, why shouldn't he say fuck?

[electronicdelusionstarlight]

Ok, so, Maven Black Briar, she thinks she's in a low fantasy setting, all about court intrigue and connections and shit, she thinks she's powerful because she commands many men and women out there through knowledge and coin.

She is the villain of a telenovela, the rich and corrupt family matriarch who lives in luxury, she is a Game of Thrones Character, she is in the wrong story.

Skyrim is a simplistic folk tale, about a valiant hero, and a evil dragon. Her subtlety and finesse is lost, her schemes are applied to people with the range of a bag of bricks, she is a chess master in a world of tick tack toe champions.

When she meets the Dragonborn and does her usual game shit, it completely fails on her. The Dragonborn Is simple and straightforward like her story, she doesn't care about connections or threats, at any moment, while she is in the same room with her, she can just snap and pulverize her with a single word.

You can't harm the Dragonborn, she'll just harm you in turn, you can't threaten her, she'll just shrug and cut one of your arms away.

There is only a way to save herself.

Maven Black Briar makes herself an integral part of her city. Her death would bring far more strife and misery than her continued existence would, she makes herself essential, the owner of the hold biggest industry, with many workers working under her, the Jarl keeping the city afloat after the war, what would happen if she did actually die to the city? Sure, the Dragonborn would barely feel it, but those she begun to call her friends? The Merchants? The Tavern Owners? How would their lives be affected with Sibbi Black Briar at the helm of the Meadery, with Hemming as the Jarl?

All she needs to do, is leave contingency plans in place in case of her demise of course. To force the invisible hand from beyond the grave, so to ensure she'll never be pulverized as a result.

It's simple enough for the Dragonborn, a force of nature more than a mortal, a thundercloud bringing chaotic thunder and blessed rain into their lives, to understand. You just need to point it out to her.

Yes, she could kill her easily, and yes, she would be unaffected by it in the end.

But other people would be harmed as a result.

And she can't be everywhere at once to save them all, unlike with a Dragon, unlike with a Vampire Lord, unlike with her brother.

Because then, this wouldn't be that type of story anymore.

[hazebxtch]

Die For You

Pairing: Shigaraki x Reader

Summary: How many times do you have to die for him to love you?

Word Count: 1,434

The environment was so stale. Concrete walls. Metal Chains. Glass cup half empty. The one-sided viewing window. Every breath you took was monitored, dissected, and recorded. The camera in the corner of the room taunted you with its blinking red. The two guards standing with their fingers craving to add pressure to their guns. The dim lights gave your scarred skin no justice. Why has no one come in yet? What is taking them so long?

"Are you scared, Detective?" you whispered, your eyes moving towards the glass window. Eyes turning into slits as you felt them stare back, it was quite some time before you were answered. The door to your containment opened, hearing the loud creak of the rusted metal made your teeth grind as it insulted your ears. Two people walked in one was a detective, the same one who captured you and shot you. The other one was just her shadow, a small, frail young man looking everywhere but your eye. Fresh out of the academy. You almost felt pitiful, poor boy wasn't ready to be in the same room as you.

A dead person.

The silence was heavy and pregnant. It brought pleasure to you that was damn near euphoric, your presence made them uneasy. They all wanted to deny the facts. The prints were there, the signature, down to the thinnest fiber of your clothes. But, they packaged your body in a body bag. The same fingerprints, the same clothes, the same damn face so why were you here before them like nothing ever happened. Alive and perfectly healthy.

The only difference between the last time the police saw you, you went down with blood on your hands. Innocents. Police. Heroes. You showed no mercy to anyone in your path, the whole area was shut down for everyone's safety. In the end, after all of the peril, the thick blanket of grief covered the city.

All the while you cackled and shivered from the pleasure.

"Do you work for the league?"

The last time they encountered you, the League had stirred up some trouble in the area. You were to cover for them. Take the heat off their backs. They needed to get away without being followed and you were ordered to be the distraction. With the quirk given to you by the grace of your master, you were the best one suited for the job.

"Say, detective, do you like games?" you asked almost mockingly. A smirk dared to make an appearance on your face as you watched the detective before you take her seat. "Is that what you think this is? A game?" her voice cold and accusing. The sneer on her face was cold, if looks could kill you probably would've been splattered on the wall. "Yes, and you are just mad you are losing. Are you a sor-"

"You have been everywhere the league has left their traces. First, the attack at UA. Then, it was that Nomu attack with Dabi, cleaning up his mess. After that was your little massacre but, you died so how the hell are you here now right after we gather intel on the league?"

Your eyes flickered quickly as a bright light hit your eyelids. Voices were murmuring words around you. Turning your head towards the voices you see the silhouettes of three people. One you assumed was a doctor they had in case of such events. As your eyes began to focus more, you noticed the other two were friendly faces Dabi and your lover. Shigaraki Tomura. Their conversation stopped and the chapped male bit out a command for the others to leave. So they did.

"You want an honest answer?" you lured. Of course, the woman nodded, the rookie standing beside her was quaking in his boots. The poor boy probably already soiled his pants. You stared at him for a while before the two of you made eye contact that he was too afraid to break. Then you started to speak again, "We are playing two different games detective."

Just from how she moved from your peripheral view, you could tell she wanted to hit you. But you were finally given some kind of answer. Anything to explain the impossible. "Are we really?" as long as she played along, you would keep talking. They needed anything at this point, more evidence against the League than they already have.

The two of you were laying in bed as he got up, you turned your head to divert your gaze from the ceiling to your lovers' side of the bed. He was putting on some pants before he stopped as he reached for his shirt. He turned his head just a little to look over his shoulder, his raspy voice penetrated your ears as he spoke.

You tilted your head just by a fraction as you narrowed your eyes and broke the contact with the rookie. Turning your head to once again face the detective, "Yes, we are."

"Would you die for me?"

"You are playing checkers, we are playing chess."

"Again?"

"You are playing with the masters, detective."

"Does that matter?"

"And you left your king unprotected."

"No."

"This is checkmate."

"'No' as in it doesn't matter or 'No' as in you wouldn't die for me?"

The smirk that seemed like was permanently living on your face turned into a full-blown smile as you slowly allowed chuckles to escape the seal of your lips.

"No! That isn't what I meant you know that." you sat up from your position on the bed to lean on your hand, the other moved to caress the strands of his dry, white hair. "I will die as many times as you need me to."

The detective and everyone in the room were confused at first. Checkmate? Then the dots connected, with their newfound information on the league, the recent calmness, the files were to be transferred tomorrow for the government to look over. "Evacuate the building there's a bomb!" she yelled, all bodies in the room quickly moving around, getting their bearings as they rushed out the door. They tugged you along, a useful source of information couldn't be thrown away like this. That was their last mistake. You cackled as you ripped your hand out of one of the cuffs, effectively tearing off your thumb, you jumped and twisted your arm until you heard a snap and the officer let go. "Ah, well that's gonna take some time to heal now!" you exclaimed. "There's no use runnin' this place is will blow any second now and take the next three blocks with it! Checkmate, detective!"

You could see his lips curl ever so slightly before he turned his head again and slipped on his shirt. He got up from the bed and made his way towards the door before he stopped, his dry hands on the cold doorknob. "Get dressed and meet me downstairs, I have something for you."

You quickly rushed back to the interrogation room, it was the best place to hide in this explosion. The concrete will get the brunt of the force, as well as the metal door. You slammed the door behind you and knocked over the metal desk for cover. Kicking it over to the farthest wall before hiding behind it. This will at least preserve your body the best so you can come back.

As the door closed behind him, you couldn't help but the stray tear left your eye. You were so weak, so foolishly stupid. Every single thing that he calls you, everything that he says to you the way he degrades you. It was all deserved. You were a burden. You knew he was out of earshot but you still mutter under your breath.

You knew the exact moment the bomb went off. The way the ground groaned in pain despite being so artificial. The way the force you were too lost in your head to feel pushed you back and caused pain to your lower back and neck. No doubt it was snapped. You knew you were out of it for a bit because the moment you woke up. You saw him standing before you. Picking you up oh so carefully, you were not done healing, not yet, but before you went back to sleep you could hear him murmur something under his breath.

"Good job, you did something right for once."

"I will die as many times as it takes for you to love me back."

[themadhatterofficial]

Eyes, Bodies, and Potions

The Golden Trio was always meant to take down Voldemort.

Perhaps, if things happened a bit differently, if the pieces managed to link together in another way...

(Dark Golden Trio AU)

********************

Harry Potter only knew violence growing up.

The young boy hidden away in the cupboard under the stairs would sit in fear and anticipation as heavy footsteps pounded above and rattled the dust onto his tiny bed. He had a single mirror in his cupboard that Aunt Petunia had given him as a Christmas present after his uncle had slammed his head into it hard enough to cause cracks to run through it like an overzealous spiderweb.

No matter how many times he tried to avoid it, Harry always ended up watching himself in the dingy glass. In anything remotely reflective, really.

Everywhere Harry went, people commented on his eyes. On how pretty they were, how they made him look respectable, how much they stood out against the darkness of his skin and the heavy bangs that resembled a rat's nest at the best of times.

It had jump started Harry's obsession.

Everywhere he went, Harry would stare at eyes. Brown ones, blue ones, grey ones, green ones, and every mix you could think of. He liked the emotions that ran through them, how they told stories that faces and bodies would never reveal.

He could see the happiness when a couple held hands.

He could see the fear when a man gripped his girlfriend's arm a little too tight.

He could see the joy in a father's eyes when his baby snuggled further into his neck.

The fear was nice sometimes. When it was someone who deserved it. Like when Dudley's friend Henry punched Harry hard enough to take out his baby tooth and split his lip. Harry had launched forward and kept hitting and hitting and hitting until Henry was crying too hard to make noise and he was covered in reds and blues that never blossomed on Harry's deep skin.

(Henry's eyes were grey. They were scared. It was nice.)

(Henry's parents also moved their whole family far away from the neighborhood the very next week. Harry chalked it up to coincidence.)

Harry liked the happiness a lot more than the sad or scared ones. He liked sitting in the little park far from the Dursleys' and letting the long cuffs of his torn hand-me-downs scrape below the swing, watching the happy families laugh and jump and run around with one another without caring about anything else.

For as long as Harry could remember, he had wanted that. He longed for it. He would sit in his tiny cupboard on the last night of July and beg and plead whoever was up there for someone to find him. At first, Harry wished for someone to take him away. Now, Harry would be content with someone approaching him to just talk. It was a far-fetched dream, something he only dared to dream of in the quiet darkness when he pretended that his parents weren't worthless drunks who cared for the bottle more than their son. That he had a mother that took the time to tame his bird's nest of a head and read to him at night, that he had a father who taught him how to play chess and cook breakfast for his mum in bed, and maybe even an uncle that bought him secret ice creams that ruined his dinner and taught him how to talk to pretty girls at school and maybe even a sister who laughed too loud and grinned too wide and let him wrap her up in soft blankets when she was too cold to ask for it.

But for now, Harry would settle for their eyes.

********************

Ron Weasley, in Ron Weasley's opinion, was not very special.

He was the sixth child of seven in his impoverished family. He got hand-me-down everything, and was expected to do as well as his brothers, if not better. It was nothing special if he could do this, because Percy could too, and if he could do that, well, Bill already had years before.

Sometimes Ron wished he was an only child, if only for the attention he would have.

(He never wanted his siblings dead, Merlin no. He loved them all and wished them the best, even if he was a bit jealous of them.)

Perhaps this was why he was often seen hanging on Harry or Hermione's arm, spending every bit of his free time with the first things that were his, and only his.

They weren't things, and Ron knew this. He knew that they were people, and he knew that they were their own people. He never claimed them aloud, and especially didn't hint at it to Harry. He was already treated like a Thing by his muggles. They locked him away and took him out when he was of use. Ron wanted to be with him all the time, even when he didn't listen and remained as stubborn as an ass.

But they were still Ron's. He didn't like when Fred or George or Ginny would try to covet Harry's attention, or tease Hermione until all the blood rushed up to darken her cheeks to a deep blue. She would hide behind her massive hair that curled around her wildly in a way that she wasn't.

Later, Hermione would shyly admit that she'd never felt wanted, and that she quite liked the way Harry and Ron so openly expressed their need for her. Harry would say the same.

Ron Weasley liked watching people.

He saw everything he needed to from a distance, even if he wanted to get closer. He liked watching quidditch especially, how their bodies moved so gracefully and held no hesitation in their gestures. (This did not extend to his brothers and sister. He actually didn't like watching them in particular, even if he could never pry his eyes away from Harry twisting and turning and reaching as far as he could.)

Every quidditch match was exciting. Ron would emulate certain things, ever since he could remember. Bill's easy-going swagger. Charlie's big hand movements. Percy's chin tilt he did when he was trying to make a point, or the seamless weaving and bobbing Fred and George had mastered together. He'd mostly out grown it before Ginny came along, but sometimes he even ran his hand through his hair like she did. His dad did it, and it was a small thing the three of them shared, and Ron coveted it.

The most ingrained thing about Ron was probably his tactile nature. His mum was the same way. They were probably the most expressive, always ready to give out a hug and kiss on the cheek or just to hold someone.

This came in handy later in life.

Hermione likes to stand on her toes.

It's a small thing that he's sure she isn't really aware of. She'd mentioned offhandedly that her parents had forced her to do ballet when Ron mentioned it, and it became more and more clear. When she stretched she pointed her toes perfectly, and when she turned to speak she'd often spin around on the tips of her feet. It was endearing, especially even when she went on her long winded tangents about anything and everything.

When she talked, her smile lit up the room and her hands flitted about excitedly. When she saw something that caught her eye, Hermione would stretch out her neck and raise her eyebrows high into her uneven bangs.

Hermione was also very awkward. She hid behind her big kinky curls, which Ron soon learned were in that weird frizzy stage because of repeated failed attempts at straightening it. (He quite liked her hair just the way it was, but Hermione didn't, which was disappointing.) Ron would shake his head and teasingly pull on one of her coils so it bounced tightly. She would flush, and when they first met she absolutely despised it. It wasn't until they'd known each other for so long that she would allow him to do so. He was the only one other than Harry that was allowed. Soon after she began to grow comfortable with his casual touches.

So when she would awkwardly put her hand forward to shake Ron's, he would push it away in order to wrap her up tightly in his arms. She'd tense at first before hugging back tentatively, then tightly, as if she never wanted him to let her go.

Harry tugs at his sleeves when he gets nervous.

He does it a lot, actually. When they ride up, he pulls the cuffs down to grip in his palms.

When adults speak to him, he squeezes himself inward to make himself smaller. When they raise their voices, his head drops down ever so slightly, as if it's an instinct he's trying to fight. When they get too close, his body twitches away as if it has a mind of its own.

Ron soon noticed that Harry couldn't handle yelling. Ron and Hermione began to fight about Merlin-knows-what one night by the lake. It wasn't until Ron's voice was slightly hoarse and he paused to take a breath that he remembered that Harry was still there. He was sitting on the damp grass, completely still with his hands muffling his ears and his head tucked between his knees.

Ron always warns Harry before reaching to him. Always asks if its okay. It's soon obvious to Ron that no one has truly hugged Harry, and does so whenever he has the chance. And Harry absolutely clings onto Ron, which is really nice. No one's really done that. His siblings weren't always the touchy-type and his parents were always too busy with this or that to dedicate so much time to the Least Favorite.

(Ron knew that they loved him. He never doubted that. But he was nothing if not a realist.)

But Ron's favorite thing was when Harry would jump on him. Harry never talked much unless one prompted him endlessly, and it was even rarer for him to initiate a conversation or reach out for anyone or anything. So when Harry would get so excited he tackle-hugged Ron into the grass or the floor of the common room, and Hermione would burst into giggles beside them, he'd feel his heart burst open for these two people that truly appreciated him.

Watching people fall was pretty fascinating.

Their bodies would turn and prepare for the inevitable, bracing in fear before the impact came.

They showed something real, in those moments. The shock, the resignation, pure, unadulterated fear that overtook their entire bodies dominated Ron's attention when it happened. And when the fear happened, he saw who they were. How one handles the fear, the harsh reality ready to break their nose it, shows who they truly are.

When Hermione fell into the Devil's Snare, and Ron and Harry were stuck in the stage of fear, he could see Hermione's brain turn over. He saw the way she went straight from the fear to the calm determination of someone who was not ready for the end. He could see the clear fuck you on her face before she sunk below the vines.

When Harry's broom began to shake and throw him off in a violent rage, Ron saw the fear. He saw the clear fear outline every bone of his body before his grip tightened and his body swung upwards. He could see the resignation, and he could see the acceptance of what would happen. But that wasn't standing out as much as the look that overtook his entire face. He could hear it from the stands, the way he was telling himself - not without a fight.

Ron quite liked the fear. He liked seeing them panic and squirm. He liked knowing who they were, if only for a moment.

When he punched Goyle in the face, he saw it. When he beat him over and over in the empty corridor, Ron knew. He didn't have that fight in him, the way his best friends do. He was pitiful, really. Ron felt no sympathy afterwards, merely watched as the larger boy scrambled away bloody and terrified.

And later, when Ron let Harry bandage his knuckles in a way that no eleven year old should be able to do with such ease, he watched the blood swirl down the drain with morbid fascination.

His knuckles were swollen and bruised, and Harry was endlessly careful with them.

Goyle had gotten a good punch in, and Hermione's hand flitted around his cheek worriedly for a good two minutes before calming down.

And the next day, when Goyle's bruises were yellow with some kind of accelerated healing potion, Ron was quite disappointed that the colors had left so quickly. He felt put-out, robbed even, of the satisfaction he'd wanted. That he'd earned.

But when their eyes met, and Goyle flinched to look down with shameful fear, Ron decided that he could settle for that.

********************

Hermione Granger had always been a smart girl. It was something she had always prided herself in. Top of her class, always on time, always perfect.

Her parents had made sure of that. The Grangers would not permit their only child to fail. They refused to have a fuck up for a daughter. It would disgrace them beyond belief, leaving the family humiliated and shame-faced for all of the world to see.

Hermione Granger was used to the low expectations. She had long since grown accustomed to people looking down on her. From her buck teeth, to dark skin, to her frizzy hair, not many expected much from her.

They were proper people, the Grangers. Practical and no-nonsense types that expected their child to achieve a level of success that they were never able to reach.

So it was quite a shock when one day a severe-looking woman appeared on their doorstep in a tall pointy hat and bright green bathrobe that smelled faintly of cat treats.

Hermione had had an inkling about the magic. Strange occurrences, things that logic simply could not explain.

"It snowed once," she had murmured under her breath.

The three adults stopped their snapping, which had been quickly escalating into a fully-blown argument, to look towards the girl.

"What was that?" the professor had sniped quickly.

Hermione looked towards her parents, their lips pressed together tensely as they stared down their daughter through narrowed eyes.

"It snowed," Hermione'd said a bit more clearly. "When... when I read Narnia." She barely kept from flinching when her mother's fist clenched at the mention of one of those horrid fairy tales, but Hermione looked down and twisted her lips from side to side.

"Why is that?" the woman had asked a touch less harshly.

"In the story the kids went through a wardrobe and found a place where it snowed all year round. I just wanted to visit somewhere... somewhere different. Like..."

When Hermione made no effort to finish the professor made the effort to kneel before her to match their heights.

And slowly, the professor's lips began to pull up ever so slightly into an encouraging (and slightly conspiratorial) smile. "Somewhere magical?"

"Yes," Hermione had breathed out emphatically, nodding her head so vigorously that the beads in her weighty braids clanked together loudly enough to echo around the silent room.

"Well, I think that I may be able to make that happen."

To be entirely truthful, Hermione didn't much like school.

She loved learning. She had always loved learning. It was her favorite thing in the whole world. But the pressure, both from the school and her family, made Hermione want to tear her hair out until there was nothing left. Her parents were terrible about it. They monitored her grades as closely as humanly possible. And it was't enough to just do good, or great, or perfect. She had to be better than everyone in anything and everything she did.

Hermione had done ballet when she was little. It wan't her favorite thing in the world, but it had been fun.

But she wasn't The Best.

So her parents made her quit.

Harry and Ron were different than most.

They were her friends. Her real friends. Most people sneered at her in class when her hand always shot up and she jumped at the chance to answer every question she could and fight to be the first one to demonstrate how much better she was than them. (There had been a period of time where Hermione had stopped doing so. Her parents found out. She began raising her hand again.)

Her boys sometimes did that. When Hermione got overexcited and cut off the teacher Harry would sometimes hide his face with his hand or Ron would groan and roll his eyes. But the second someone else said something to her, they would jump at the chance to defend her and take no prisoners.

The three of them were family. A real family. Not like at home where dinner was tense and silent while Hermione's father picked apart every single sentence of her school progress reports, or when Harry would talk about his relatives in quivering whispers before quickly changing the subject before they could ask about his over-sized clothing and the gruesome pattern of raised skin on his arms.

Hermione laughed more with them in her first year at Hogwarts than she ever had in her entire existence. While Harry had a strange kind of gasping laugh that she could hardly distinguish between joy or pain, Ron's was full-bodied and bright. But they were both amazing. They sounded happy. Safe. Kind of like home.

She had never been so happy in her life.

Hermione loved magic.

It had a strange set of rules to it. Strange. Different. But soon enough, Hermione understood it.

Her favorite was potions. There was a definitive way to it, logic that was always followed. Hermione could follow a method and it would be perfect. Action and reaction. That was all it was. Action and reaction. Action and reaction.

(Snape was obviously terrible. He made her face burn and tears spring to her eyes. But she couldn't stop raising her hand or jumping in to answer questions. She just couldn't. If it got back to her parents it would be a thousand times worse than anything Snape could ever do to her.)

But outside of the classroom, Hermione fell in love with the method of potion-making. It was soothing and gentle and welcoming and just so perfect for her. Outside of the dankness of the dungeons and the harsh bearing of Severus Snape's beady black eyes, Hermione Granger sat in the sunlight of the second floor girls' lavatory and created masterpieces. She used her tools to create art. From potions of brilliant greens to velvety purples to bright blues so clear that she could see the bottom of the cauldron through. It was stunningly beautiful. And it took her breath away.

But she wasn't The Best.

(not yet, at least)

It was early on a Saturday morning.

The sun streamed through the tall window of the second floor girls' lavatory and landed on Hermione and her cauldron at the perfect angle. It was a potion recipe that Harry had found in the restricted section and given to her. (Normally, Hermione would never condone breaking rules. At school, no less. But this was a Special Circumstance.) It caused the consumer's heart to beat so fast that the blood couldn't make it through the arteries quickly enough, causing them them to clog and trigger a heart attack.

Hermione hadn't planned on actually giving it to anyone. It would be disgustingly terrible. To cause someone's death...

But then, the colors were so pretty. Swirling pinks and purples moving like waves crashing upon the sand, splashing against the sides of the cauldron of their own accord. Her eyes traced their movements, transfixed into a deep state of pure calm.

She didn't even notice when some of it had splashed up over the lip of the cauldron. It landed on the tiles with a decisive plink that echoed in the silence.

Hermione hadn't seen the rat until it was too late. She watched in horror as the small rodent moved towards the spilled potion, sniffing at it before licking hesitantly.

Before she could yell for it to stop, the rat began to convulse on the dirty floor. Hermione could do nothing but watch as the poor thing's body shook violently, squealing pathetically and rolling around in excruciating pain.

And then the blood.

There was so much in its tiny body. It was actually quite shocking. Spilling from everywhere from its eyes to its mouth to its ears. It was a horror scene - party of one.

Hermione wanted it to stop. She wanted to save the little rat. It was cruel and unkind and unfair and...

Disgustingly beautiful.

The vividness of its blood threw her off. It was smooth and thick, running through the grooves of the tiles in gentle rivulets akin to that of the rivers that carved through the Forest of Dean.

It was very different to see this kind of pain tearing its course through something. It felt almost satisfying to watch. Like she was seeing her own pain manifest itself within a tiny conductor, forcing everything inside of her inside of it.

And it was Hermione that was doing it. Hermione's potion. Her own knowledge and power transferring into another living breathing thing, wreaking its havoc as it went.

Action and reaction.

Sometimes Hermione would watch others in school with the same lens that she had watched that rat. She would bore holes through the side of Pansy Parkinson's head or clench her hands to avoid tilting the entirety of her scalding potion down the back of Professor Snape's robes during class.

(She would fantasize about it. Sometimes Hermione felt like a monster for doing so, but then she would look at Ron when he dug his fingertips into the desk and glare at Draco Malfoy with a barely concealed type of rage that she Knew meant that they were the same.)

(Harry was a little different. He didn't always have that kind of rage inside of him. But he would watch when Ron would fight others, untamed and wild in every aspect. And it would glimmer behind the vibrant green of his irises that Hermione had yet to recreate with one of her potions.)

Hermione wanted to do it. She wanted to drip just the littlest bit of her art onto their wrists. Just a drop. She wanted to watch their skin shrivel and burn, eaten away by the nature of her poison. She wanted to hear them scream. She wanted them to feel what she feels, if only for a bit. She wanted to paint with their blood, tracing sigils of old into her skin and practicing the kind of magic that would have her mother fainting on the front lawn and her father puking into the ugly orange tulips tracing the stark white walls of her pretty little muggle home.

But for now, she'd have to settle for the rats haunting the bathroom floor.

[obsidiangst]

Congrats on 100 followers! Could you do a thing for #47?

47: “How many more innocent people have to die?”

WARNINGS: Manipulation, vague nudity, non descriptive sex, body horror(?), stabbing, and open end.

Part 1 | Part 2

Zelda had to get out of this. The longer she stayed there, the more she realized she couldn’t just pretend that everything was so hopeless that there was no point in trying. She couldn’t abandon her people- Link didn’t die for her to do that. Though every plan she thought of to do something about her captivity was riskier than the last. If she was the last thing standing between Hyrule and mass destruction, she had to try to find something that wouldn’t kill her.

First thing: She needed to recover the Master Sword. Which would be difficult because the demon was keeping the sword in his quarters and despite being allowed to wander through the fortress, though she hardly did, she imagined she wouldn’t be allowed into his room for no reason. How would she manage to retrieve the sword then? What would come next when she did manage it?

While she sat in ‘her quarters’ deliberating internally about her plan, she looked over as the door opened, the demon entering as he did just about once every day. Whether he was checking on her or just coming to taunt, Zelda had no idea, but she kept her face flat. Link’s skin had long since turned a deep shade of charcoal grey and his hair was entirely silver. If his face hadn’t been the same and she hadn’t witnessed the slow transformation into this new appearance, she wouldn’t have known it was her Link at all.

“What do you want?” Zelda bit out, looking back down at her hands resting on the empty table before her.

“Well, that’s an awfully hostile way to greet someone who came to offer you a way to save the scraps of your kingdom.” He said dryly and Zelda looked back up at him sharply as he made his way to the chair opposite from her.

“You mean trick me into giving you something you want?” Zelda asked and the demon laughed.

“If that’s what you’d like to call it.” He said, pulling the chair back and taking a seat. “I have Castle Town under siege. At any moment I can say the word and have it razed to the ground.” He said, giving her a look like he’d just locked her into a checkmate in an invisible game of chess on the table before them. Zelda glared at him. “Or- I could call it off entirely.”

Her heart both sang and dropped into her stomach at this. So he was here to trick her. Wonderful. But- If it meant saving her kingdom, she would do whatever it took. Even if he wanted her head on a platter, she’d do that if he promised to end the attacks on villages and innocent people trying to live their lives.

“What do you want from me?” Zelda questioned, less harshly this time. Escape be damned, if she could at least do this one thing for her people-

“Marry me. None of your people will respect me as a ruler without a legitimate claim. If I marry you, then I will gain the right to rule.” Zelda stared at the demon dumbfoundedly. Was he serious? Just like that? When he had quite literally just admitted that he was doing so as a grab for power? As if she would-

She could trick him into allowing her into his quarters if she agreed. She would have easy access to the Master Sword then. She’d just have to lay with him- The thought almost made Zelda want to retch right there. If she gave herself to him under the guise of giving into his advances she could take the sword while he was asleep. It- Wasn’t the best situation, but- If she closed her eyes it could at the very least be Link in her head. And then she could kill him with minimal fuss. Zelda took a deep breath and closed her eyes, struggling with the idea of this plan. It seemed simple and yet-

“Think about it, Princess. I get what I want and you get to save your people. And you’ll get to be married to the person you love in a sense.” He edged her on, trying hard to convince her to accept his proposal. Oh- He really wanted this didn’t he? The demon who hadn’t even bothered to tell her his name since he had taken over Link’s body all those months ago-

“That’s-” Zelda stopped, unsure what to say still. She wanted the violence to end, but- She also didn’t want to use her own body in such a way. It was low and manipulative. But she had been being manipulated this entire time, so why should she care if it was or not?

“Come on, Princess. How many more innocent people have to die before you swallow your pride and submit?” He taunted her again. Oh, she wished she could slap him again right then- Her unease was cut through with anger. How dare he question her loyalty to her people- She’d show him.

“Fine.” She answered finally. “On the condition that you stop all violent activity against my people by this afternoon, I will agree to marry you.” He grinned wickedly.

“Consider it done.”

The demon was beyond pleased with himself and his guards had celebrated loudly for the rest of the day and well into the night at this ‘victory’. Oh, if only they knew the hell they would pay when Zelda got a hold of the Master Sword. Of Link’s sword. She’d make them wish that Link had killed the demon when he came to the fortress in the first place. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and she was a goddess and was fucking livid.

It was late the next evening when Zelda exited her chambers, padding her way barefoot down the hallway to where she knew the demon slept. Her heart was thudding loudly in her ears as she approached the door between her and the demon. Was this really about to happen? Would he be rough with her? Would she bruise? Would he talk down to her like she was nothing but a whore or would the tiny remnants of Link that remained in his behavior towards her come through and he would be gentle with her during her first time? She steadied herself before opening the door to the demon's chambers.

His crimson eyes fixated on her from where he was laid out over his bed that was much like her own. Odd that it wasn’t more lavish, but she supposed that wasn’t important.

“Oh? And to what do I owe a visit from my wife-to-be?” He teased her, propping himself up on his elbow and draping his other arm across his midsection. Damn him- He knew that was something LInk would do when she got his attention. Zelda slipped in and shut the door behind her.

“I’m- Tired of resisting.” She said, making sure that her voice had a tiny whine at the end of it. Like she was close to tears. Lady Impa would have been proud of her acting skills right now as the demon was eating it up. He raised a brow at her and smirked, gesturing her closer with a curl of a single finger.

“Are you now? Well, it’s about time.” He said, sitting up and watching her as she made a show of hesitantly locking the door behind her and ever so timidly making her way to the bed. “Don’t be shy, I won’t bite… Not that hard at least.” He teased, chuckling darkly and Zelda blushed.

Holy Hylia above, she was really about to do this. She didn’t have to fake the nerves as she crawled into his bed and let him touch her and disrobe her. The tremor in her hands as she started to touch him back was as real as the situation she was in. For all the demon’s aggression towards her in the past, he made sure to at least attempt to soothe her nerves, but every thought she had was plagued by the knowledge that this wasn’t Link like she was trying to pretend it was. This was a demon.

Thankfully, Link, or at least his physical body, was also inexperienced and wasn’t able to last too long. It had felt… Alright. Zelda would have been much more relaxed and emotionally fulfilled if she had been with Link instead of this spirit piloting his form.

“See, that wasn’t so bad.” THe demon rumbled into her ear when they were finished. He laid against her back, holding her naked form against his own. “I even made you finish~” He had, in fact, not done so. She had faked it to stroke his ego a little bit more into relaxing. She had been trying to focus on anything other than the demon the whole time: her plan to escape, going home and celebrating the end of the war, mourning everyone they had lost, mourning Link- But it was done now at least, she could turn her attention to her next step.

Of course, he didn’t make it easy.

With his arms around her waist and his face pressed against the back of her shoulder, it would be very hard for Zelda to get up out of the bed without waking him up. Especially because the way he held her wasn’t just a loose hold, he was gripping her firmly. Fuck, this may have been a mistake.

Though- She did have time to look around the room now. She didn’t know where exactly the sword was located or hidden, so she glanced around the parts of the room that she could see. There were weapons and baubles everywhere, but finally, Zelda was able to make out the golden triforce on the scabbard of the Master Sword in the corner of the room, concealed partially by a few other weapons.

Zelda shifted once. Then twice. Then a third time to see if the demon was awake or not. When he didn’t respond to her shifting in any way, his grip even loosening unconsciously around her, she knew it likely was safe to try and get up. If he woke up she could say she needed to use the bathroom or to… clean up from their activities. Carefully, Zelda squirmed and twisted from the demon’s grasp, finding the dress that she came in, not liking the bite of the cold air on her bare skin before picking her way carefully over to the corner where the Master Sword was.

There was no way this was going to be this easy- Surely this demon wasn’t so oblivious to think that she would just- Sleep with him without an ulterior motive. She had resisted doing it for months now, that wasn’t just going to change overnight.

She gripped the hilt of the Master Sword and carefully tried to move it from behind the other blades trapping it against the wall. Finally, Zelda was able to pull the hilt from behind the other blades and then carefully extracted the scabbard and blade from the tangle of weaponry.

That’s when a movement caught Zelda’s eye and she looked at the stack of blades on the wall. One of the swords crossguards caught on the Master Sword’s own crossguard as she freed it and it tilted precariously to one side, then started falling, falling- And clattered loudly on the ground, hitting two more on the way down, adding them to the noise as they also clattered against the stone floors.

Zelda whipped around to face the bed- Sure enough the demon’s eyes were open and fixed on her in a dangerous way.

“And what exactly do you think you’re doing Princess?” The demon questioned as he got up, not bothering to put clothes on as he put his feet on the ground and began making his way to her. This was bad! Very bad! But she had the sword! She had no idea how to use a sword, but! How hard could it be??

Panicking, Zelda yanked the blade out of its scabbard and sent a quick prayer to the Goddesses to help her as the demon paused in his advancements. Then he started to chuckle.

“Ohoho, is this really what you want to do, Princess?” He taunted, narrowing his eyes at her. “What are you going to do? Kill me? Kill him?” He said, edging around her, trying to circle so that he was between her and the door. Zelda stepped closer to the door, keeping her back to the wall and the point of the Master Sword towards the demon’s chest.

“You think this is all a game. You want to use me and him like pawns. It’s going to end. Tonight.” Zelda said. The demon tilted his head to one side and scoffed.

“Perhaps it will.” He said, raising a hand as a myriad of shadows congealed into the form of a blade not unlike the Master Sword but pitch black. “I should have guessed that you weren’t going to concede that easily, but- You put on a convincing show. You were rather determined to do this, weren’t you.” He said, gripping the blade tightly. Oh shit- Oh shit, they were really about to fight weren’t they? Oh this was bad- This was a horrible plan, oh goddesses help her-

The demon swung and by some divine fluke, Zelda parried the strike. How? She wasn’t entirely sure. She’d never used a sword in anything other than formal ceremonies before, by all means he should have just stuck her like a pig- Another strike and she parried again, her feet taking her back half a step, but she wasn’t dying yet so that was fine.

“What-?” The demon furrowed his brow and eyed her, clearly seeing the surprise on her face. “Stop doing that!” He snarled as he struck again. Once again, Zelda blocked. The demon snarled at her now and began rapidly trying to strike her. And as if the Master Sword had a mind of its own and control over her feet, Zelda blocked, parried, and pivoted away from each strike, much to the annoyance of the demon.

When Zelda thought that there was going to be no end to this cycle of strikes and deflections, she saw an opening. The demon raised his sword up as if to bring it crashing down upon her head- and left his entire abdomen open. Zelda pointed the tip of the Master Sword directly at his stomach and stepped forwards, putting her weight and everything she had in her behind the thrust.

The sickening sound of the blade cutting through flesh and sinew was far louder than Zelda had been anticipating and she let go of the sword, staggering backwards as she processed what she had- somehow managed to do. Waves of nausea overcame her as she heard the noise on repeat in her mind. Goddess above, what did she just do? The demon stared at the hilt of the sword as it stuck out of his midsection. The sword was buried so deeply into him the tip was also sticking out of his back.

Then a barrage of disturbing noises and gargles exited Link’s mouth as the demon shuddered, dark black liquid beginning to drip freely from his mouth, nose and eyes and then evaporating quickly away into the air like black little puffs of smoke. He dropped the jet sword, which also faded into smoke before it hit the ground.

“Damn, you- No! I-” The demon gargled out and more and more of the shadowy smoke began to leave Link’s body. Zelda watched in horror as Link’s charcoal grey skin lightened and his ash colored hair grew golden brown again and as his body wretched the last of the shadows out, crimson eyes blinked shut and finally opened blue once more.

Zelda could have cried seeing that beautiful blue.

“Link!” She cried, overjoyed that he seemingly was back for a split moment before a pained grunt left him and he went down to one knee, clutching at the Master Sword lodged in his abdomen. Zelda blanched as she realized that she now had to save Link a second time from something a lot more dangerous than a demon piloting his body. Oh- Oh shit-

[undertaker1827]

Hey! I love your work! Can you do a story where the reader is comforting Ciel when he has a PTSD flackback using the song 'Safe and Sound' by Taylor Swift? I feel like this song would really fit in. Thanks!

Aw thank you!! Yes of course I can, sorry this took so long and hope you enjoy! (Song belongs to Taylor Swift, obviously)

Masterlist

❗️Warnings; Ciel has a panic attack/flashback.

-

You were in a chair opposite Ciel in his preferred sitting room, steaming cups of tea on the table between you. The chess board had been finished long since, the earl’s win, but there had clearly been something on his mind all day. You had watched him progress further and further into his mind, becoming subtly more tense as time went on. You couldn’t bring it up to him; he’d only claim he was fine then be upset that he’d let you see something was going on. As it was, it didn’t take long for him to finally break down.

A muffled crash emanated from downstairs; you suspected Mey-Rin had dropped some plates. Sebastian, with a minimal sigh, departed immediately to sort it out, leaving you and Ciel alone. You saw the panic rise in the young lord’s eyes even before his breathing rate picked up, the same tell tale signs as you had observed before.

I remember tears streaming down your face

When I said, "I'll never let you go."

When all those shadows almost killed your light

You said his name quietly, but gained no response. Ciel’s eyes were wide, staring out of the bay windows and seeing something from his past that you could scarcely imagine. You tried again, louder this time, but he was so lost in his memories that he couldn’t hear you. The gunshots from the assassination of his family were shattering his ears, the dead dog, the blood everywhere… He threw himself forward and covered his ears, trying to stop hearing everything. You remembered the last time this happened too, though the lord was utterly unaware he was experiencing a flashback, believing he was right there and everything was happening again.

I remember you said, "Don't leave me here alone,"

But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight

You were on your feet as he fell to his knees, moving to crouch next to him and softly murmuring words, meaningless ones, to try and bring him back to the present.

Just close your eyes

The sun is going down

The boy screamed as you laid a hand on his shoulder, at a loss for what else to do. You caught his fists as he held them at you, a scared child’s attention finally gained. That was the truth behind his eyes; a traumatised child, not an earl of the underworld.

You'll be alright

No one can hurt you now

Features drawn in concern, you released his wrists, gaze flickering between his eyes where he had ripped the patch off, demonic contract symbol in full view. You put out your hand to him, letting him back away if he needed to.

Come morning light

You and I'll be safe and sound

For once, to your great surprise, he didn’t make every effort to get away. Ciel all but fell into your arms, wrapping his own around you and clutching the fabric of your shirt as if it were his only lifeline.

Don't you dare look out your window, darling.

Everything's on fire

He didn’t speak, but you felt his chest jump with barely restrained sobs, tears escaping his eyes despite his best efforts. You ran a slow hand up and down his back, not saying anything either. He’d knocked a teacup over as he flung an arm out, the brown liquid now staining the plush cream carpet below it.

The war outside our door keeps raging on

Hold on to this lullaby

Even when the music's gone

Gone

You glanced up as you heard heeled footsteps come briskly down the hall, continuing to hold Ciel as the door to the sitting room opened to reveal Sebastian. He wet to explain what exactly had happened, words cutting off when he took in the scene before him. Ciel was facing away from his butler, head resting on your shoulder and trying to even out his breathing, the both of you kneeling on the floor.

Just close your eyes

The sun is going down

You'll be alright

The demon locked eyes with you then, silently asking you to continue comforting his master. You gave a small nod, watching from the corner of your eye as he went about clearing up the tea.

No one can hurt you now

Come morning light

You and I'll be safe and sound

You stayed that way until Ciel had finally calmed down, until he was breathing steadily and he’d stopped shaking. You never brought it up again after that day and neither did he, but there was a form of deep trust and understanding between the two of you from then on, the kind that wasn’t easily changed.

You and I’ll be safe and sound.

[sentient78]

ok ok no consider. a room full of 10 people. 4 of them are psychology majors and 6 of them are computer science majors. now add WX into that room. how hard would it be for wx to escape? like yes I know they’re very powerful or whatever but.. psychology majors are terrifying

eventually they find a way out. algorithms cannot really be dissected and studied because of how complicated they are, but i imagine wx's brain is a very adaptable alogrithm

they're similar to humans in how they can master several skills at once and develop tjem indefinitely, but what makes wx different is their lack of stamnia or need for energy

essentially, they dont really get tired or bored doing much. they could learn how to do everything pretty damn well if they had all the time in the world

but wx is more driven for certain tasks cus. theu were intially built with one goal: survive. and so theh're more likely to turn to mastering skills that have to do with survival

give them enough tike and they will thwart human brainpower. its happening now (computers can play and win chess-- and algorithms are everywhere! and theyre doing hellofalot better then humans at a variety of things), and wx is even more advanced then what we have now

it depends on what the room contains exactly but i doubt they can be kept in there forever. especially since wx also has a personal drive to not be trapped anywhere cus it honestly scares them

[matronoftheblackrose]

C sees C

Zayne clicked his tongue as he checked his watch. The waning rays of the sun and the dimming of Piltover coincided with every second ticking closer to 6:00 PM. Corina asked all of her employees to work two hours longer this day, and the Piltover Enforcers needed to be given their signal. Zayne looked left, then right as he walked outside of the blooming factory. Past the greenery and the foliage, he took a step outside where a rat scurried across his boot. If he was as soft as a Piltvan then maybe he would have jumped in shock but nah, Zayne was used to far worse conditions than a greenhouse and mice.

Zayne rolled his left sleeve back, exposing his metallic cybernetic limb. He had to blink and squint from the sudden ray that reflected into his eyes, and in that moment, he swore something darted past him. Zayne looked behind him to find- nothing there. Other than the artificial lights of the greenhouse humming with energy and the vats of fertilizer being pumped throughout the complex. With a shake of his head, Zayne refocused on his tasks at hand.

With a twitch of his thumb, Zayne’s hextech crystal clicked to life in his ear.

“Rat to Dog? The big C remains. Mice scurrying to alternate corners in 10.”

A harsh buzz was followed by, “Roger. Begin in 10.”

Zayne clicked his thumb again, let out a sigh of relief, and looked all about to make sure no one was around. He could swear there was something just, in the corner of his eye, but no matter what, no matter how he looked, Zayne saw nothing. Even when his goggles locked on, zoomed in and identified the spewed remains of a liquid in a nearby alleyway to most likely be vomit.

With another sigh of relief, Zayne clicked his thumb again. “Sheriff? 10 until the War Storm. Do as you will.”

A smooth, soft click was followed by, “Thank you. In and out in-”

A hand came over Zayne’s mouth. Something pressed into the base of Zayne’s spine, and another hand picked the earpiece out, and in Zayne’s voice, the presence said, “Sorry, you need to wait 5. Guard schedule changed. I’ll tell the En’s storm to hold for another 10, else you’ll lose your chance.”

Zayne wanted to react in some way, but he felt his body go utterly limp- whatever martial arts this was, Zayne could not lift a limb. He also knew that the hand wrapped around his mouth certainly looked human, but was anything but. The way the fingers bent were not like a human’s, to be able to wrap so perfectly around his face to mute him completely and allow Zayne to breathe only through his nose.

A pause. “Are you sure?” the headpiece asked.

“Yes, Sheriff. Positive.”

Another pause. “We can’t miss this chance to lose C. Are. You. Sure.”

In that instant, Zayne knew that this person was toying with him. The hand flexed ever so slightly, straining Zayne’s jaw. He could feel his bones bend, and if the hand bothered to clench, Zayne knew it could crush his entire skull with pathetic ease.

“Ten thousand percent, and three quarters, Sheriff. Trust me, Sheriff.”

Zayne’s eyes went wide. How the hell did this ‘guy’ know Zayne’s dumb joke?

“Alright. 10 it is” The comm line went dead.

The presence asked, in Zayne’s voice, “May you please call your Wardens? I wish to ask them to arrive in another 10.”

Zayne’s mind raced, but his thoughts turned to pain as the hand on his jaw squeezed again.

“I honestly would love playing with you a little more, seeing how you are actually aiding my Sheriff, but I have business to attend to and we’re in a rush. I do not like violence, but today is a very personal day for me and I simply cannot be late,” the presence continued. “Do as I say, and no one gets so much as scratched. I promise you."

The hand released Zayne’s mouth, giving him the chance to spit back, “And how can I trust you?”

The presence turned Zayne around, and as Zayne’s turned paler than death, under the dimming rays of Piltover’s sun, the presence simply asked, “Do you have a choice?

---

Corina caressed the petals of her wolf’s bane flower that was exposed to an open window and to the sun, fully knowing that so very soon, the Enforcers will be arriving and her master plan could be enacted. It took some time, oh yes, but a single stroke would remove those pesky officers with ease, and then she could bring forth into Piltover-

“Miss Corina? Ma’am? May I have a word with you?” Zayne asked.

Corina turned around, her metallic nails clicking. The hum of electrical lights above flickered, Zayne with his hands in his pockets, standing between two rows of planted Noxian oleander. Corina smiled at him and beckoned him to her.

“Yes, Zayne. You may approach,” Corina cooed. “What is it you wish to discuss?”

“Well, a coupla things,” Zayne admitted as he walked forward. His right hand came up and caressed the poisonous petals of the flowers. “First and foremost, guess you know what I’m doing here, huh?”

Corina’s fingers clicked. She could feel the toxins from her suit’s canisters course through the tubes and fill the chamber of her fingertips. “No, do tell, what are you doing here?”

Zayne smirked and waved Corina off. “Playing coy? Come now.” His voice changed almost entirely- now slightly higher pitched but far more relaxed, with just a slight Demacian accent as he twirled and skipped underneath the flickering lights. “I know you’re pretending to be ‘C’, Corina. No reason to play games with me.”

Corina blinked, unsure of what just happened. “Pardon?”

“I said there’s no reason to play games with me. If this were a game and I were playing chess or some other alternate ‘intelligent’ game, you’d be playing connect four and failing to count to three,” Zayne continued with a chuckle. He threw his right hand out and batted one of the more annoying oleanders out of his way.

Corina realized just then that not only were Zayne’s mannerisms off, but the fact that he was touching Noxian oleander that she genetically bred herself, and did not react with violent itching or wheezing, or collapsing to the ground in paralyzed agony, was slightly off. “You’re not Zayne, are you?”

“And you have managed to count to two! Your intellect shocks me!” Zayne laughed. 

Corina collected herself, furrowed her brow and pointed a finger at Zayne. “Do watch your tongue, cur. You may have caught me off guard at first, but please, do you know who you are talking to?”

Zayne snorted and raised his right hand up in mock apology. “You are correct. Please forgive me, Corina Veraza the Chembaron- my deeper apologies, I mean Corina, the Mastermind of Chembarons and Zaunites.”

“Thank you. Now, what do you want?”

“Back to 1, huh? You ask questions but not the right questions.” The light flickered, Zayne’s goggles reflecting the light every little which way in the dimming room. “Let me answer your question with a question: What do you think I am here for?”

“If you were Zayne, then to raid my cultivair with Piltover’s Wardens and that daft Caitlyn. But you are not, so- honestly, you can be here to make a deal with me or to kill me. The former being far more plausible than the latter.”

Zayne clenched his jaw, took in a deep breath, and responded, “I’m sorry to say but the former is far less likely than the latter at this rate. And the latter I would daresay, is not something ‘up’ in my priority list. No, I’m here to take back what is mine, and to take something so very dear of yours.”

Corina raised an eyebrow. “Oh yes, you are here to take my magnum opus? Please, as though I would let you. I have investors that are interested in it, and if you wanted it so badly, we could have negotiated a price at a better time than this. Is that all?”

“Your magnum opus? Which one?” Zayne pointed behind him just as the electricity shut off for nearly a full two seconds. When it flicked back on, Zayne’s smile was just an inch too wide- a few teeth too many. “Your ‘magnum opus’ in your office? A glorified weed according to your own documents that would cause severe bodily waste leakage if consumed, a so very crude joke for a crude mind. No, no no. I am here to take back my reputation, and to take Meiraxa.”

Corina’s body went cold. Her actual magnum opus, the one that could in fact eliminate the Zaun Grey, named after her sister, a fact no one alive should know. Corina brought her hands up and was about to unleash her full fury when she took a moment, thought, and smiled. “Since you know so much about me, may I ask who I am speaking to the corpse that will be fed to my children?”

Zayne snapped his fingers, brought out his left, very human arm, and clapped at Corina. “Excellent! You counted back to two! Bravo!”

Corina’s rage cracked her stoic mask, but she said nothing.

Zayne continued to speak, this time in Corina’s exact voice, “You finally did your best to recognize an ant’s existence! Have you finally noticed how damn quiet it is in here? Your guards went home. Have you been too distracted to see the time? I changed it when you weren’t looking so you wouldn’t be ‘panicked’ about being time efficient. Who am I?”

Zayne pointed at himself, bowed, and said in Zayne’s voice, Corina’s voice, that Demacian voice, and a multitude of other voices in horrifying unison, “I am C. The C. You took what is mine, and so I will take that back and more.”

Corina paled.

“You took my moniker because you thought it’d be easy to lead Caitlyn here into a trap, kill all of the wardens in a single stroke, and have more freedom to pursue your stupid, selfish desires in Piltover like the so very good ecologist you are,” C continued. He laughed and wagged a finger at Corina, speaking in his Demacian voice again, “Which, I could appreciate! Imitation is the purest form of flattery-”

Corina clicked a button on her palm, and the bed of oleanders nearest to C exploded, sending wood splinters and plant matter everywhere. The detonation was small and controlled, but it was more than enough to utterly annihilate a human at point blank range. The lights flickered, the smoke parted, and Corina stumbled backwards, eyes wide with fear and disgust.

Flesh slurped, skin ripped, bones creaked and cracked, and Zayne reformed in front of Corina under the strobing light of failing electricity above. He cracked his head to realign it, which made each vertebrae of his spine crack one after the other like a macabre xylophone.

“C the Mastermind, your genius plan is to blow up people. I truly envy the stupid, you have such easy expectations to meet for yourself,” C muttered, rolling his eyes. “As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, imitation is the purest form of flattery, but you tried to take my credit, for my acts. Imitation is one thing, plagiarizing is an outright insult.”

“How are you alive?”

“By continued breathing, I thought they taught you that in school. No matter,” C waved Corina off. “So, before you get any more bright ideas, please do not try to kill me again, and do listen to me. When the Wardens come, I want you to give them a note, and to tell them you are not the real C, absolving you of my crimes.”

Before Corina’s fingers could twitch, Zayne’s arm lashed out, splitting apart at the seams with sickening, wet slurps, and with serrated fangs, wrapped around Corina’s hand. Corina felt no pain, but saw the severed pipe that fed the toxic ammunition into her weapon flop about on the ground.

“Please pay attention, you have only 2 minutes and twenty seven seconds left before your bombs go off.”

“I haven’t se-” Corina started, then felt one of her fingers break and something slip into her palm as the rest of her fingers were forced to wrap themselves around it. Corina bit her lip to stifle the pain as best as she could. Years of scarring from science experiments gave her an excellent tolerance of pain.

“I apologize for the brutishness but you just do not shut up. I programmed your bombs to go off on a timer rather than by your kill switch. I had to give you the one bomb to see if you were truly stupid enough to try and kill me,” C crowed. He reached into his chest, pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen from his literal ribcage that parted and gave him access to his empty body cavity, and placed it on the ground in front of him. “On your knees, write down your apology and to absolve yourself of the title of C, and we’re done here. The longer you take, the more likely this won’t end well for you.”

“On my knees? Like some common whore? Do you think-?”

“A common whore has more sense than you, a common idiot,” C shot back. “In one day I have undone your idiotic master plan and taken even your Merixia under your nose. The only contest here that is left is the contest of patience, and I am admittedly close to losing that one.”

Corina had enough. She had enough toxin in her fingers, and she knew that he could not break all of them in time to stop her from enacting another one of her kill switches. Corina pressed a button that would cause a canister on her suit to fire forward and cover C with a flesh eating toxin, only to have it shot mid-flight and shattered before it could cause anyone any harm.

Both C and Corina looked up overhead at a window, and there was Sheriff Caitlyn, looking down her sights, aiming her rifle at both of them.

C blinked. Utterly distracted by this, Corina ripped her arm free and ran away from him as Caitlyn called out.

“C and Corina, surrender yourselves and you will not be harmed,” Caitlyn called out. “You have one chance- surrender peacefully!”

Corina stumbled away, gasping and wheezing, her arm shuddering.

C looked up, smiling and laughing. “She came. She actually came. Do you see this, Corina? Caitlyn recognized me. I thought she had gotten rusty. I am glad I did not have to escalate, but how did she figure it out? Ah, wait, Zayne never says positive. It’s Zaunite slang he uses, or a two syllable word for his small mind. Nor does he ask to trust him like that. It’s trust me, followed by some animal metaphor, like a whump on a shroom hunt. It slipped my mind. I can’t believe it, without her, it slipped-”

The bombs went off. Ripping through the factory, Caitlyn caught sight of C laughing as he slipped into the fiery green hell while Corina ran the other direction. Caitlyn had to slide down from the window to avoid the explosion of glass shards, cursing under her breath. So close to get two birds with one stone. She knew that Corina posing as C would get him to surface, his ego could not take imposters. Though Caitlyn may not have caught C, the wealth of information gathered from this one event alone was almost worth the loss. And while C will resurface, Corina would not if she got away now. So close to her target, but Caitlyn took a moment to look down the alleyway to make sure the knocked out Zayne was peacefully sleeping, and saw the lights of the Wardens’ vehicles speeding on their way.

If C had not changed the time for the Wardens’ arrival, this evening would have been absolutely catastrophic. The death toll would have been in the dozens for their officers, both good and bad. Caitlyn had wanted to capture Corina before the Wardens arrived, but it seemed that C had alternate plans in mind. The only reason she was delayed was because Zayne had to be found first, taken care of and supervised. Thankfully, backup for Caitlyn had arrived in time as well.

In fact, about backup, as Caitlyn circled around to the back of Corina’s factory, she soon heard an all too familiar voice yell, “Boom! In the face!” followed by a a shriek of surprise and a loud thud.

Caitlyn came across Vi hoisting of Corina onto her shoulder, Corina who was handcuffed and limp.

“Vi, you did not strike her, did you?” Caitlyn asked.

“Nah. I was going to but she just fell forward and passed out at my awesome sight.” Vi gave Corina’s shoulder a little pat as she continued, “Who knew this wallflower back at hq was C, huh?”

“That would be because she’s not C,” Caitlyn answered. “C was in the factory.”

“Wait- really?” Vi looked back at the now violently on fire, emitting smoke clouds of a variety of chemicals, factory. “Well shit. Guess he’s dead.”

“I highly doubt it. C has escaped worse. But now to find his next target-”

Caitlyn stopped herself. She bent down in front of Corina, looked down at the criminal’s hand curled into a fist, saw the purple and white pollen that stained Corina’s skin, and Caitlyn’s eyes dilated.

“Vi, drop her right now.”

Vi did not question Caitlyn, but she did not drop Corina.

“Vi?”

“Uh...Caitlyn...” Vi’s voice lowered, she whimpered, “I- I can’t- move.”

“Noxian oleander poisoning. Who knows what Corina did to it to make it work this fast. Damn it.” Caitlyn had to take a gamble.

As Caitlyn put on a pair of surgical gloves from her satchel her mind raced. This was an interaction between C and Corina. Corina was destructive, C was not for the most part, despite the contorted expression of absolute fear that remained on Corina’s face.

Caitlyn did not know the full extent of that meeting, but knew the pair exchanged some combat, or at least an explosion, but she needed to trust her read of C’s psychology. Caitlyn reached over to unfurl Corina’s fist by trying to pull free a finger. Caitlyn’s hand brushed against Corina’s thumb and immediately noticed the digit was tightened into an iron grip. However, Corina’s fore finger was broken and loose. This meant that though it hurt Corina, Caitlyn could pull the finger free from the stiffening grip and reveal a single vial stuffed in Corina’s palm.

As Caitlyn pulled the vial free, a note wrapped around the glass fluttered to the ground. Her eyes scanned it quickly, the message was short, but the weight of its words struck her like a ton of lead. Caitlyn uncorked the vial, gave it a quick sniff before she took out a spray cap from her satchel, jury-rigged it to fit on the vial with some tape, and sprayed Vi’s arm down.

Vi’s arm slowly, and with great effort, lowered.

“A solution of 90% rubbing alcohol, with a bit of soap and water, to at least remove the pollen and the urushiol oils of the oleander. We’ll have to have the doctor look you over, but this should help for now,“ Caitlyn explained.

Vi actually laughed and gave Caitlyn’s shoulder a soft, knuckled tap with her good arm. “Crap, Cait, you really have a gadget for everything, huh? Thanks.”

Caitlyn smiled, but did not answer.

That note on the floor, that read, “The only time I will give instead of take, a gift from one old friend to another. Hope to see you soon. -C” was a promise Caitlyn knew C would keep. Yet, Caitlyn could not help but notice that C’s methods were escalating. There were no casualties this time, but would there be next time? Even an accidental one? How did C know that Corina would escape the factory if she was doused with a potent enough oleander that it caused nearly instant paralysis in Vi?

The game was afoot once more, and more dangerous than ever.