#mourning for the loser and celebrating the winner

[mostlykind]

pending identify crisis if england wins this match

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

LOVE IS COMPLICATED - PART XI

—this must be the place

summary: two idiots who got their shit together and now love each other unconditionally.

pairing: pedro pascal x actress/singer!reader.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). filthy smut, p in v, unprotected sex, lots of fluff, cursing, age gap, mentions of alcohol. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!

a/n: hello besties, dual pov so watch out for that, and reminding everyone this is a work of fiction so just sit back and relax and enjoy! but if this isn't your thing, move along :)

masterlist!

January 18th, 2024

Los Angeles, CA

January was a whirlwind. Awards season came faster than either of you could’ve anticipated. After years of grueling work, both of you were at the pinnacle of your careers. The Golden Globes were just the beginning, and somehow, you found yourself receiving best actress nods at every award show that followed. Each time your name was announced, you were stunned—as if each award was a surprise gift wrapped in disbelief.

Pedro? He was right there beside you, proud, beaming, like he’d won every accolade himself.

And in a way, he had.

The Emmys came next. Pedro was dressed like a hot English teacher—a title you bestowed on him while posing for photos on the carpet. He blushed at your words, but his imagination clearly ran wild through the entire ceremony. You’d catch his mind drifting, the corners of his mouth twitching with thoughts you could only guess.

But when the time came, he lost his category. You turned to him with an exaggerated sad face, eyes wide, and before he could even fake another mournful look, you took his face between your hands and whispered in his ear, “You might be an Emmy loser, but you’re my Emmy loser, baby.”

He chuckled softly, a mix of amusement and adoration, his hand resting on your thigh, fingers tracing absentmindedly. “Maybe we can celebrate the loss later,” he teased, and you grinned, your shared laughter barely masked by the applause surrounding you.

February 25th, 2024

Los Angeles, CA

Pedro wore Prada that night. A crisp white button-down shirt, half the buttons undone, his chest peeking through like a prince stepping off a ship in some romantic novel. His hair was so much longer, curling softly around his ears, a curl decorating his forehead, and when you both arrived, you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

“You look dreamy,” you’d whispered, your hand lingering on his arm.

You shared a tequila shot for luck before the ceremony, a ritual that seemed to work for both of you. When Pedro’s name was called, you watched in awe as he walked up to the stage, shock evident on his face. He was adorable, overwhelmed, and completely unprepared, but still effortlessly funny.

"And thank you to my love for being my biggest supporter," he said during his speech, eyes finding you in the crowd. "I love you."

The audience roared with laughter as he joked about having a panic attack. You covered your face with your hands, laughing with him, but your heart swelled with pride. When your category came not long after, you got up there, thanked everyone, and finished with, “And last but not least, thank you to now SAG Award winner Pedro Pascal for also being my biggest supporter."

Later that night, you posted a picture of the two of you holding your statuettes, captioning it, “a couple of winners,” a nod to the moment and your shared triumph.

March had rolled faster than anticipated. The Oscars themselves were here, and there you were, sitting in the middle of Hollywood’s most glamorous circus, your name announced as a Best Actress nominee. The whole thing was surreal—like, pinch-me-I’m-dreaming kind of surreal.

Pedro sat next to you, gripping your hand for dear life. He had been holding it for the last half hour, unable to let go, which made you wonder if he was comforting you or himself. Maybe both.

You gave him a quick glance. He was calm on the outside, but you could tell by the subtle way his thumb kept moving over your knuckles that his nerves were bubbling underneath too. You squeezed his hand back, your silent way of saying, Hey, we got this, right? Though, in truth, you weren’t sure who “we” were anymore. You hadn’t breathed since they started announcing the nominees.

And then it came—the moment. The envelope opened, the pause, the suspense that felt like it dragged on for an eternity, and then... someone else’s name. Not yours.

The applause in the room felt both deafening and distant, like you were watching it all through a fog. You let out the breath you’d been holding since they called your name and tried to steady yourself. You smiled, clapping for the winner because, hey, they deserved it. But inside, you were thinking, Well, damn.

Before you could even process the mix of relief and mild disappointment, Pedro turned to you. His eyes were gentle but mischievous, the exact combination that both made you feel better and also a little nervous. He tilted his head, looking at you like he was about to drop the world’s most important line.

“You might be an Oscar loser,” he said, grinning that cheeky grin of his, “but you’re my Oscar loser.”

It took everything in you not to burst out laughing, because of course he would say that. But he leaned in and kissed your forehead, so sweet and sincere, that you felt your heart melt just a little. Leave it to him to make losing feel like a win.

You rolled your eyes, more at how much you loved him than anything else. “Nice one, P. I feel so much better now,” you teased, shaking your head.

"You did the same to me; I had to."

"That's just cruel."

You elbowed him, laughing despite everything. Because at the end of the day, you realized something—you hadn’t lost at all. You were sitting there with the person who made you laugh when you needed it most, who held your hand through the stress and teased you when you least expected it. And that, as far as you were concerned, was the best kind of win.

•••

The next few months were filled with so much love and so much laughter. Pedro went with you to every concert you had scheduled, sitting backstage or in the crowd with your friends, watching you command the stage. It became your new routine, traveling to different cities with Pedro beside you for each show.

June arrived, and with it, Pedro’s filming schedule kicked back into full gear. This time, though, it was a little different. Instead of the usual months of long-distance calls and late-night texts across time zones, he was filming in New York. That meant he came home every night to your shared brownstone.

It felt wonderfully domestic.

One evening, you were curled up on the couch, the windows open to let in a soft breeze. You could hear Pedro moving around in the kitchen, humming to himself as he tried to figure out what to make for dinner. He had arrived early today and insisted on taking care of it. The scent of garlic and olive oil was already beginning to fill the room.

You smiled to yourself, getting up to join him. “Need some help, Chef?” you teased, leaning against the doorframe as you watched him stir something in a pan, his brow furrowed in concentration.

He looked up, a grin spreading across his face when he saw you. “I’m handling it. Don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control.”

You raised an eyebrow, walking over to peek into the pan. “Uh-huh, that’s what you said last time."

“Okay, first of all, I told you that was ‘blackened’ for flavor,” he shot back, pointing the spatula at you. “And second, tonight’s different. I’m on it.”

You laughed, moving closer and slipping your arms around his waist from behind, resting your head against his back. “Mmm, smells good though. Maybe I’ll give you a pass this time.”

He leaned into your embrace, his free hand coming up to hold yours around his middle. “Only a pass?” he teased, turning his head slightly to catch your eye. “I was aiming for full marks.”

“You’ll have to earn that,” you replied, your voice playful as you squeezed him tighter. “What’s on the menu tonight?”

He twisted around in your arms to face you, a mock-serious expression on his face. “You are looking at a masterful creation of... stir-fry.”

“Fancy.”

“Very. It’s gourmet,” he said with a grin, pulling you closer. “It’s got vegetables and everything.”

You couldn’t help but laugh; the ease between you was just so comfortable.

It wasn’t about the food or the dinner itself—it was about the quiet rhythm of life you’d found together, the simple joy of these little moments. The kind of comfort that only comes from knowing someone so well and loving every bit of it.

As the food sizzled away on the stove, Pedro pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his hand still resting on your back. “I like this,” he murmured.

“What, my expert critique of your cooking? Because I can keep going."

He laughed softly. “No, I mean…this. Us. Coming home to you every night. It feels right.”

A smile spread across your face as you tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “It does, doesn’t it?”

He nodded, his eyes soft as he looked at you. “I could get used to this.”

“Well,” you said, grinning as you stood on your toes to kiss him, “good thing you’re stuck with me.”

He kissed you back, his lips warm and familiar, lingering just long enough to make you lose your train of thought. “Best decision I ever made,” he murmured against your lips, pulling you closer.

You smiled into the kiss, feeling the warmth of him seep into you, grounding you in the moment.

“Alright, mister. Let’s eat before your gourmet stir-fry turns into another ‘blackened’ creation.”

“Noted,” he laughed, turning back to the stove with you still wrapped around him.

July 25th, 2024

San Diego, California

The morning had a slowness to it that Pedro liked.

The two of you were still wrapped up in the sheets, limbs intertwined in a comfortable, familiar tangle. The sunlight crept lazily through the curtains. He felt your body stir next to his, your warmth pulling him further out of sleep. His lips found the curve of your shoulder, soft kisses trailing across your skin, while his fingers lazily traced patterns on your back.

"You nervous for today?" you asked, your voice still sleepy but carrying a smile that he could hear.

Pedro groaned slightly, his morning voice raspy. "A little," he admitted, his face half-buried in the pillow.

"You’ll be great. They’re going to eat you up," you said, teasing but reassuring, your lips brushing his neck. "Anything I can do to help?"

He smirked, his eyes still closed as his hand found its way down the small of your back, pulling you closer. "Actually, yeah… I’ve got a couple ideas."

You laughed, straddling him, your hair falling over your face as you leaned down for a slow, lingering kiss. The kind of kiss that promised more, the kind that was a language only the two of you spoke. Pedro’s hands moved with familiarity, tracing the lines of your body as if he were memorizing you all over again.

He discarded yours and his clothes too. Your perfect breasts in his face as soon as you straddled him again, knees on either side of his thighs as you sat down on his cock. His head fell back on the soft pillow as you dug your nails into his broad shoulders.

For a while, it was just your steady breathing as you rode him, smooth and constant. Your moans—a delicious symphony to his ears—filled the room, mingling with his own groans of pleasure. And then both of your movements became more urgent, and he held you down to his chest, his lips finding yours in a hungry kiss.

"Fuck," he cursed, his hands gripping your back tightly as he pushed himself deeper inside you.

"Need-need you deeper."

He heard you say, and with a low growl, he complied. "Lay down."

You quickly got on your front, head turned to the side, ass in the air, and he entered you from behind. He filled you, slowly, centimeter by centimeter, stretching you in the most delicious way.

"Yes, yes, yes."

It fueled him to see you and hear you so fucked out and desperate for more.

"Goddamn," he breathed, pulling out before gliding in again, this time a little harder, a little deeper. He repeated the motion several times, each time pushing you into the bed harder and harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. It's filthy. His hands dug into your hips. Your moans grew louder—consuming him, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

You were close; he could tell by the way you were clenching around him. He cannot take it anymore. It's stupidly, brilliantly too good. Too intoxicating. He leans forward, chest pressed against your back, skin slick with sweat. "Come for me, baby."

He sees your eyes go blank as you reach your peak, your body shuddering with pleasure. The sight of you unraveling beneath him pushes him over the edge, and he follows right after you, his hips turning erratic, heat spreading inside him, and his release mixing with yours.

You don't move, and neither does he. He stays buried deep inside you, both of you trying to catch your breath and come back down from the euphoric high you just experienced together. The only sound in the room is heavy breathing and the occasional whisper of a kiss against your skin.

•••

Later, the chaos of Comic-Con surrounded him, but Pedro was good at playing it cool, even if he didn't really feel like it. He’d been in the industry long enough to know how to handle the intensity of the spotlight, but today, something felt a little more electrified. It could’ve been the crowds, but as soon as you arrived and caught sight of him, you couldn’t resist teasing him.

“Oh my god, what did Marvel give you?” you said, grinning up at him with a mischievous glint in your eye. “You look ten years younger—I’m scared.”

Pedro chuckled, turning a little and glancing down at himself. “It’s all smoke and mirrors, babe. You know that.”

"Right. Smoke, mirrors, and a little bit of Marvel magic."

You stole a quick kiss. "I'll be right here when you're done, P."

He loved how you could always ease him with just a few words. No matter the situation, no matter how chaotic or overwhelming things got, you had this way of cutting through the noise and grounding him. It was something he never took for granted, especially in moments like this—before the whirlwind, when he needed to remember who he was underneath it all.

"Now, get out there and win them over, handsome."

•••

Summer turned into fall; life became a blend of filming and fleeting moments of domestic bliss.

Pedro’s schedule took him to London for Fantastic Four, and you had your own projects to attend to, which meant falling back into the familiar rhythm of long-distance. It was tough—long nights filled with texts and video calls, stolen moments across time zones—but somehow, the two of you made it work. You'd promised you would.

One night, as you lay together in bed before your next trip, he whispered, “I’d rather have you 3 days a year than anyone else all the time.”

You smiled.

Weeks later, Pedro went back to New York after a short break and found solace in the little routines.

He loved coming home to you.

He found himself doing little things for you. He’d never been much of a "chores guy," but there was something solid about washing dishes while you hummed in the next room, or folding laundry. It made up for the time he spent away, the guilt he sometimes carried for being gone so much. Doing these little things felt like his way of making sure you always knew how much he loved you, even when he wasn’t physically there.

One night, after a particularly long day for you, you flopped into bed. He was finishing brushing his teeth in the bathroom. As he walked into the bedroom, he noticed the exhaustion in your eyes. You were sprawled out on the bed, your blouse slightly rolled up. He pressed a knee against the edge of the bed and hovered over you.

You looked up at him, your voice a soft whisper. “You’re the only calm thing in my life.”

Pedro’s heart swelled at that, his mouth instinctively forming a smile. “And you’re the best kind of chaos in mine,” he teased, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. But beneath the joke was something deeper—a truth he felt in every fiber of his being. You had become his home.

He crawled back down slowly, peppering you with gentle kisses along your neck and sternum. You unbuttoned your blouse as he continued to trail kisses down your body. Each one a promise.

He bit your hip playfully, leaving a faint mark, and when the red faded, he did it again.

You laughed, the sound light and full of affection. “Always leaving your signature.”

“All part of the service."

•••

As fall settled, Pedro found himself reflecting on everything that had led him to this moment—this life he had built with you. All his lonely days, all the times he had doubted whether love like this would ever find him, seemed like a distant memory now. Everything he had been through had led him to this.

And there wasn’t a single part of him that wasn’t grateful.

As he watched you move around the London flat he had rented, his home for the next few months, catching you mid-laugh or lost in your own world, he felt whole. Complete. Every piece of his life had finally fallen into place.

And he knew, without a doubt, that there would never be a time when he had enough of you. You were his everything, and he would always come back.

Always.

a/n: the end!! sad because i'm gonna miss them so much :( but happy to have finished this the right way. thank you everyone who reads, likes, reblogs and leaves a kind message <3

[soda-n-dinos-andmore]

HEAD CANNON TIME

I just think it’d be ✨ neat ✨to have some fun little court ship rituals in the clans. Some variation in traditions between em! They feel super similar so, here’s some head cannons for each clan on different cultural traditions and junk.

Thunderclan

When the leafbare hits, there’s a day of quiet mourning for what winter has taken before. Patrols are still sent out, but the cats keep quiet and huddle to preserve warmth. The honoring of the end of a cycle. That night at sunset the cats gather and pray to the fallen for an easy Leafbare.

Newleaf would be marked by a day of joy and celebration. Flowers and feathers are gathered and placed into the fur of loved ones. At sun high everyone gathers in camp and enjoys life and laughter. The joy of new beginnings and a celebration of survival.

Courtship for thunderclan is based off of impressing your potential mate(s) in anyway possible at first. Hunting or other basic important tasks to clan life are key. Cats can be picky about how capable a potential mate is at these simple tasks!

When a thunderclan warrior feels they’ve impressed the other(s) they’re courting, they start being more affectionate. Words of affirmation and adoration as well as physical touch. The one doing the least amount of courting is often expected to either be the one to ask or blankly refuse mateship. if the other(s) gets impatient they can ask themself/themselves

Windclan:

Mid-greenleaf wind clan cats in the forest have a celebration of the tunnelers and all the work they do to keep the clan safe. Newer tunnelers often are given gifts from kin to celebrate. Kits born on this day are seen as blessed by the first tunnelers and therefore, normally become tunnelers. Digging out and navigating the tunnels is a lot of work, and tunnelers often have longer apprenticeships due to all the extra things to learn.

With no tunnels, the lake territory replaced this day with a celebration of summers bounties. Gifts are given to any loved one and warriors helping watch the kits so the queens get a break.

First crescent moon of new-leaf Elders tell the kits the tale of the first medicine cat and the medicine cats often go to the moonstone/moon pool to strengthen their connections to star clan.

courtship is marked by one cat singing to the cat or cats they are trying to woo. They would most likely start to cuddle after this event, and the leader and the closest kin of the cats involved is usually told within the next moon or so. The leader and whatever kin was told would plan an event for the cats so it could be made truly official and public. That event would happen around dawn and be a celebration of love.

The next step would be a competition of some sort. The winner would collect the material for the nest and the loser would create the nest, marking the end of courtship, and the start of being true mates. A tie would mean the material and nest would both be a joint effort.

Windclan burials are filled with stories of the cats life, traded from loved one to loved one. A leaf is tucked into the pelt of the deceased by every loved one mourning the cat, so they do not forget their loved ones back in the land of the living. Each cat whispers their goodbyes and then the elders take the corpse away to be buried.

This post is too long so I’ll probably make a part 2 later. It’s also suuuuper late right now.

[interspecies-ship-tournament]

second round winners and losers:

Moomin and Snufkin beat Marceline and Princess Bubblegum by 53%

Donald and Goofy beat Tokinaga and Obikawa by 78%

Mr. Wolf and Mr. Snake beat Edi and Joker by 61%

Roger and Jessica beat Renarin and Rlain by 54%

Bug and February beat Globgor and Eclipsa by 57%

Bug and Daffy beat Harvey and Elwood by 83%

Greg and Rose beat Raf and Sulfus by 68%

once again celebrate victories, mourn losses and don't forget to keep voting!

[ladyvanishes]

Oh the glory. It was always odd standing amongst both winners and losers-- some drinking to celebrate, others mourning what could have been, pretending to simply be happy for the recognition. And others still who felt lucky to be there, their first sips of true Hollywood eminence. One could find themselves drunk on that feeling alone. But for Eady, this song and dance has truly begun to feel like an elaborate performance in and of itself-- are there hidden cameras scattered throughout the room?

What makes it bearable are familiar faces, and champagne. Or something a little stronger. “Might be better if I had my own donut, but I’m surviving.” She turns to look at Kiran, taking him in. “Remind me if you were nominated...”

open starter. vanity fair oscars after party.

CHAMPAGNE FLUTE IN HAND, kiran casually slides up to the other with his free hand in his pocket, looks out into the crowd and says, "either someone's been taking their donuts to the men's room or they're having a good time with their johnson & johnson," he reports with slight amusement, knowing very well that the substance on the sink is anything but baby powder. who's shocked? "you doin' alright yourself?"

[danielflemingart]

Just After the Race.

36x60″

Acrylic and Golf Leaf on canvas.

[ikeromantic]

Card Game

A special piece in celebration of @alerialumina for her birthday. I hope I got Aleria right for the story, my dear! I so adore your character.

@scruffymctee helped me plan what to write ^_^

“The God of Deceit, hm? I should be worried.” Mitsuhide smiled thinly at his opponent across the table. A deck of cards lay between them.

Motonari laughed. “Ya should be. I never lost at cards and I never will.”

“Can we stop boasting and start playing?” Aleria frowned at them both from her seat at the head of the table. She was shorter than both men, but had a commanding presence despite her stature. Her green eyes flashed like emerald fire as she looked from one to the other. “What are we betting, anyway?”

“Winner gets the girl,” Motonari grinned.

“I don’t think so. One, I’m not that easy to win over, and two, if I win, I get myself. Which I’ve already got.”

Mitsuhide nodded. “The little mouse has a point.”

Motonari adjusted his gloves as he considered the options. “We could bet money, sure. But that’s boring. What if we bet something more valuable than coin?”

The kitsune gave him a sly smile. “Such as?”

“Clothes. Losers drop a piece of clothing every hand. Winners keep their dignity and appreciate the view.” Motonari’s smile was wolfish.

“I see only one problem. You are the only one here with no dignity to lose.” Mitsuhide’s smile was as sharp as knives.

“Boys, please. If anyone gets the shaft in this game, it’s me. I have my dignity to lose and not much of a view to gain. But . . . it could be interesting to,” she cleared her throat, “make some comparisons.”

“There ya have it.” Motonari laughed. He reached for the cards but Aleria beat him to it.

“I’ll deal. I don’t trust either of you.”

Mitsuhide shook his head, his smile melting into a mournful pout. “Don’t trust us, little mouse? I’m hurt.”

She gave him a wry smile. “I think you’ll get over it.”

The first two hands went to Motonari. The pirate had the devil’s own luck at cards. That, and Aleria couldn’t tell when he was bluffing. She dropped an earring and a bracelet, pretending like the loss didn’t matter. But there were only so many hands she could lose before things got serious.

Mitsuhide took the loss with a bored yawn, discarding his scarf and his tassel.

“Won’t take much before those losses start ta sting,” Motonari grinned. He didn’t stop smiling when Aleria took the next hand and he lost his hip sash.

Several bottles of sake and hands of cards later, they were getting down to the line. Aleria was out of accessories to discard and the next thing to go would be her obi. Mitsuhide wasn’t much better off. His hitatare was falling open, revealing a tantalizing bit of his chest. Motonari was a little better off, but he’d lost down to his shirt, gloves, and pants. The next hand was going to be revealing.

The worst part was, Aleria knew her hand was bad. As in, two pairs. But she flashed a confident grin at the two men.

“I see the little mouse has us beat on this hand,” Mitsuhide’s smile took on a wry twist. “I will fold.”

Motonari glanced from Aleria to Mitsuhide and then down at his own cards. “Ya got me. My hand is uglier than a -” he cleared his throat, “it’s bad. Fold.”

Aleria suppressed a victory dance. “Then this round goes to me. Gentlemen?”

“You should use a more general term, little one. Gentleman only includes one of the men at the table.” Mitsuhide chuckled.

“Boys, then.” Aleria pushed a lock of fiery red hair back from her shoulder.

Mitsuhide shrugged out of his top, letting it pool at the waist. In the lamplight, his skin had an almost golden hue. His well-muscled torso and shoulders were hard to look away from. He raised an eyebrow playfully, as if to ask Aleria if she enjoyed the view.

Motonari pulled his shirt off and tossed it to the floor. His tan skin was darker than Mitsuhide’s and puckered with scars from his life as a pirate. He had a rangy leanness to him that spoke of hard times and rough work.

Aleria felt a heat creep into her cheeks as her eyes flicked from one gorgeous man to the other.

“Like what ya see?” Motonari laughed, his scarlet gaze mischievous. “Another hand ‘er two and you’ll know all my secrets.”

“I’m glad you’ve accepted your inevitable loss.” Mitsuhide poured another round of sake for the table. “Not that my little one is interested in your . . . secrets.”

“Hey! You guys proposed the game and the stakes. I’m not interested in - in anyone’s . . .” She cleared her throat.

Mitsuhide’s smile widened. “Is that so? My my. But your face tells a much different story. I think even your ears are blushing.”

Aleria loved and hated all the teasing. She couldn’t help her reaction to seeing so much of them. Her heart was racing and her breath felt a little unsteady. “That’s just the sake,” she insisted aloud and to herself. “You boys have nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Pretty sure yer gonna eat those words if I lose.” Motonari’s grin was pure wickedness.

“Now you’re just blabbering to avoid the inevitable.” Aleria scooped up the cards and began to shuffle. “Hoping to boast your way out of finishing the game, hm?”

Motonari huffed. “Not when I got a good chance a winning it. You just remember those words when ya scurry back to yer room without a stitch of clothing.”

“What a delicious sight that would be,” Mitsuhide agreed.

“Just shut up and play.” Aleria dealt the cards. And lost the next hand. She reached for the tie of her obi, refusing to show even the slightest nervousness. There was nothing scary about being naked. In front of two of very attractive men. Alone in a room. Drunk.

“Having second thoughts, little mouse?” Mitsuhide’s tone was more gentle than expected.

“Ya don’t have ta do it. We can call the game he-”

Aleria untied the obi and let it drop. Her kimono slid open, exposing the inner slope of her breasts, the line of her sternum, and the soft skin of her belly.

Motonari choked on his words, jaw hanging open. His cheeks darkened and his gloved hands clenched.

Mitsuhide’s reaction was less obvious. His eyes widened slightly and he licked his lips. “I see I spoke too soon.”

“I don’t back down just because I’m not winning.” Aleria’s eyes sparkled. She’d been nervous but seeing their reactions was a reward in itself. Nothing like striking a man speechless to make a girl feel beautiful.

“Heh, seems I misjudged ya.” Motonari’s gaze was fire as he looked her up and down. “I think one more hand and we’ll call it. Savvy?”

“Agreed,” Mitsuhide nodded. He favored Aleria with a lingering look that made her feel even more naked than she was. “One last hand will reveal . . . enough.”

This would be it. The round that meant the difference between running to her room topless, or watching the boys scurry away in the buff. She decided right then and there that if she lost, she would walk away slowly, with her head held high. Might as well cling to her pride if she had to bare it all. Aleria shuffled and dealt one last time.

When the cards were out, she lifted hers to see what fate decreed. And felt a sinking certainty. She would lose. There was no way three of a kind would win it. Not when the three were fours.

Mitsuhide let out a long slow sigh. “The gods are unkind to this kitsune tonight. Two of a kind. I fold.”

Motonari gave him a narrow look. “That so? Well. I got nothin’. Not even a damn pair.” He shrugged in defeat.

“Are you . . . are you serious? Both of you?”

“Why, little one, you sound so surprised? What hand did the gods deal you?” Mitsuhide’s lips turned up on one side in a half smile.

“Three of a kind!” Aleria laid them out.

“Ya got some mojo there, girlie.” Motonari chuckled. He folded his cards and reached for his pants. “Fair’s fair. Time ta let the last bit go.”

Mitsuhide nodded. “The price we must pay.”

Aleria fanned her face with her cards. “I-it’s fine. You don’t have to.” She wasn’t sure she could handle seeing, well, all of them both, all at once.

“Oh no, little mouse. It’s far too late to back down.” He stood, and untied his hakama.

Motonari was only a moment behind him, wriggling out of his tight, western-style pants. He glanced over to check his competition and waggled his brows. “Least now I know what I’m up against.”

“You mean what you’ll lose to,” Mitsuhide corrected. His grin was sharp and his eyes were hot.

Aleria, for her part, couldn’t decide where to look. Her eyes knew exactly where to go but the rest of her resisted the pull. But oh! Oh my . . . holy cats. They were both so . . . mmmmm and . . . the way their hips . . . She pretended to adjust her hair, as if the sight had no effect on her whatsoever. But her hands didn’t want to work properly and her mouth felt so dry!

“I think she likes what she sees,” Motonari laughed. “Ya know what room to find me in when yer ready to get yer mind blown.” He gave a bow and sauntered off slowly, his retreating ass slightly more pale than the rest of him and with just the right . . . bounce.

Mitsuhide gave a slight shrug. “I doubt the pirate has made a study of the more exquisite sensations a body is capable of experiencing.” He picked up his clothes from the floor, moving as gracefully as a dancer. “I’ll be expecting you. Don’t disappoint me, little mouse.” Then he turned and left.

Aleria took a few minutes to get her breathing and her heart under control. How two men could be so simultaneously attractive and infuriating, she would never know. She fixed her clothes and then began to gather up the cards.

Mitsuhide’s hand lay in a stack and she picked that up first, checking curiously to see what pair he had. But it wasn’t a pair at all. It was a flush. High card value. This beat her three of a kind, easy. That kitsune lost on purpose! She felt a mix of frustration and gratitude. He’d done it to help her preserve her modesty and that was so unexpectedly sweet.

Motonari would never, she thought, and picked up his hand. She blinked as she looked at what he was dealt. A royal flush. King, Queen, Jack, 10, and Ace of spades. The best hand you could get. And he’d . . . he’d folded.

Those bastards let her win. The both of them. Cheating, lying, adorable, sweet, scoundrels. Her heart warmed toward them both. She’d have to get them back for this, of course. One day.

[mggpleasedontlookhere]

checkmate

summary: where y/n and spencer live in a world of soulmates; but how magical can it really be when the last words of your lover are the only indication of their existence.

word count: 7,054                                                                                               reading time aprox: 26 mins

warnings: character death, angst

a/n: this is my comeback fic, I hope you like it. I made sure to make it extra angsty to compensate for my disappearance :) also this fic can be read by anyone!

masterlist

Chess is a meticulous endeavor, not only in its cold and calculated nature, but also in the player’s ability to detect insecurity flash across their opponents' eyes, the unconscious idiosyncrasies that foretell future moves, and the slow descent into hopelessness that disintegrates the former’s conviction. Most will point out the cruelty of the game, how callous it must be knowing your end eight moves before it happens. However, others will oppose this notion as it is the game; one must lose to win.

It’s all a matter of who plays their pieces right.  

Before that pivotal moment, players can only maneuver through a black and white arena. Fingertips would drum in anticipation while the other would hover over their pieces, striding across the board with purpose. Regardless of the disparity between the players’ experience or skill, there is always one factor, unmoved by player attributes, that is not a disadvantage nor luxury for either party: time.  

Even in the checkered plane, nothing will matter. The players will cease to move, forced to end the game by the lack of time. This mechanism in nature acts as a failsafe if either individual is unable to conclude the game. In other words, there are only two outcomes: winning the game by will or letting time take that will away from you.  

However, what is not noticed is the growing ache in the winner’s chest, disappointment beginning to fester inside of them because of their loss in deciding. In that split realization, the winner is placed on an equal plane as the loser, wondering if they ever really won at all.  

This middle plane is beautiful and tragic simultaneously—maybe the beauty is in the tragedy. But as my palm leaves a bloodied handprint pressed against Spencer’s chest, all I can see is the world around me turning red.  

Please be okay, please be okay for me

My mouth would silently mutter in tandem with his desperate and reaching touches, a mantra I convinced myself could surpass time, all while knowing my will was seized from me the moment Spencer uttered the words imprinted at my hip.  

-

October 27th

2 days before  

Water vapor collected around the coffee mug pressed to my lips. Although it’s ironic to call it a ‘coffee’ mug considering it was filled to the brim with scalding tea. The tips of my fingers and the skin of my palms tingled at the heat given off. My thoughts drifted to the explanation of the first law of thermodynamics that Spencer had kindly explained during the walk home from the night before.

  An unconscious smile brushed over my lips briefly, reminiscing the blissful moments of the team gathered around a bar table after finishing up a briefing about a local case. A warm cloud of content passed through my chest while a lightness traveled from the bottoms of my feet to the summit of my forehead. The herbal tea traveling down my esophagus countered the cold nipping of the autumn air, bringing a welcome equilibrium to my wellbeing.  

I shrugged the knitted blanket over my shoulders further, staring into the calming view that the apartment window provided. Across from the building was a small, abandoned park. Most of the neighbors had steered clear of the area as it didn’t meet anyone’s aesthetic standards—well, except for mine. 

 Half of the trees have lost their leaves, counting down the days to winter. The park benches were covered with tangled vines, even some lacking required wood boards. In summary, the place was an overgrown jungle that no one was willing to inhabit. In result, the once communal area was condemned by the normal folk for being ‘too dead.’ However, I would oppose those who claim the lack of life in the park considering life is not only just living, but it is to invite death.  

In my observation of the park, a soft reflection suddenly appeared beside the yellow oak trees. In my peripheral, I can see my roommate creeping up behind me with his limbs moving catlike. I bit my bottom lip to conceal the amused huff threatening to escape me, instead settling to blowing over the steam rising from my cup.  

Just before I saw his head bobble over my shoulder, arms stretched out above me, I whipped around his lanky figure and ducked under his arm. “You know for an agent; I expected a better performance.” An inaudible yelp interrupted the fit of giggles I was in as some of the tea spilled onto my blanket. “Now look what you’ve done! Do you know how hard it is to get dark liquids off cotton?”  

“Just some hydrogen peroxide will do the trick,” Spencer shrugged, insisting to pull off the semi-damp blanket off my shoulders. “Plus, you messed up my bit!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot I was living with a five-year-old,” I teased, nudging him.

  Spencer craned his neck to the side, letting the sore tendons and muscles stretch out from just waking up. All without forgetting to let out an obnoxious yawn in addition to his exaggeratedly extended arms. “I’ll have you know that this five-year-old has three PhDs and three bachelors,” he boasted.  

“...and daddy issues.”  

Before I can find a way to defend myself, the same blanket that brought me solace previously was transformed into an unmerciful whip. Spencer chased me around the couch until I slipped and toppled over the cushions, landing on the throw pillows. I buried my head into the leather arm, shutting my eyes, while I replicated the nature of Spencer’s antics by emitting ridiculous snores. 

 “You can’t touch me while I’m sleeping,” I murmured, feigning my slow lull to slumber. “It’s socially unacceptable.” During my spiel, Spencer had playfully grabbed my ankles and dragged me to a sitting position.  

“SPENCER!” I gasped, clutching one of the pillows in hand and smacking him over the head with it. “You do not handle people like that! No wonder why you also have momm-”  

Spencer’s palm gently nudged me back onto the couch mid-sentence, leaving my frame to hit the cushions with a loud thud. A boom of laughter filled the empty space of my chest, my breath thinning as dopamine jumped from my brain’s synapses. An enchanted smile caressed the corners of my mouth mirroring the one Spencer was sporting.  

In these insignificant interactions, I would think back to the times where our comfortability was limited and reveled on how much our friendship grew over the years. There was a sense of solace that overwhelmed me knowing that introducing—and working on his—humor brought an auspicious light to the darkness that often clouded his mind.  

My lungs deflated with a hefty exhale, my arm slinging across my eyes in relaxation. Clamored feet and the rug shifting against the wood floor caught my attention. Freeing my line of vision, I was met with a raggedy-haired genius with barely a foot between us. I reached out to comb through his locks, the webbing of my hands catching the tangled curls. “You need to shower greasehead.”  

“Actually, the buildup of sebum and laloin in the gland of the hair follicles—coined as the sebaceous gland—offers moisture and protection, given that it is regulated upon its natural equilibrium.” Spencer leaned into the soft touch of my fingers, like how a kitten purrs against their owner’s affection.  

“Well, I don’t know about you almost-birthday-boy, but I don’t think you want to go into the next chapter of your life smelling like you just changed out of your first diaper.” I pushed myself up the couch, gesturing Spencer to the hallway bathroom. “This is the big 31!”  

“Y/N, we had a party for my 30th. I think I’m good to last for the decade,” he huffed, walking towards his bedroom to grab a change of clothes.  

“That’s not the spirit, Dr. Reid!” I yelled across the room. “I swear Spence, you’re the only person who’d turn down a party... And, you even turned down Rossi’s invitation to go all out in his backyard.”

“Another year to celebrate the ever-closing gap between my time on earth and my imminent demise—oh, and how can I forget celebrating it in an open space full of ticks and pollen,” Spencer sarcastically jested, his voice bouncing off the thin white walls.  

“At least you’d know your soulmate, right? Then I wouldn’t be the only one to deal with your ‘Debby Downer’ ass,” I added on, rolling my eyes at his usual pessimistic rulings.  

“I would prefer nihilistic, but if that vernacular serves you then to each their own.”

“Hey, maybe after you die, I and your soulmate can mourn over you—bond and all that—and then I can steal them away,” I teased.  

I looked to the lightning bolts etched into the crevices of my thighs, my fingertips tracing each design until it fell onto the carved words at my hip. In a way, the stretch marks made beautiful vines attached to the faded letters, covering the obvious red scratch marks that had resurfaced from my bad habits.  

I kissed my fingertips before planting them back onto the markings, chuckling to myself of the intimate gesture. Unconsciously, I began to rub at the tattooed words once again, hating how their protrusion made my skin crawl.  

“I mean I’m dead, what can I really do?” Spencer called out, stopping in his tracks when he reached the bathroom door. He faced me as he spoke, going on about his birthday celebration tomorrow—half of his speech unheard to me—until he requested my immediate attention. “You have to stop picking at the words, Y/N. You’re going to end up hurting yourself.”  

“I know, I know,” I sighed, letting my dominant hand fall to my side. A pout fell on my lips at the loss of the small satisfaction scratching granted me. “But the words are just so uncomfortable sometimes. I mean you got lucky with the whole soulmate placement.”  

Spencer brought his free hand to his chest, thumb tracing over the small words typed on the skin. “Yeah, I guess I did get lucky huh.” A soft smile grazed over his lips while his eyes were still trained on the unknowing figure resting against the couch.  

“What does your marking read aga-”  

“Spence, what’s it say on your che-”  

I groaned in playful disbelief at the coincidental timing. “You know at this point I’m starting to think we’re telepathic, Spencer.”  

“That’s actually what my tattoo is,” he laughed. “It’s my name.”  

“Oh yeah,” I nodded, remembering the first time we brought it up in the early days of meeting one another. “Must’ve saved a lot of name tags in elementary school” I teased.  

Spencer shook his head, shuffling into the bathroom with a lightness in his steps. With the closing of the door, my gaze fell onto the marking once again. 

 Regardless of the mechanics of soulmates, I was never worried about the possibility of not meeting them. I was already at my happiest knowing shared moments like these were good enough. However, unbeknownst to my ideal wishes, an irking desire still lingered in the back of my head while fingers hovered over the imperfect skin.  

October 28th

1 day before

“Kid, you can’t sit there and tell me that finding your soulmate can be ‘scientifically extrapolated.’ That’s not the point,” Morgan amusingly shook his head at Spencer, ruffling the top of his head as he brushed past him.  

“Okay,” Spencer tutted, “tell me. What ‘is’ the point then?”

“Well, all I’m saying is that finding your soulmate—if you have one—is supposed to come supernaturally.”

“Morgan, did you just try to win over boy genius here by talking about the supernatural?” With a tilted smirk, I nursed the half-filled flute between my fingertips. My gaze flickered over to a pleased brainiac sharing the same mischievous glint found in my eyes. I let my head fall back against the couch cushions, my eyes fluttering close to the sound of grown children bickering. 

 “Alright,” Morgan raised his hands up in defense. “All I was pointing out was that things like these can’t be solved by numbers and science.”  

“The same can be said about Newtonian physics, but look where we a-”  

Morgan flung a ball of crinkled wrapping paper Spencer’s way, aiming for his head. Spencer attempted to dodge the projectile—emphasis on attempted—only to have it hit him square in the face.  

“So much for those Newtonian physics, huh?” I teased while getting up to open another bottle of champagne. Spencer slouched in his chair, the paper cone hat on his head shifting to the side. A grimace replaced the smirk he initially wore, muttering about how he was going to get Morgan back.  

“Y/N! Bring that bottle over here when you’re done.” Morgan called out as I walked into the kitchen, pausing the ongoing discussion of the case we planned to tackle. “Also, bring another juice box for Reid here!”  

A chorus of laughter followed my ears which each step, a grin finding the corners of my lips. I rose to the tips of my toes to reach for the unopened bottle in the alcohol cabinet. I made my way to the freezer, taking out the bucket of ice I stored away hours ago. When closing the appliance door, my eyes landed on a picture magnetized to the surface.  

It was a physical reminder of the time that Spencer convinced me to dress up as Amy Pond, the eleventh doctor’s sidekick, for comic con. He too was dressed up in the doctor’s attire: a brown corduroy suit, a bowtie, and a sonic screwdriver. We both had silly grins planted on our faces, it seemed like nothing could tear down the joyous bubble we were in. Upon reflecting on the memory, the kitchen door swung open revealing a merry Spencer.  

“Hey, I was supposed to be getting you that juice box,” I joked.  

Spencer shook his head, pushing past me to get to the cupboard. “Very funny,” he droned, sarcasm dripping off his words. I leaned against the counter, setting the bucket of ice to the side. I analyzed his movements, noticing how often he fidgeted with his fingers or how his legs would clumsily turn inward at times.  

“You know,” he paused, turning around to face me, “In some countries ruled by military dictatorship, staring could be deemed as a call for execution.”  

I crossed my arms, challenging him. “Well last time I checked; we aren’t in any of those countries. Is that right, Dr. Reid?”  

“Unfortunately,” he chuckled. “Did you need anything?”  

“No, why do you ask?”  

“Well, by the way you were checking me out, I would think you needed something.” He sauntered over to the opposite counter across the kitchen, hoisting himself up on the granite. I watched as the casual smirk fell off his face after failing his initial attempt to sit. The second attempt proved to be better, although that didn’t stop me from rolling my eyes at his impotence.  

“You know,” I repeated his words, grabbing the champagne and ice bucket as I began to stroll out of the room. “I’m really starting to think you have a better chance at ‘extrapolating’ your soulmate rather than finding them.”  

“Wait!”  

I whipped around to face him with furrowed eyebrows. I nodded for him to continue, watching as a sly expression reappeared on his face. “You forgot my juice.”  

I sighed, setting the items back down on the counter before reaching for the fridge. “You are a grown man, Spence,” I gesticulated at the boy. I grabbed Spencer’s favorite sparkling water and left it aside. “You couldn’t get your own?” I raised my eyebrows at him, ducking out of the refrigerator door.  

He crossed his legs, still propped up on the counter. “Well, you did call me a five-year-old and it is my birthday,” he argued, shrugging his shoulders tauntingly.  

“I said that the other day, and considering it’s your birthday, that would mean you’d be old enough to conduct yourself,” I countered.  

“Actually, it’s grammatically inappropriate to say, ‘the other day’ when the event in question occurred yesterday,” he began to ramble. With an unimpressed nod, I began to slowly back away from the scene until I was abruptly stopped once again.  

“Wait!”  

“What!”

“You forgot to put it in a cup,” he meekly suggested, his face evident of mischief.  

“You’re clearly enjoying this aren’t you?” I groaned, shuffling towards where he was. “I’ll give you something to enjoy...” I whispered to myself.  

With a plan set in motion, I sauntered over to where Spencer sat. Once I was in front of him, I made sure to give no indication that I was moving beside him. Instead, I leaned forward, letting our chests press together as I reached up for a mug. I would be lying if I denied the faint blush warming up the apples of my cheeks or the tightness of my throat from this proximity. In a nervous hash, I could’ve sworn hearing Spencer’s breath hitch as my chin brushed against his neck.  

Feigning a confident disposition, I dropped back to the heels of my feet, finding myself to be inches away from the enamored and naive genius. “You need this?” I murmured, trying to maintain a collected tone of voice. However, Spencer did make it difficult with the intensity of his penetrating gaze or the way his breath fanned over my sensitive skin.  

For a lasting moment, I began to dissect the small specks of hazel hues in his eyes and how a dark pool of brown surrounded his irises. The tip of his nose was flushed in crimson and his mouth hung in what seemed like anticipation and hesitation battling it out. “Uh, yeah... thank you.” His Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped, linking his fingers with mine to take the mug.  

Without breaking eye contact, he set the mug aside and away from view. I opened my mouth to say something, but I soon discovered a dessert residing in the back of my throat. Slowly my composure unraveled, leaving me and Spencer in a purgatory of uncertainty and elation. I heard my heart thump against the walls of my ribcage as my eyes traveled to the parting of his lips, his tongue ever so often swiping against the skin.  

I shook my head out of the trance we were in, popping the hypnotic bubble forming around us. With a trepidatious smile, I gestured to the living room, suggesting going back out there. “Do you want to...” I tied my hands behind my back, stepping away from him slowly. He nodded in response; his mouth tightly pressed into an awkward line.  

With less than obvious movements, we both tiptoed our way back to the liveliness of the other room, soon forgetting about the juice and cup all together.  

-

“Bye guys, thank you for coming! See you tomorrow.” I politely bid everyone a farewell, sending them safe wishes home as they excited through the front door. “Pen, are you coming with us tomorrow?” I received a tipsy nod and a few stumbling feet, but nonetheless confirmation for the case. Spencer was to the left of me doing the same, enduring some last-minute birthday teasing from Morgan before he made his exit.  

With the slow creaking of the door, I leaned against the wood, letting my legs slowly slip down the floor until I was sitting. I tilted my head up, staring at an exhausted Spencer before making grabby hands at him. He snorted at the childlike request, aggressively pulling at my wrists until I landed into his chest.  

“Alright birthday boy, just because you’re older doesn't mean you can get all strong on me,” I warned, nuzzling my heavy head onto his shoulder. A pleasant silence surrounded us, our bodies maintaining an equal balance as we leaned onto each other. On another note, it reminded me of Newton’s principle of force that Spencer explained to me a few months back. How Newton’s cradle, a simple office trinket, exemplified conservation of momentum and energy. In this fragment of space, it felt like that with Spencer—it always felt like that: a comfortable momentum.  

“Hey Spence?”  

The quiet continued to spread throughout the atmosphere.

“Spencer?” I pressed my chin against his chest, feeling his arms find their way to my lower back. He hummed in response, his eyelids resting at a closed position. “I’m sorry about that thing in the kitchen... I was just messing around.”

  He took a while to react before sighing and pressing a tired kiss to the side of my head; with that, I knew things were okay. “Oh! I didn’t give you your present yet.”  

I melted away from his arms, scurrying off to the couch. In an exaggerated reveal, I pulled a small parcel from beneath the cushions, glee filling my eyes as I watched the bow on top spring out. I extended my arms towards Spencer, eager to have him open it.  

He walked tentatively towards me, taking purposefully leisurely strides. At one point he began to act like he was in a slow-motion sequence, causing me to threaten the integrity of his present. With raised hands, he sat next to me on the couch and gently pried the gift from my hands. “What did you get me this time? Let me guess. From the size and shape of his package here,” he turned the box around in his hands, shaking it up, “and the sound to force ratio-”  

“Just open the damn thing, Spence.”

He smiled at my usual impatience, letting his fingers glide against the edge of the parcel. Finally, with gentle hands, he picked apart the wrapping paper, careful not to rip the heart sticker that held the presentation together. He gathered the bow in his palm, and gently pressed the sticky side of the accessory to my cheek.  

I cringed at the feeling, but that soon dissipated hearing the mollified chuckle escape Spencer’s mouth. With a determined huff, Spencer pulled the last pieces of wrapping paper from the box and was left with a frayed book in his palm.  

“The Parliment of Foweles...” he whispered; an unreadable expression crossed his features.  

I curled into my own body, anticipating some form of reaction. “I... I remember you told me the first time we really sat down and got to know each other that your mom used to read that to you when you were younger.” I picked at the stitches on the couch, a lump forming in my esophagus as my tongue swelled. “It’s first edition...” I smiled, insecurity beginning to conquer my excitement from before.  

“Sorry, if you don’t like it... I was just-”  

A pair of arms pulled me into a secure embrace while a tender hand came around to cup the back of my head. An inaudible expression of gratitude was lost in between babbles of endearment and soft caresses. Spencer pulled away with pools of adoration, he clutched the book in hand as he pulled me under his arm. He ran his thumb along the deckles that adorned the sides of the pages, his palm tenderly feeling the roughness of the old woven spine.

To open the book, he singled out a random page and lightly flicked a few pages to the side before I halted his movements completely. “Wait!” I requested. “I want you to read it after the case so we can do it together,” I sheepishly tucked a hair behind his ear, hiding the careful blush on my cheeks. “If that’s okay with you.”  

“Yeah...that’s fine with me,” he breathed, his eyes locked onto the soft curves of my face. I pulled my hand away, tugging my sleeve further down my arm. “Oh! That reminds me.” Spencer places the book behind him and headed over the coat rack next to the front door. Sliding his hands through various pockets, he finally pulled a small box from one of the compartments.  

He tentatively approached me, turning the object in hand. “I know it’s my birthday, but... I wanted to do something because you’ve made everything better in these past years,” he confessed, fidgeting as he came closer. “Being with my mother always felt like home, and I just... you became that for me, so thank you.”  

My fingers reached over to his open palm, approaching the velvet box as if it was fragile. I glazed over its general shape, turning it a few times between my hands. “Spencer...I don’t even know what to say.”  

“Well, you can start by opening it,” he smiled.  

I shook my head, gently prying the box open. Inside laid a beautiful heart-shaped necklace with words etched into the metal. Once I read the words, a heavy breath escaped my lungs, and my shoulders lost all tension. “Spencer...”

  “I thought that it would be easier to have the words of your soulmate above your heart rather than you tracing over your hip,” he professed. “I also know that even if you deny not having any connection to this soulmate thing, it often brings you comfort when needed.”  

My attention went to him the second he uttered those words. “How did you know,” I mumbled with an enamored chuckle.  

“Well, whenever we’re in the field, I could tell the times you get nervous or need reassurance by the way you subtly touch your hip.”  

“I thought staring was punishable by death,” I joked, referring to his argument earlier today.  

He brushed it off with a wide smile, combing his hands through his hair. “I know we have a hefty case tomorrow based on what Penelope showed us last briefing, so I hoped that this would make you feel better,” he confessed, shrugging his shoulders and leaning back into the arm of the couch.  

“Thank you, Spencer...really,” I wrapped my arms above my head, trying to attach the unlocked chain around my neck. “Can you...?”  

With gracious hands, he lifted the chain from my fingertips and wrapped it around my neck. The skin of his fingers would occasionally brush the back of my neck, sending euphoric chills down my spine. I felt myself squirm under his touch slightly, although it wasn’t enough to be obvious. Lifting my hair to the side with his wrist, he clasped the necklace together, letting the cold metal kiss the skin.  

I turned around, appreciating the trinket in my hands. I shook my head in disbelief, watching as some of the moonlight that seeped through the window reflected off the metal. “Thank you, again, Spencer.” I nodded, bringing him into a meaningful embrace. My head rested in the crook of his neck, an aroma of pine, vanilla, and old books surrounding us. “This really is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever possessed.”  

He scoffed, gently wrapping his hands around the small of my back. “Everything pales in comparison to you.”  

-

October 29th

...

I twirled the metal heart in between my fingers as Hotch’s words failed to reach my ears. I would look up occasionally to see the pictures, but we’ve been dealing with an unsub who showed no mercy to anything morally reprehensible. I sighed, swinging my feet under me as I pretended to be enveloped by the case file in my other hand.  

“Since we’re dealing with a L.D.S.K-”  

“A long-distance serial killer,” Emily intercepted, nodding towards the team.  

“We’ll have SWAT patrol the surrounding rooftops. Emily and I will stay with the defense team here.” Hotch pointed to the house of the unsub’s target. “Morgan, Y/N, and Reid will go through the floors of the apartment building with the strike team—witnesses stated that he was located on the 5th floor, but we have to be ready for anything.”  

I looked over to Morgan with a determined expression. His face hardened at the words and his lips was pressed into a tight line. In my peripheral, I could see the way his veins would constrict against the skin as he clenched his fists.  

This case hit him particularly hard considering we couldn’t save the unsub’s last victim. It was a 4-year-old little girl, and we were misinformed about her possible location. By the time we got to her, she was faced down into a park well with a single bullet hole above her heart. I watched the slow diffusion of her blood, and how the water turned to a murky black. I couldn’t imagine Morgan’s guilt considering he was so sure of himself when reaching a breakthrough with the unsub’s whereabouts. The parents of the child would soon blame Morgan for his ignorance, spewing derogatory slurs in their distress.  

“We’ll get him Hotch,” Morgan assured, “This time, we’ll get him.”  

Spencer noticed the certitude in his voice, sharing a look with me to give extra attention to Morgan out in the field. I smiled at him, warmed at the concern that the genius had over his friend.  

“I’ll be working with local PD to hold a press conference to keep the public on the lookout,” JJ expressed, crossing her arms.

“Since...last time, we figured that unsub finds enjoyment in toying with us or singling us out. So, keep each other in check and make sure to report back in your earpieces every five minutes.” Hotch himself seemed perturbed by the unsub’s earlier actions considering he had his own toddler to deal with. “Penelope has sent the coordinates to everyone. Remember the profile, and don’t leave yourselves vulnerable. We’re dealing with an elusive unsub that won’t stop at nothing to satisfy himself,” Hotch spoke with a quiver in his voice.

  I bit the inside of my cheek and breathed heavily through my mouth. My hands began to drift to my hip but momentarily stopped as I remembered the chain around my neck. I slumped into the chair as Hotch dismissed the team, sending them out for their respective assignments.  

“You, okay?” I whipped around to the sound of JJ’s voice. She leaned against the doorframe with an expression full of concern. Looking behind her, she noticed Spencer noticeably pacing through the bullpen waiting for a specific someone. He attempted to disguise his eagerness by counting tiles on the floor or squares on the ceiling, but to JJ he was easily discernable.  

I let a dry laugh, shaking my head. “After what happened, I’m a bit worried—not about me—but Morgan and Spence.” I swiveled around in the office chair a few times until I landed in front of JJ.  

“You know you fidget the same way as Spence,” she pointed out, grinning at the similarity. I shook off the oncoming warmth that flooded the skin and looked elsewhere. “You’re right to worry about both of them though. But you know how stubborn and determined they are.” As she began to walk out, she left a lingering message that soothed my nerves. “Plus, Spencer may have that IQ of his, but we all know runs things between you all.”  

She wasn’t wrong. I’ve always kept a watchful eye over the both of them—maybe Spencer a little more—but nonetheless, I deeply cared about both of them. It was relieving to know that Spencer’s circle of trust exponentially grew from Morgan to JJ to me. It symbolized the growth that Spencer was mostly oblivious to, but it meant more to me than I can explain, seeing how he opened himself up to happier possibilities.  

A sharp exhale left my lungs while my lips formed into a sly smirk. Without another minute to wait, I left the round table behind JJ, leaving Spencer to stop dawdling. “You ready genius?” I walked out into the hall, not sparing a glance at the figure trailing behind me.

“With you? Always.”  

-

“Nothing here,” a voice confirmed in my earpiece. My gun hung low in my hands while I tiptoed through the floor of the apartment building. “You know Y/N, if I knew that the unsub was going to the pick a building in the area we resided in, maybe I would’ve considered having the party at Rossi’s instead,” Spencer joked.  

I bit the smile growing on my lips, focusing on the assignment on hand.  

“Maybe after the case, instead of reading that book in our apartment we can go over to that small library/cafe we’ve been meaning to go to,” he continued to drone, forgetting about the connection of everyone’s channels.  

“Reid, if all you’re gonna do is flirt with Y/N, leave the damn channel,” Morgan warned. Hearing the worry in his tone, Spencer straightened up, coughing to cover up his soft apology. Being separated didn’t help the irrational thoughts that built up in the back of my conscience; I can’t even comprehend what’s probably going through Morgan’s head.  

“You good?” I mumbled into the com; my eyes straightforward while I advanced towards the hall. Morgan didn’t respond, an inaudible huff coming through the speakers.  

“I’m moving up to the top floor. Y/N and Reid, go back down to the basement and see if we missed anything,” Morgan broke the awkward silence with an austerity in his words. The silent hum that came afterwards was worse than earlier. I turned off my earpiece, sensing a conversation about to ensue between the two gentlemen.

The thickness in the atmosphere was similar to the air that surrounded me and Spencer when competing in recreational chess. Whenever I attempted to put his king in check, he would block the move by maneuvering another piece in front of it. This would lead to a game of cat and mouse until I would figure out that the entire time, Spencer had been deluding me into false security while checking my king piece. Ultimately, I would lose to Spencer. However, there were games where I’d outmaneuver him or win by dumb luck.  

I’d like to think that I developed some sort of intuition for his behavior from playing against him, but he’s deemed unpredictable every game. He was always sharp, eight steps ahead and aware of all possibilities. I guess that’s what make him an effective profiler, always thinking in the future.

I ran down the stairs, still armed, when Penelope’s voice ran through the earpiece. “Updates! Updates people.” The joy in her voice always relived me of the gloom that usually surrounded me in the field; hopefully she has the same effect on Morgan.  

“Hey, Pen.” An invisible grin was evident in my words, knowing she’d pick up on it.  

“Hello, my love, seems like at least one person is happy to see me,” she verbally jabbed at the lack of response from Spence and Morgan.  

Still no response.  

“Sorry, they’re working out their marriage at the moment,” I teased, hoping for the usual distasteful comment I usually get from Morgan.  

Still nothing.  

An unnerving feeling crept up the back of my neck. “Penelope, can you check if their coms are still workin—shit.” Before I could finish, a long buzz of static came through the speakers. The only comprehensible words that were picked up was the beginning of my name before cutting off.  

I bit my lip, pulling out the small piece of technology and tapping it a few times. “Come on... dammit.” After playing around with the earpiece, I grew frustrated with it and stuffed it into my pocket.  

I paced in the small landing between the stairs, thinking of a new gameplan. I ran my fingers through the ends of my hair, feeling the split ends prick at the skin. I felt a mountain growing in at the bottom of my stomach, leaving my esophagus constricted without air. “What would Spencer do,” I mumbled to myself, gripping onto my necklace.  

“Spencer...Spencer...”  

Before I could finish the mantra, a shot rang out from above me, and the crashing off glass followed. In the split moment, my legs grew a mind of its own and sprinted to higher ground. Suddenly, the sweat perspiring off me turned cold, and my heartbeat slammed itself into my spinal cord as I ran. My feet forgot its exhaustion while my mind devoured every irrational thought, and combined it with adrenaline.  

The single thing that drove me over my limits was knowing that the person who fabricated and would shoo away these thoughts was somewhere I didn’t know I could get to in time.  

-

Spencer’s POV

I tiptoed into a vacant suite of the building, still antsy about the scolding I received from Morgan. The conversation after didn’t help considering it was all a reminder to be aware and focused on the task at hand. I knew Morgan was filled with the need for redemption despite the team forgiving him of his ignorance. So, I shook off the creeping feeling and abided by his instructions.  

Deciding to update Y/N and Morgan about my whereabouts, I spoke into the coms only to have static come out of it. I tried once again but failed to reach anyone. The room around me shrank as a sharp exhale left my lungs. I swallowed the buildup of saliva in the back of my throat, feeling uneasy about not knowing what’s to come.  

Seeing at the area was clear, I looked out of one of the windows. Initially I cringed at the accumulated dirt and grime in the glass panes, but that all dissipated when I spotted the quaint park that Y/N loved. No one else had any interest in the community lot, seeing as people would coin it—or what Y/N would tell me—the park of death. But to her, she saw the opposite as she always does.  

The light feeling of reminiscing my interactions with Y/N soothed the disconcerting atmosphere, keeping me grounded. Although the sentiment ended as soon as it started when I spotted one of the apartment walls was spray-painted with black letters.  

Zugzwang

A blaring shot rang out and glass shattered into the room. I ducked into the floor, shutting my eyes. My head spun as the boom impaired my hearing. The window was forcibly open, the shards resting beside me. Left disoriented, I groaned, only feeling the after wave of vibrations on the ground. However, I soon found out that the quake of the floor wasn’t from the initial shot, but the rapid clobbering of feet inching closer to the suite and a shadowy figure preceding it.  

Y/N emerged from the doorframe, panting. Eyes were laced in fear while they bore into my own. My stomach twisted into knots from previous events while I contemplated what had occurred. The presence of Y/N wasn’t even strong enough to relinquish the egging feeling crawling in my skin. I anticipated Morgan to appear, considering he was closer to the scene.

Where was he?

Another thing I didn’t anticipate, a second shot.  

“Spencer?”  

-

January 3rd

Three months after

My thoughts antagonized one another while I stared out into the world from the eerily quiet apartment. The living room was cold and empty despite the array of furniture scattered about and the broken picture frames lining the walls. The vapor rising from the cup of tea drifted into the air, vanishing into nonexistence. It’s funny how that could happen in a matter of milliseconds.  

The pain the lived inside the chambers of my heart was no match for the burning of skin I felt when holding onto the steaming cup. The only worthy adversary would be the rush of self-resentment that coursed through me when picking up the book. I deserved it though. I deserved the spikes through my stomach while my fingers trailed the deckled pages, reminding me of the first time I held the book, its previous owner present with me.

I would remember our time together.  

I would remember the promise shared between us.  

I would remember the bloodied handprint pressed against my chest.

Now all I had was the physical manifestation of what’s left: the necklace. As cruel as it was for me, I kept it in the book, using it as a bookmark while I lost myself into poems. After a while, the inked words lost their meaning to me, becoming an empty cacophony that encased the jewelry.

Every time I grasped the chain in my clutches, a numbed ache would make itself known at the pit of my stomach. It clawed at my intestines and made the entirety of my body system obsolete. With that, I was abandoned with the sinister hauntings of my own mind—a part of me that I was once praised for. 

 A genius. A prodigy. Hidden behind the real mess of a guilty man.  

I ignored the smashed chess board and pieces that laid still at my feet, concentrating on the snowflakes that littered the park across from the building. The grounds looked beautiful, covered in layers of pure white. I sipped at the tea once more letting my mind deteriorate with a sophisticated nonchalance. 

 What a tragedy it was to know my soulmate, especially right under the tip of my nose. What a cruel joke life had played.  

I wished I had more time.  

It was easier to let the guilt consume me rather than pondering on what I lost—who I lost. Had I lost myself too? Maybe, it didn’t matter. In some masochistic way, I enjoyed the guilt because it was a way to remember that at one point someone made for me existed. I used it to relive the moments I could never get back.  

All that remained was an empty shell of a man, staring out into a dull world, wondering how time took everything away from him.  

-

taglist: @rexorangecouny @howdycharlie @honeymilk-4 @linthebinbag @andreasworlsboring101 @ssareidbby @kyleetheeditor @fanofalltheficsx​ @jimilogy @lulwaxim @jhillio @m3ssytrash @haylaansmi @meowiemari @ashwarren32 @codyf3rnsupremecy @goldentournesol​ 

[momtaku]

Wouldn't the world be more beautiful if all people who didn't like the ending simply left? If someone didn't like the finale and it destroyed the whole series for them, then they should sell their volumes, DVD, remove MP3 with Sawano's music and close the doors of SnK forever. Leave it behind and keep moving foward. I don't know why so many people staying in the fandom and complaing like crazy. The new leaks = the new reason to complain and hating SnK and Isayama.

What I wish is that people who hated the ending would follow the only rule that has ever existed in fandom - Stay in your lane. Hate it all you want, but don’t hassle those who feel differently. 

I’m going to rant below the cut.  I’m going to take this opportunity to mourn what I believe has become lost in our fandom. 

Our fandom was never perfect but I feel like it was always a place where you could find your community and have fun. Acknowledging “stay in your lane” was what made that happen. Sure there were people who ignored that and would deliberately cause trouble in other communities, but at least everyone agreed that the behavior was deplorable. It was acknowledged to be bad.

I see two things that happened to change that. The first was that stay in your lane happened to also be platform related. Reddit and Tumblr were the two places fandom congregated and those two platforms were (and still are) divided ideologically. When fandom migrated to Twitter, those communities converged and all hell broke loose.

The second change was the influx of new fans during the Marley Arc. Two groups grew significantly during that time - the Warriorstans and the Jaegerists.  The Warriorstans fit the existing fandom mold. They enjoyed their characters and their ships. They made their art, wrote their headcanons and formed their communities. Any issues the Warriorstans brought to fandom were ones that every fandom community is guilty of -- namely a few rogue members fomenting ship wars and crossing lines to bash characters.

The Jaegerists, on the other hand, felt like a new type of fan, not just ideologically but because their enjoyment of fandom was based more on “winning” it. They wrote their theories with complete confidence that it would become canon and celebrated their ship by insisting it wasn’t a ship at all, but rather “thematically essential” to the story.  If the Jaegerists had stayed in their echo chamber things might have been fine, but “stay in your lane” runs contrary to the concept of winners and losers. As with fans of a sporting event, openly jeering and taunting the rival team is part of the fun.

The attitude I see most from that community now is “if I can’t win, no one can” . Since they so severely “lost the manga” they now take every other communities disappointment as their own personal victory and openly celebrate that.

I guess I can put it this way. Ship wars I understand. Gloating over other people’s pain I do not.  When I go to twitter, all I see is people throwing rocks at each other. 

Maybe that’s fun for some, but its not for me. These days I find myself relieved that Attack on Titan is over mostly because I am excited to fade into obscurity and go sit in my discord trenches with the 8 or 9 people I actually trust until a better fandom platform appears.

[insanityclause]

Despite the truncated 2019-20 season, the Tony Awards will be held some time this fall, it was announced recently. Whatever precise date is chosen, here’s what the annual kudos-shebang needs to say at a time like no other:

Good times and bum times, I’ve seen them all.

And, my dear, I’m still here.

It really is as simple as the immortal Stephen Sondheim lyric from the musical “Follies.”

Fill your life with the romance of the City of Lights with these champagne finished eyeglasses. This subtly soft and effortlessly classy frame is expertly handcrafted from premium It...

Sing the song of survival for the Tony Committee, Carlotta, and for every theater artist in America! You might as well be singing about this very moment:

I’ve run the gamut, A to Z.

Three cheers and dammit, C’est la vie.

I got through all of last year, and I’m here.

Lord knows, at least I was there, and I’m here!

Look who’s here! I’m still here!

Certainly, there is likely to be a traditional competition and, without question, some of the shows that had the good fortune to open early in the season will enjoy an, ahem, significant advantage. This is especially true in musicals, usually creatures of the Broadway spring, which meant this year that some of them have yet to hatch.

Still, the best-musical Tony has a decent potential slate of mostly worthy contenders: “Moulin Rouge The Musical,” “Jagged Little Pill,” “The Lightning Thief: The Percy Jackson Musical” and “Tina: The Tina Turner Musical.” The smart money will be on “Moulin Rouge” (and that will be very timely for the show’s national tour, still presumably expected in Chicago and elsewhere in 2021).

It gets trickier when we get down to original scores, since most of the above shows used pre-existing and previously recorded material. That might mean Rob Rokicki, who wrote the score to “Lightning Thief,” gets the Tony by default.

So what if he does? That was the best aspect of that particular attraction, it was a strange year and the man wrote the only original score of the “season” (at least the season that managed to open before the curtain came down on March 12).

Tony-eligible plays make up a healthy slate of potential nominees, too. “Slave Play” by Jeremy O. Harris would be a powerful contender in any year, pandemic or not. And since the fall was heavy on new Broadway plays, there is a slew of healthy competition, including (among several others) “The Inheritance” by Matthew Lopez, Robert Schenkkan’s “The Great Society,” Bess Wohl’s “Grand Horizons” and Adam Rapp’s extraordinary drama, “The Sound Inside.”

The revivals slate is similarly respectable, led by the stunning revival of Harold Pinter’s “Betrayal,” as directed by Jamie Lloyd and famous for Tom Hiddleston’s tears, but also including “A Soldier’s Play” (which packed a formidable punch), the under-rated “Frankie and Johnny in the Claire de Lune” (which now carries the legacy of the late Terrence McNally) and the conceptually rich revival of Tennessee Williams’ “The Rose Tattoo.”

The list of potential nominees among actors, directors and designers is long and, for the record, contains several names who have openly discussed their struggles with COVID-19, which had an outsized impact on Broadway and its people, especially in the first weeks of this pandemic. That should be a part of this event; there are those to mourn.

All that said, though, competition cannot be the main thrust of the awards (at press time, the broadcast venue had not yet been announced). Nor is this a year for a satirical host roasting the excesses of the industry. All of that needs to go on hold. If this is all about winners and losers, business at usual, it will be a tone-deaf disaster.

This year’s Tony Awards need to be a diverse celebration of inclusion and survivorship, a tribute to the astonishing resilience of Broadway’s rank-and-file workers, the folk who showed up at curtain time through the most trying circumstances and have stuck with this incredibly challenging profession, even though they’ve seen most of their income evaporate, with no clear plan for its return.

This pandemic did not just impact stars or Tony nominees but backstage assistants, dressers, wig specialists, box office staffers and, very notably, ushers. If the Tonys are smart, all of these workers will receive the public tribute they deserve. This has been an especially difficult situation for those whose jobs involve interfacing with the public and, once Broadway returns in 2021, those front-of-house jobs will be yet more challenging. All of that needs to be addressed. And appreciated.

And while we’re at it, let’s not forget the world of theater beyond Broadway. That needs to be a part of all this, too. The Tonys cannot just be about the great Broadway comeback, but the great American theatrical comeback.

Memories are short. Times are very hard. This is no moment for triviality.

On the contrary, we all need reminding about how the arts teach us empathy and to walk an hour or two in the shoes of another. The important thing to convey is that America suffers without such beauty.

You know, pick your cliche: now more than ever, in these uncertain times, whatever.

Or hire a real writer like Sondheim to put triumphant, majestic, glorious survivorship into lyrical song. That’s the business, folly or not.

[bfwa]

Modern Works in Progress - Round 1 Winners

The Naked Truth by @kombellarke

Clarke meets Bellamy Blake on the worst day of her life.

She loses her dad, her boyfriend, and her apartment. She's taken in as the new girl in Murphy, Raven and Bellamy's place. Clarke just wants to recover and avoid any more heartache, but her distractingly hot roommate isn't letting that happen.

The most important House Rule: No sex between roommates. Clarke and Bellamy have their own rule: Just sex, no feelings.

Give Me Your Fate by @asroarke

Not a blonde hair out of place, her suit perfectly tailored, the kind of person he was used to seeing around Washington. Bellamy glanced over at Marcus, catching the smirk on his lips as he watched this girl. She must be why they were here. “Who is this girl?” Bellamy asked, leaning in toward Kane.

“Your best bet at a career in the Senate,” Kane whispered back.

Political AU where Bellamy Blake is willing to do whatever it takes to get reelected, even pursuing an arranged marriage to a complete stranger.

Waste it on me by @eyessharpweaponshot

There's no such thing as love, according to Clarke Griffin. She's sworn off dating after it leaves a bad taste in her mouth and there's nothing that can sway her from that. What she doesn't expect is that fate has a different path laid out for her - one that leads to a curly haired barman who just happens to be her soulmate.

Or the reincarnation/soulmate AU that I promised to post ages ago.

comes and goes (in waves) by @selflessbellamy

His Adam’s apple bobs. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

Don’t come visit me again, his voice echoes through her mind, the remains of a suppressed memory. I don’t want you to see me like this.

This time, Clarke knows how to respond, “Better to see you like this than to never see you again.” 

Paint me in Trust by @pawprinterfanfic

Clarke is on the run. It's 1997 in Britain, during the height of the Second Wizarding War. Voldemort is running rampage through the Wizarding World, fear is weighing heavily on everyone, and anyone who doesn’t side with the Dark Lord is in danger.

Clarke was expected to side with him. She’s from a pureblood family that has decades tangled with the Dark Arts, after all. But, she didn’t.

So, she ran.

Somehow, she finds her way to a safe house where she meets with other wizards and witches on the run.

All Bellamy wanted to do was keep his sister safe. Instead of saving her, he’s stuck in a safe house with her. She’s a Slytherin, and she’s the daughter of a Death Eater. He doesn’t trust Clarke; why should he?

Now, he’s stuck with her as they roam around the country, looking for places to stay safe and stay hidden. He quickly realizes that things could be worse. And… maybe Clarke isn’t as bad as he thought.

Rock Bottom by animmortalist

When Bellamy and Echo get engaged, Clarke ends up sobbing in her room, mourning something that she never really had. The last person she expects to comfort her is Murphy, but it turns out the two have a lot more in common than she thought. While she's been pining for Bellamy, he's been realizing his feelings for Raven, who happens to be dating Shaw. In a moment of impulsivity, the two sleep together, and then say 'fuck it'. If they're going to be hurting, they might as well be getting laid at the same time. They figure it'll be easy, simple, and that no one will get hurt. Of course, they're idiots.

Almost and Maybes by @arysafics

Bellamy has never wanted to get married. Has never even really thought about it. That is, until he watches Clarke Griffin marry someone else.

Fake-Dating Your Stepbrother (and Other Terrible Ideas) by @bettsfic

Clarke is a college freshman who just wants dudes to stop hitting on her, so she starts telling people she has a boyfriend. When pressed, she rattles off details about her stepbrother, and soon the lie spirals out of control.

Bellamy is a hot dumb loser who gets kicked out of the Air Force and decides to lay low for a bit.

After an exhausting semester, dead-set on keeping the friendships she’s made, Clarke invites the entire squad to the family beach house —

Where Bellamy is hiding out. Bellamy, her stepbrother, whom everyone thinks is her boyfriend.

Baby Mine by stumblesun

A routine doctor's appointment, a mix up and an artificial insemination...what could go wrong?

A Jane the Virgin AU.

If the Right One Came Along by @useyourtelescope

It had been over a decade since Bellamy Blake moved away, but everyone in town still remembered him.

At least, that’s what they’ve all said ever since he became a famous historian, with a book and a popular docuseries on Netflix under his belt.

Clarke, however, had never forgotten her old partner in crime at the library. She’s so proud of everything Bellamy has accomplished even though they lost touch a long time ago.

But now, Bellamy is back and seemingly interested in more than just Clarke’s friendship, and Clarke can’t say that she minds. A casual relationship sounds like just the kind of fun she needs right now.

The fact that it’s with her former best friend-slash-crush isn’t a big deal. After all, their arrangement is only for the few weeks he’s in town before he returns to his celebrity life. That’s definitely not enough time for her to fall for him again…

we'll be looking for sunlight, or the headlights by @selflessbellamy

Bellamy and Clarke meet by chance, and move in together by choice. How they come together is not fate, though. There is no such thing.

“You need a place to stay?” Her voice is barely a whisper, but it catches his attention nonetheless. For a minute, he can only look at her, the silence enveloping them as their eyes explore each other. She can see infinite galaxies within his.

She’s never been more serious about anything.

I'll Find You in the Morning Sun by @cominguproses13x

Clarke is a survivor.

That’s all she is now. And tomorrow, she might not even have that.

He is a survivor too but he does it differently.

Bellamy survives fire. He survives ice. He can become the sun and hide the moonlight that relishes somewhere inside of him.

He is an eclipse.

And Clarke is a survivor.

[ransomedbard]

WIP: Peacekeeper

Category: Gen Rating: Teen

At the age of 39, Quatre has grown the Winner Corporation into one of the Earth Sphere’s most powerful businesses.  His life is entirely centered - some would say consumed - by his work, until an unexpected request from Dorothy shatters his routine.

The unexpected events of the past week had begun with a deceptively simple message from Dorothy Catalonia’s assistant: “It will not be long now.  D has asked for you.”

Quatre lingered over the scant dozen words, scanning them again and again for clues to help him understand this unprecedented request, but he found none.

It would be hard to classify his relationship with Dorothy. He found it difficult to use the word “friends”, because to him that evoked the deep and lasting bonds he had formed with those who were near to his heart. But surely he and Dorothy were more than mere “associates”. They moved in many of the same circles, and spoke at least several times a month.  Though in scale the company she headed was a fraction the size of his own, it was a major player in several key industries, and they found themselves bumping shoulders at charity galas and trade group conferences alike. More than that, they ended up having lunch or tea together fairly often; she instigated most of these, inviting him to meet so that she could relish informing him personally of some coup she had pulled off.

“Rivals” didn’t really fit either.  It took two to compete and while she was quite serious about scoring wins against him professionally and personally, he didn’t reciprocate. It wasn’t that he didn’t respect her; he simply didn’t see business as a zero-sum game, of winners and losers.

Over the years they had settled into a certain détente, a neutral metaphorical ground they could occupy without Dorothy sniping at him, one where she turned her considerable skill at exposing hypocrisy and flaws on their peers. He found that when he wasn’t the target of her roasting, he rather enjoyed it; could even see the underlying goad that drove her: frustration with the unfairness, ineptitude, and dumb cruelty of the world. She was a person of lofty ideals expressed via crude means.

To be challenged and held to account for his mistakes, to joust verbally on any and all topics, to enjoy the guilty pleasures of snark and the darker pull of schadenfreude - that was his relationship with Dorothy.

But that was the limit of the bond. Not once had she been candid, or shared her needs or her fears.  

And now - to ask for him, invite him into her presence when she was at her most vulnerable - never in all the years he had known her had she done that.  

So he had canceled everything on his schedule and raced to Earth, to the hospital where she would very soon be giving birth to her second child, a son. From the prenatal scans the doctors knew that he had a congenital deformity and would require immediate and drastic surgery, with no guarantee of success. Even with Quatre’s ability to leverage his corporation's resources to make the best possible speed, it took him the better part of a day and a half to arrive, and he came into port not knowing if he would be joining them in celebration or mourning.

Her assistant met him at the entrance to the hospital wing and efficiently brought him up to speed as they navigated the winding corridors. The baby had been born alive six hours before, and whisked directly into surgery, which had lasted four hours. He was now in the neonatal ICU; the next few days were critical. Dorothy was in her recovery room with her husband, David, and the situation was - well, he didn’t need a briefing for that, as the yelling was quite audible.

Quatre paused at the entrance to her private suite to straighten out his suit jacket and run a hand over his hair; then he swung the door open and stepped in.

David was sitting on a chair by her bedside, his face flush with anger. He looked up at the intrusion and upon recognizing Quatre looked entirely baffled for a moment, but recovered with a speed that did him credit - he was a diplomat by trade. He rose and strode towards Quatre, blocking the way. “Mr. Winner? My wife is indisposed at the moment—“

“Ms. Catalonia requested him,” supplied the assistant, who had followed him into the lion’s den (bless her.)  To this second assault on his expectations David did not rally; he was staggered, and turned back to Dorothy with trepidation. “My dear,” he began lamely, “do you want, ah, to see Mr.—“

“Of course I do, David,” she cut him off with relish. “He has come all this way.”

“Of- of course,” David mechanically replied. Quatre took pity on him and gestured back towards the door. “If I might impose on you, perhaps you could bring me up to speed?”  David nodded and let Quatre lead him out by the arm; the man was so exhausted that leaned on him heavily.

Quatre listened attentively as David explained what he already knew; the surgeons had done their best, but the newborn was still gravely ill. As he spoke, sympathy flooded Quatre’s heart - he did not know her husband well, but it was clear he was in despair and almost overwhelmed with grief.  When David was done, Quatre deftly turned the conversation to how it was a matter of waiting at this point, and assured him that he had done all that he could for now. “Your daughter is at the hotel? If you want to go back to her, I’ll sit up with Dorothy as long as she wants me to.  I’ll make sure that word will be sent to you the moment anything changes.”  Dorothy’s assistant chimed in that she needed to catch a few hours of sleep herself, and the two of them went off together.

With that sorted, Quatre turned and gave a rap with the back of his hand to the partially open suite door, through which he did not doubt Dorothy had heard everything. “May I come in?” He took her sound of irritation as a yes.

As soon as he sat down in the chair David had vacated Dorothy turned on him. It was a relief in a way; he hadn’t been able to guess what had possessed her to summon him, but now he thought he knew: she wanted a distraction. Thankfully it was a role he knew well, and he was willing to provide it - all the more so because he knew intimately how the frenetic struggle between hope and despair could bring out the worst in a person.

“Winner. I suppose you heard the fight on your way in and purposely interrupted it? How very like you to spoil a perfectly good argument,” she began, looking him levelly in the eye; hers were red and tear streaked, but he gave no indication of noticing.

“You can’t understand what we’re going through - but that’s your own fault. You’re nearly 40. Why aren’t you married with children yet?” At that he raised his eyebrows, genuinely caught off guard; she saw it and pressed. “Surely it’s not a lack of ambition; you’ve grown your damn company into a behemoth by acquisition. And you’re already an uncle to a brood of dozens, adding a few more of your own would hardly be noticeable.”

Quatre took a second to uncover the meaning behind the words. Why am I safe from the position you find yourself in, helpless to do more to protect your son, livid at the cruelty of fate? Ah, Dorothy, if you only knew. But that doesn’t matter now.

He reached out his hand near her own, offering; after a second she took it, squeezing hard.  He squeezed back.

“You’ve hit the nail on the head,” he said gamely. “The Winner name is rather stretched thin already, don’t you think? Between my sisters who didn’t marry or kept their last name, and all their offspring, there’s a good fifty at least. There are limits beyond which we cannot decently transgress - think of the poor genealogists.”

She warmed a bit to the faux argument. “Then follow their example and buck tradition. You can take your spouse’s name, or even better hyphenate - and then rename the company!” She managed a weak smirk. “Just think how much joy you would bring to sign-makers and stationers across the entire Sphere who would be put to work replacing every instance of ‘Winner Corporation’, from the tallest building to the humblest business card. I dare say you’d boost the economy.”

He grimaced in mock horror at the thought. “Why, it would take years—”

Down the corridor, a door suddenly slammed and an instant later Dorothy burst into tears. In that unguarded moment he caught the pulse of her fear; that any minute someone might come down that hallway to tell her that her child was dead.

She withdrew her hand from his and curled it into a fist as she struggled internally, but it seemed that the spell had been broken and she could no longer maintain the façade. Unable to stop, she let him see her cry, and he did not look away, because he sensed she would have hated that more.

When he thought she could speak again, he offered her his handkerchief and dared to ask a real question. “What will you name him?”

She took a hissing breath. “Damnit, Winner.”  But there was no real reproach in her voice.

“I rather thought you might...”

“Yes,” she said, and for once, they understood each other perfectly.  “Chilias. After my father.”

[mythgirlimagines]

The SDR2 girls with a fem!S/O that's super sweet and soft-spoken... Until you bring out the Smash Bros or Mario Party. Then you have released the wrath of an ancient god.

ngl this is me I’m super competitive when it comes to games

Chiaki Nanami:

She adores how sweet S/O is in regular situations, but especially when she goes into Smash Mode

It’s actually funny to watch since Chiaki mains Kirby and S/O mains Jigglypuff. It’s like watching two cupcakes beat each other up

You can just hear them screaming and trash-talking followed by cheering and long strings of curse words

Surprisingly (or not), they alternate winning. Once the wrath has worn off from S/O, she and Chiaki usually fall asleep from exhaustion

Mahiru Koizumi:

She doesn’t game too often; she prefers to watch S/O do her thing instead

S/O’s wrath is absolutely real and slightly terrifying. She’s ready to crush whoever dared challenge her to Mario Party

It’s an amusing shift for Mahiru to watch, from the sweet, shy girl to the one who will trash-talk you into next Tuesday

She has multiple photos of S/O’s intense gaming face, along with pictures of her celebrating her wins!

Peko Pekoyama:

She doesn’t quite understand the shift in S/O, but she rolls along with it anyway. They all have those things that trigger mood swings instantly, after all

It’s amusing, really, to see such a sweet girl turn into a terrifying being while playing Smash Bros. It’s almost like she is part of the game herself

That said, she usually goes into hyperfocus and won’t say anything until the match is over. It’s a silent kind of passion and sheer force that gets her to the end

It’s like a switch flips. Whenever the game is won or lost, S/O goes back to her regular self in mere seconds, ready to celebrate her win (or mourn her loss) with Peko

Ibuki Mioda:

Ibuki is all for the rage monster that S/O hides for games like this!

Honestly she probably brings up the games more often just to get S/O pumped up and ready for any and all competition

She’s right alongside S/O in terms of competitiveness, and they balance each other out nicely

They made a pact, too: loser buys the winner ice cream! Which, admittedly, only makes the competitiveness worse, but also more fun!

Hiyoko Saionji:

She loves messing with S/O’s competitive side. The sweet side she loves, of course, but it’s also fun to mess with her

She’ll be an absolute troll on Smash, choosing an overpowered main and making sure to get to all of the items first. It’s almost impossible to win

That being said, S/O doesn’t stop trying, even resorting to distracting Hiyoko to win. This girl does not like to be overpowered by her girlfriend

It’s really all fun and games in the end. Eventually Hiyoko gets bored with the whole “wrath-of-the-gods” thing (as everyone else calls it) and they’ll get something to eat or do something else to celebrates the wins they both got

Mikan Tsumiki:

She’s terrified every single time without fail. S/O shifts so suddenly from sweet and innocent to a competitive monster that it almost gives her whiplash

S/O’s mainly competitive to show off her skills to Mikan, which Mikan thinks is super sweet but also still kinda scary

Mikan never plays the games herself, since she knows she’ll lose anyway, but watching is kind of fun

She always celebrates S/O’s wins afterward, especially once S/O is back to being sweet and not scary again

Sonia Nevermind:

Even though she’s used to S/O’s soft-spoken nature, she’ll admit that she loves it when S/O is ready to throw down in Smash

Sonia has a bit of a competitive side herself, so it’s fun to see who comes out on top in each round

They have a deal that rather than main any one character, they both choose randomly to see how that’ll affect the round

Afterwards, they go out for a walk or something like that to burn off the energy they built up

Akane Owari:

Akane is just as competitive, so she definitely gets the change in S/O’s mood whenever they play Mario Party

It becomes like a little competition between them to see by how much of a margin they can beat each other

Once S/O is back to her sweet, shyer self, Akane always brags about S/O’s skills for her

She’s super proud of how great S/O is, as well as how driven she is in competition!

[schemingneko]

Four First Years, ficlet #1

Koutarou stares at the net as the team on the other side cheers and celebrates their win.  His spike had been blocked.  It was a perfect spike, and out of nowhere a wall of blockers rose just in time to deny him the point to keep the game going.

They’d lost.  They’d lost in five sets, the last ending 19-17.  It had been a long, grueling game, and it was over now.  The intercollegiate tournament would continue, but without his team.  

“It’s okay, Kouta-chan,” a soothing voice comes from behind him.  The team’s setter, Oikawa Tooru is trying his best to put up a good front, but Koutarou can see the tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“Kouta, it’s okay.  We were the underdogs.  They didn’t expect us to win the first game and we made it all the way to the quarterfinals,” Tetsu echo’s Tooru.  But Tetsu’s voice cracks on the last word and Koutarou can tell he’s upset too.

More voices chime in, giving support to their very young ace.  It is only Koutarou’s first year as a college player.  Their team is exceedingly young and all the power lies with the first years--Kuroo, Oikawa, Bokuto, and Sawamura.  They only have two starters who aren’t first years.  In college, experience is important, and they just don’t have that yet.

Koutarou still cries, still mourns this loss.  Losing always hurts.  Always.

It doesn’t even start to feel better until Tetsu and Tooru wrap their arms around him and give him strength that is more than mere words.

“I’m sure that Tetsu-chan will treat us to barbeque to celebrate getting to the quarterfinal,” Oikawa says to the three of them, knowing that it is Koutarou’s favorite, and that Kuroo is broke, so it will piss him off.

“No way, Oika-kun, no way.  I treated us last time, it’s your turn!” Tetsu says with a growl.

Daichi comes over, arms wide and puts a hand on both Tooru and Tetsu’s shoulders.  “I’ll treat.  Now let’s go congratulate our opponents so we don’t seem like sore losers.”

Koutarou nods, feeling better now that he knows that his friends aren’t mad at him and still support him.  He smiles through the tears as he ducks under the net to go congratulate the winners.

[the-wanted-man]

Tavern Wrangler

⌐ Theme | Drybone Outpost, Eastern Thanalan... ¬

He was a man on the run again. The difference was that this time he was on the tail end of the chase instead of leading it, and that was just fine by him. The Scoundrel emerged from the treeline of the South Shroud, riding upon the back of his great steed, Legacy. The beast was powerful and every connection of its steel lined hooves to the ground was a thunderous impact that kicked up a dusty cloud behind them as they crossed the Allagan Sunway and closed in on the small outpost.  

     As the aetheryte came in to view, its crystalline point surfacing above the steep rock walls of the entrenched camp, Roman slowed Legacy from a  canter to a trot, and hopped off in a smooth motion so that he could lead his companion to the stables. It gave him an optimal view of the town, as the stables were positioned just above the whole of Drybone. From here, he could see his targets just entering the saloon below. 

     Dutchess was left to rest while the lone cowboy made his way down the dirt path, tipping his hat to the locals as they passed him by. With every step, his spurs clinked upon his boots and with the Thanalan sun baring down on his back, he thrust open the doors to the small eatery. Daylight flooded in the dim lit room, and the Scoundrel’s shadow reached forward. He didn’t linger, instead quickly moving to an inconspicuous corner and stealing a seat to avoid any unwanted attention while his silver sights scanned the room. 

  It was relatively empty with a collection of locals, off-duty guards, and resting peddlers alike spread out within the tables. Gamblers placed their bets and dealers shuffled cards. The winners were prone to hollering and celebrating, while the losers retreating to the bar to mourn their losses in whiskey. Beautiful women crooned out to newcomers and coaxed them upstairs while the barkeep treated those that needed a liquor healing. It was at the counter counter that his eyes found a focus. A pair of uniformed guards, and a petite midlander woman. 

     They stood at the front counter on either side of her, and while Roman could not hear their conversation, he could tell its tone just by the body language of those involved. On the woman’s right, a large Hellsguard loomed over her, his body slouched cockily against the counter with his weight supported upon his elbow. He wore the face mask of a Blades field officer, and while it hid his eyes, the leering smile he offered said all that needed to be said as he boldly invaded the woman’s space. 

     His compatriot was no better, a stocky hyur with olive skin that also had his hip cocked to the counter, sipping on a glass of whiskey. He wasn’t actively engaging but was instead choosing to observe the overbearing advances of his friend, with the occasional comment tossed in at the poor woman’s expense. Both wore the attire of a Brass Blade and both were visibly in their cups, hammered and coming on strong. 

     The hellsguard said something, presumably lewd, and swayed close on a dangerous level. Instantly, the woman’s spine straightened, her expression hardening as cordial natures were tested. She leaned away from the looming roe, delivering a polite nod before attempting to leave. It set Law's jaw to aching with how hard it clenched, but his mood truly tipped when the lumbering brute lurched forward to grab the woman’s wrist within his large meaty hand and shoved her back towards the bar counter and barred her in. 

      The uniformed roegadyn cut an imposing figure and became more so when he pointed a ruddy digit in front of her face. Flirtation became intimidation as his voice grew into a growl that rose above the clinking glasses and din of the rest of the room. “Don’t walk away from me you bleedin’ cu-hckt!” 

     The insult did not form to completion, interrupted by a strangled choke and a loud 'CRACK!' as the roegadyn’s raised hand dropped to his throat to grasp at the rope that had constricted tightly there like a snake. The coil pulled tighter, and the hellsguard's weight was violently displaced in a way that had him crashing down upon the floorboards with impressive force enough to cause the cloudy windows to rattle and the wooden foundation to shake. The accompanying guard snapped to at full alert, dropping a hand to the hilt of his weapon while his head and others turned to follow that hempen tail as it snaked its way back to its source. 

At whip's end stood the lone desperado with his hat pulled low, a humorless grin cut across his lips as he collected his line into a loose coil around his hand. “Now, that ain’t any way to treat a lady, is it?” The Outlaw spoke in a low and lazy drawl, the epitome of calm and collected as a hush fell over the room. Yet, for all the attention he had eyes only for the woman, offering a smile that was meant to be reassuring before he tipped his head over to the far wall. Somewhere safe, and a little out of the way for what was likely to come now that he'd gotten the attention off her. 

     “Hey there, fellas…” The desperado greeted, chin raised in a bit of defiance. “Apparently, I gotta learn y'all a thing or two about what it means to be -polite-.” The woman quickly eased away from the fallen Blade and his peers, scurrying off behind the bar as the other man rushed to help pull his friend up from the ground. Two other soldiers surged up from their seats, starting forward with a purposeful stride but a flick of the cowboy’s wrist flung the coil of that whip out to the ground so that a sharp -CRACK!- ricocheted off the walls of the dingy tavern and kicked up a cloud of dust around him.

     It gave them pause enough to wait for their comrades to get ready. As ready as they were to pummel him into the ground, nobody really wanted to get hit first. Folks knew a showdown when it was about to happen and hurriedly began to flee the immediate area, chairs scraping across the wooden floor in their haste. Some moved to the edges of the room to get the hell out of the way, while a few others started reaching for the nearest thing they could improvise a weapon with. 

     Though he appeared collected and calm at a glance, the excited shine within Roman’s optical storm was nigh impossible to miss. Anticipation made the air heavy as if an invsible blanket had been thrown across the crowd, weighting the energy within the room.“Well fella’s…we doin’ this?” The Scoundrel goaded, his answer coming only when the assaulting roegadyn finally straightened, a hand still clutched to his throat as he let out a single wheezing cough and swung a heavy hand forward. “What the hell’re you all doing? GET THAT BLEEDIN’ WHORESON…NOW!”

     As the dusty thugs surged forward, the Outlaw had only one thought: Yeehaw…       

╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩╩

To be continued..

╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦╦

[khalilhumam]

Donald Trump fakes history in order to divide us

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New Post has been published on http://khalilhumam.com/donald-trump-fakes-history-in-order-to-divide-us/

Donald Trump fakes history in order to divide us

By Tom Wheeler “Our nation is witnessing a merciless campaign to wipe out our history, defame our heroes, erase our values, and indoctrinate our children,” Donald Trump said in his pre-Independence Day rally in front of Mount Rushmore. He reprised the same themes on the White House lawn the following day. In the midst of a national catharsis on race and social justice, in front of a monument to great American leaders, and then on the lawn of the iconic symbol of American leadership, Trump chose a dog whistle message to stoke the “us vs. them” that has become his stock in trade. It wasn’t a new message, just new venues. At his last rally in Tulsa, Trump used similar rhetoric–“They want to demolish our heritage”–to describe the ongoing debate over removing statues to Confederate figures. This time he doubled down. In the first quote above, he made four specific assertions that he attributed to a “left-wing cultural revolution.” Let’s look at each of those claims, especially as they relate to the matter that continues to haunt the nation: the symbolism of Confederate statues and the naming of military bases for Confederate figures. “Wipe out our history.” The statues of Confederate soldiers may be part of our history, but not in the way Donald Trump sees that history. These men were traitors, and their celebration is a reminder to Black Americans that the oppression for which they fought is still alive. A few years ago, I was making a presentation in a former slaveholding state based on my book “Leadership Lessons of the Civil War.” When I referred to those who fought for the Confederacy as traitors, you could feel the air being sucked from the room. Afterward, some who had been in the audience confronted me over the statement. But the judgment is unassailable. To take up arms against your country is a traitorous act. Erecting statues is just a way to obfuscate that reality while celebrating what caused it. In a similar manner, naming American military bases for generals who fought against America helps keep that traitorous tradition alive. “Defame our heroes.” Donald Trump’s least favorite word, it would seem, is “loser.” He frequently weaponizes it against those with whom he disagrees. It is particularly strange, therefore, that the “heroes” he seeks to aggrandize are the losers of the Civil War. The veneration of those who led the insurrection we call the Civil War is the exception to the old rule that history is written by the winners. And that was exactly why the statues were erected: to rewrite that history and send a message that the cause that drove the treason continued. You do not find statues of Erwin Rommel in Germany. On the battlefield, he was a strategic genius on par with Confederate generals Robert E. Lee and Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson (whom he studied). Recognizing the rotten core of Nazism, Rommel participated in the attempted assassination of Hitler (which cost him his life). But statues are not erected to celebrate national shames. Even if the individual may have been a genius, using that genius for the wrong purpose is nothing to memorialize. “Erase our values.” The values celebrated by the memorials whose loss Trump mourns are not those of bravery or strategic brilliance, but of continuing oppression. According to the American Historical Association, the Confederate monuments erected in the Jim Crow era of the late 19th and early 20th century were “part and parcel of the initiation of legally mandated segregation and widespread disenfranchisement across the South.” The monuments were symbols of white supremacy whose purpose was intimidation, a reminder that the so-called Lost Cause was not over and a reiteration of the racial oppression that it was all about. “The Civil War wasn’t about slavery,” the refrain of Lost Cause supporters goes, “it was about states’ rights.” That “state right” was the perpetuation of human bondage. “Indoctrinate our children.” I have written two books about the Civil War. One was about the Great Emancipator, Abraham Lincoln, the other about the battlefield leaders on both sides. Without a doubt, until President Lincoln finally found the general he deserved in Ulysses S. Grant, the South had the best battlefield leaders. Their battlefield behavior was often brilliant. The cause for which they fought, however, was despicable. So, how do we rationalize that contradiction? It is the nuance of this conversation that our children need to understand. The purpose of history is to tell the story of previous decisions–including their imperfections–in order to inform our lives today. The tactical skills of the generals on the battlefield is worthy of study. The decision that put them on that battlefield, however, forever stains their memory. It is history’s relevance to today that must be understood. History is the story of how humans, when confronted with challenge, acted imperfectly. It is precisely this multifaceted and imperfect history that our children should learn. We owe the next generation an appreciation of what it means for ordinary citizens to rise to hero status–as well as how to define hero status. It was particularly telling that on his way to Mount Rushmore, Donald Trump helicoptered over Native American demonstrators. The Original Americans were protesting what was happening on their sacred land. Had Trump truly cared about history as something more than a campaign stunt, there was another message he could have delivered. It could have been an inclusive message. It could have been a message to challenge us, rather than divide us. It could have been the story of Robert E. Lee’s surrender at Appomattox on April 9, 1865. Accompanying General Grant was his aide, Lt. Col. Ely S. Parker, who was a Seneca Indian. When Lee entered the McLean house for the surrender, he saw Parker and commented, “I am glad to see one real American here.” Lt. Col. Parker responded, “We are all Americans.” It is a message that is as valid today as it was then, but it is lost on a man who wants to use history to divide us.