#this thought inspired by the little box in the realm book that the entire realm legal system hates lawyers

[witchofanguish]

I think a Changing Moon Lunar who exalted from their work as a lawyer would be cool

[obeymedreams]

Sweet as You

Author’s notes: I’m salty that the event will not give me Lucifer and Luke’s card so instead I’m replacing it with sweet headcanons about the essence of the datables’ kisses and what chocolates you’d give, plus a little bit about how you and Luke teamed up to make them! 

Content warning: food, chocolate, candy

Length: 2.4 K

Lucifer

You make a coffee bonbon for Lucifer. The shell is dark chocolate with two streaks of colour painted on—one in your favourite colour and another in his. The filling is an espresso ganache that highlights the bitterness of chocolate and coffee while ensuring the bonbon is never too sweet

Lucifer is both impressed with the flavour and the obvious care you’ve put into crafting this confection. He offers to prepare some drinks so you two can enjoy the chocolate together

Kissing Lucifer is being swept up in each other. It feels like passing by each other in castle walls, then hiding behind pillar to exchange impassioned kisses and whispers of love. The world might be continuing around you, but in that moment only the two of you matter

Lucifer feels clarity when kissing you. Everything else melts away and all that is left is the feeling of your lips and the warmth of your love. Your kisses contain an oasis and Lucifer finally feels like he can relax

Mammon

Mammon gets a fancy gold leaf bonbon that has a glossy shine. And to his delight you’ve gifted him liquor chocolate filled with an expensive Demonus that’s all the rage lately

Naturally, Mammon enjoys the chocolates because they’re fancy. However, the real reason he adores them is that they are proof that, to you, he is someone worth splurging on in both effort and money

Kisses with Mammon are messy and unexpected yet both of you feel like you’ve waited forever for this. The first taste of you isn’t enough, and Mammon becomes addicted pretty quickly. It’s a rush, like betting on a rolling dice or a flip of a card while on a winning streak. He feels like he’s losing all good sense yet so sure this is the right decision

His love for you is neither neat nor compartmentalized and neither are his kisses. It’s bubbling affection that he just can’t contain anymore. No matter how many lies he verbalizes, the blush on his visage and the way he greedily steals kiss after kiss says enough

Levi

You craft a chocolate treat based of a scene in TSL! There was a cute scene between Henry and the Lord of the Shadows where they eat chocolates, sharing one last sweet moment before having to part. You decide to recreate it by creating milk chocolate bonbons with a salted caramel filling, making sure to use a mold which creates the right shape!

Levi is floored. He knows EXACTLY which scene these chocolates are from, down to the page and line numbers. He simply gawks for a while and then proceeds to basically have a photoshoot. When he finally takes a bite, you can see the way his face lights up and it’s worth all the effort

Kisses with Levi are an adventure with ups and downs, bumps in the road, but a treasure chest at the end. When you first kiss him, he’s a blushing mess with brain working overtime to suppress his fight or flight instinct. But in spite of himself, Levi leans in and trusts you because no one treats him with this tenderness

His world is still small, aside from his brothers and Lotan, everything he loves could probably be contained in his room. But your kisses expand his horizons and maybe he thinks it’d be worth it to explore the world a little more, even if it leaves him vulnerable

Satan

You make Satan a combination of brigadeiros and mint discs for Valentine’s day! He enjoys that you’ve made chocolate confections but veered outside the classic bonbons. Satan likes the soft and chewy textures of the brigadeiros in contrast with the crunchy sprinkles and the unique texture of sugared mint atop dark chocolate discs

Satan happily opens the box of chocolate. He admires them for a bit and compliments you on their appearance before popping one in his mouth. He feels both loved and a little smug, Satan knows a bit about chocolate confections, enough that he’s certain you’ve put quite a bit of effort into this, which makes it all the more sweet

Lay on compliments about how he’s just as sweet as the chocolate, perhaps referencing a book he’s reading, and how all that work was worth it for his sake and you might get him blushing

Kisses with Satan are like browsing a library—the nostalgic smell of old books combined with excitement of discovering new worlds contained in pages. You’ve had more kisses with Satan than you can count, but even with that familiarity, you feel like you’re uncovering something new each time your lips meet

Asmo

Asmo knows the value of appearance so you ensure your chocolates look just as good as they taste. You make white chocolate disc in the shape of hearts and adorn them with sugared petals. Additionally, you create passionfruit bonbons with cute heart indents which look picture perfect.

Asmo takes a selfie with you while you each hold a chocolate confection. Sweets for your sweetheart!~ It’s cute. 

But then you bring up how you chose passionfruit for its refreshing taste, so its easy to continually eat the chocolates, because just like the bonbons you’ll never get sick of him! It’s such a small detail but it warms his heart and suddenly you’re trapped in a hug

Asmo’s kisses don’t neatly fit into any single category. He is sweet, masterful and practiced, playful and lets you take the lead, but he is always sincere in his affection to you. Kisses are one of many ways to reaffirm your love

His kisses are like eating an assorted box of chocolates. One kiss is light and flirty, the next is sensual and stroking desire, then another which is teasing and light while interspersed with giggles. Yet all of them leave you with a sweet feeling

Beel

You make Beel a big pile of semi-sweet chocolate bark with variety of toppings, one has freeze dried raspberries, another has almonds, some use hellfire peppers, it’s a whole buffet

Beel plants a kiss on your forehead and thanks you so much for the gift! He begins to dig in to the treats you’ve made and has an endearing content grin the entire time he wolfs the chocolate down. He does his best to remember to offer you a bite too!

Many of Beel’s kisses start off as innocent fondness and true devotion. He loves you and you can feel it in the way he holds you close to him and devours all the affection you give. 

But many of his kisses turn hungry, because he can never get enough of you, the taste of your lips, your sweet moans, the way your hands roam, the puffs of hot breaths, they all never fail to leave him wanting more. His kisses feel satisfying and fulfilling, because you get to indulge to your heart’s content

Belphie

You make Belphie coconut oil chocolates! They’re so easy to eat, he doesn’t even need to chew. You have to be careful to not melt them when making and handle the individual morsels, but it’s worth it all in the end

You surprise him by popping the chocolate into his mouth! You’re lucky he trusts you, if it was anyone else he’d probably have spit it out. It’s easy to bite through and melts to spread a pleasant chocolate taste across his mouth.

Probably muttered something under his breath, but he makes sure to thank you for the gift too, even if he is a little blasé about it. At least these ones aren’t dusty

Belphie’s kisses are lazy little things with missed lips and little laughs, huffs of air, and that smirk that makes you want to kiss him stupid until he can’t pretend to be relaxed. Random pecks in the morning, between naps, before bed, but if you ever ask why, the answer is “just because”

Occasionally your kisses are salvation and desperation. No life, no relationship, no person is without turbulence. Your hot breaths prove you’re alive and breathing, the love your pour into him as your lips meet prove he is worthy of affection, and he doesn’t intend to let go

Diavolo

You make Diavolo white chocolate matcha bonbons! The inside is filled with a smooth matcha ganache that’s a brilliant shade of green. The shells are painted with the rough silhouette of your favourite flower. The matcha flavour helps balance out the sweetness of the white chocolate, making a delicious treat

Diavolo is delighted by the gift and compliments the taste! But he also enjoys the story that goes with it when you tell him your thought process, how matcha has become popular across the world in the human realm, and what human traditions are attached to the gifting of chocolates

He’s already plotting what he wants to give you in return, but for now he’ll enjoy your heart felt confection while making sure to give you a piece

Kisses with Diavolo are like fireworks. No matter how many times you see them, they never lose their brilliance. Even if they aren’t always in the sky, they bring you joy each time you see their bright colours and sparkling streaks

Diavolo intends to indulge you in kisses. Even the short ones, before meetings, after class, the domesticity tickles his heart. But Diavolo’s preference leans to long kisses where the two of you meld together. Everything is you, your unique scent, the way his name leaves your mouth, the way you hold onto him, your taste alone makes him want to dive deeper 

And why stop at one kiss? He should have another for good measure, maybe two, three, four—well now there’s no point counting so you might as well continue

Barbatos

You make strawberry shortcake inspired chocolates for Barbatos. The bonbon shell is made with ruby chocolate with the filling consisting of whipped white chocolate ganache and strawberry preserves. 

The several components merge together to make a sweet dessert and Barbatos appreciates how you use the novel ruby cocoa. Barbatos out of everyone knows how much work must have gone to create these bonbons and makes sure to both savour it and compliment you

Kisses with Barbatos are like sharing a secret. You get special access to a gateway into him, and in these kisses you create a special place just for the two of you

His kisses are almost dangerously good, you swear kissing didn’t always feel this good. But his intensity, the way it’s only the two of you, the mere privilege it is to have him whisper sweet words between gilded kisses, it makes it worth all the wait

Simeon

You make Simeon earl grey tea truffles! You coat the truffles with milk chocolate to create an easy to hold shell. Then you have stripes of dyed white chocolate — one in your favourite colour and another in his. 

Simeon thinks it’s adorable at how your chocolates have become a matching couple item with the coloured stripes. He thinks it’s lovely how you made him tea flavoured chocolate, given how many fond memories the two of you have which centre around a cup of tea

Simeon kisses make you feel treasured. He peppers your face is soft kisses, he cups your cheek gently, and the adoration in his eyes almost overwhelms your heart

His love is all encompassing and you’ve never felt safer than when you’re in his arms. Beautiful lashes fan his cheeks, contended sighs, and underlying warmth. Simeon feels like home and with his kisses, you’re falling in love again 

Solomon

You know Solomon likes cupcakes and poisoned apples so you decide to combine the two! You make him an apple cakepop coated in coloured white chocolate to look like a poisoned apple!

Unlike his cooking, your sweet tastes delicious and leaves the eater happy. You make sure to use granny smith apples to retain some tartness and Solomon happily eats the confection. 

Unfortunately, your sweetheart has also made sweets to express his love for you. Don’t let Solomon give you chocolates back or use a trick to dispose of them! It is not romantic to spend the day puking or sick in bed. Or hey, maybe true love is eating it knowing that it spells out nothing less than doom

Kisses with Solomon feel like an exploration. You get to know him bit by bit and each kiss feels like proof he is wiling to vulnerable with you. Some trips result in airy kisses, others feel like rocky days at sea filled with passion and you’re in danger of running out of breath, it’s always an adventure

Sometimes, you swear you can feel his lips form a smug smile. Other times, he approaches you so gently and the touch of hesitancy, like he can’t really believe he got you, makes you want to shower him with enough love to wash away all doubt. He holds you tight, to him you are warmth and intimacy, and he never wants to let go

Bonus: Making Chocolates with Luke

When making chocolates with Luke, it is best to be sweet with him, guide the angel with soft suggestions without sounding like you’re babying him. Generally, Luke is pretty amendable but he can have a stubborn streak if he feels like he has something to prove

He makes for chocolate confections for Barbatos, Simeon, Micheal, Solomon and you! It’s so cute to see him so excited when he thinks about how happy everyone will be when they receive the gift

You two go through many spoons to check if the chocolate is tempered, rapidly tapping the chocolate to see if it has that snap and sighing when it blooms

By the end of it, you two are a mess with chocolate smears on your apron, but you have nice assortment of shiny chocolate sweets

[rosiehunterwolf]

There's Sand Everywhere!

(quick shoutout to @fires-of-ninjago for the title idea and inspiration for this- you remember that ask game where people suggested titles for fics and you had to come up with a story to go along with it? Well, he sent in this title, and I came up with this, and liked it so much that I screenshotted it and- here we are!)

Prompts: Summer and Heist

Word Count: 7,922

Characters: The whole gang (including Pixal) :)

Timeline: Between seasons 12 and 13

Trigger Warnings: none (holy shit that's never happened before-)

Summary: It was just supposed to be a day off. A simple beach day. But when your family consists of six ninja and a samurai, including a nindroid convinced he’s a detective, his reluctant sidekick, an aquaphobe, a girl who can command the sea, an unassuming teen who seems to attract every animal he crosses paths with, and a bunch of argumentative idiots, nothing is ever that easy.

Read on FFN.net

Read on Ao3

Tumblr work under the cut

“We,” Kai proclaimed, surveying the room, “Need a day off.”

Lloyd shrieked at the fire ninja’s sudden outburst, falling out of his chair. Jay broke into snickers, and Lloyd shot him a glare.

“Kai,” Zane sighed, “get off the table.”

Kai stuck his tongue out at the nindroid, but hopped down, anyway. “Look at you guys!” Kai waved his hands at the group for emphasis. Papers fluttered to the ground where Lloyd had knocked them in his fall, Jay and Nya were sitting on the ground, surrounded by stacks of books tall enough to be mistaken for some kind of fort, Pixal was gathering some of the papers that had gone everywhere, while Cole and Zane had only just paused in their task of boxing up and carrying crates to the far side of the room. “Filing documents and organizing? Boooring.”

“Tasks which you’ve been a big help with, by the way,” Lloyd grumbled, as Cole offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet. He turned back to the desk, shuffling papers off of the keyboard of his laptop, the screen filled with lines of script and dozens of files that made Kai's brain hurt just to look at.

Nya pushed her reading glasses up her nose. “Jay and I technically aren’t working. We chose to do this of our own free will.”

Kai rolled his eyes at her. “What kind of psychopaths read for fun?”

Jay kicked his leg out, aiming for Kai’s ankle, but Cole quickly stepped between them, stopping the conflict before it could escalate into anything worse.

“We’re not reading them, we’re sorting them in order from most potentially useful to least so. They’re mechanics and engineering books. You never know when they might come in handy in a pinch.”

“Oh, because that’s so much more interesting. If you guys wanna spend all your free time geeking out, fine, what do I care. But what about the rest of you? C’mon, Lloydster. You don’t really wanna spend your entire day doing this,” he gestured at the laptop and paper-strewn desk- “do you?”

“It’s not about whether or not I want to. This stuff is important, Kai.”

“Lloyd’s right,” Zane agreed. “With all the crazy missions we’ve been on lately, we’ve neglected all our paperwork, and taking care of the Monastery.”

“It’s because we’ve been gone so long that we need a break!” Kai argued. “We just got done saving the entire city from an evil video game AI! If that’s not worth celebrating, I don’t know what is.”

“Technically,” Nya remarked, not even glancing up from the book she was skimming, “That was Jay who did that.”

Kai spluttered, ignoring the smug look on Jay’s face. “Okay, yeah, but we helped! And what about Aspheera? Or the Never Realm? That was all of us. And we didn’t have time to properly recuperate from that before we got launched right into Prime Empire!”

Pixal’s brow furrowed. “Y’know, he has a point…”

A frown flitted across Zane’s face. “I suppose we have been working for a long time…”

“That’s what I’ve been saying! Come on, let’s do something fun.”

“Not video games,” Cole groaned. “Jay and I spent the last three days playing a Lava Zombies tournament, and I’m all gamed-out.”

“No, let’s actually go somewhere. Like the-”

“The library!” Jay pitched.

“Or the museum!” Zane suggested.

“No!” Kai snapped. “Man, you guys are so lame. I meant somewhere fun. We should go to-”

“The beach!” Nya cried suddenly, standing up so quickly that she sent a pile of books toppling over. “Brilliant idea, Kai!”

“Wait, no,” he yelped. “That’s not what I was going to-”

But no one heard him. They were already scrambling to their feet, murmuring excitedly to one another.

“Guys, wait!” he cried. “Why would you want to go to the beach? It’s all sandy, and wet, and-”

“Don’t worry, Kai,” Nya giggled, “we won’t let the ocean hurt you.”

“That’s not-” he felt himself turning red as the others laughed. “That’s not what I meant! I just thought… wouldn’t laser tag or something be a lot more fun?”

The others glanced at each other, uncertain. Zane stepped forward. “Let’s take a vote. All in favor of laser tag, raise your hands.”

Kai lifted his hand, but no one else did. He scowled at them.

“And all in favor of the beach?”

Six hands went up.

“Seems like we have a clear winner. Let’s get going, shall we?”

---

“Do you have the towels?”

“All here!”

“What about the sunscreen?”

“Hold on- Jay, did you grab the sunscreen?”

“What?”

Lloyd cupped his hands around his mouth, yelling louder. “Did you grab the sunscreen?”

“Oh yeah, it’s here! Wait, do you have my-”

“Your what?” Lloyd called, walking over to him, passing Pixal and Zane as they came out of the kitchen. The female nindroid sighed.

“Can’t anything get done around here without everyone making such a racket?”

“Nope,” Nya elbowed her playfully. “When you’ve been with these idiots as long as I have, you get used to it.”

Pixal’s eyes widened. “I can’t imagine ever being used to all this.”

Nya smiled. “Did I mention I’m slightly deaf?”

“We finished making the picnic,” Zane told her, holding out the basket he was carrying. “Is everyone ready to go?”

Nya eyed the guys, who were running around the Monastery, barely avoiding tripping over one another. “‘Ready’ is an overstatement.”

“Hold your horses, we’re almost done,” Cole grunted, heaving the large beach bag over to them. “Have a little faith in us, Nya.”

Nya put her hand on her hip, waiting- and a second later, there was a crashing sound followed by an angry chorus of yells from Kai, Lloyd, and Jay.

Cole grimaced, rubbing the back of his head. “Okay, maybe you’re right to not have any faith in us.”

---

After an intense, fifteen-minute argument about what mode of transportation they would take, they ended up deciding on the city bus, and finally, finally got out the door. The bus ride went off without a hitch, for once, (except for a brief panic about not having the proper change for the bus fare, but luckily Zane had a few extra dollars on him), and before Nya knew it, they were staking out an area on Ninjago City beach. She was beginning to think this could actually work out.

Maybe.

“Check out my abs, dude.”

“They’re the same as last time.”

“Are not! I’m way more shredded than last time we went swimming.”

“Okay, that’s just a straight-up lie. I saw you sneak that extra piece of pie last night.”

“You better not be disrespecting my muscles, Flat Stanley.”

“Hey! I’m way more muscly than I used to be.”

“Are you kidding? We call you ‘green bean’ for a reason, and it’s not just because you’re the green ninja. You’re a twig!”

“I’m a twig? Have you seen Jay?”

“Hey, don’t rope me into this, green machine, and, for your information, I weigh a whole fifteen pounds more than you!”

“Yeah, well, you’re also two years older than me!”

“I think the lesson we need to learn here is that neither of you have abs anywhere near as pronounced as mine-”

Zane sighed, rolling his eyes. “Here, guys,” he held out a pouch to the group, “this is a waterproof pouch, you can store all your valuables in here.”

They quickly filled the pouch with phones, watches, and wallets. However, as Lloyd pulled back, he tripped over Jay’s foot, and half the guys collapsed into a pile, groaning.

“Jay! Get your foot out of my face!”

“Right after you get your elbow out of my ribs!”

Nya turned away from them, shaking her head. Glancing at Pixal, she asked, “Wanna help me get set up?”

The nindroid nodded, and they pulled the large picnic blanket out of the bag, unfolding it to lay it across the sand.

“Lloyd Montgomery Garmadon,” Kai cried, “You get back here right this instant!”

Nya looked up from the blanket to see Kai running through the sand after Lloyd, his feet sinking into the sand with each step, making it difficult for him to retain his balance. He waved a bottle of sunscreen at the green ninja. “It’s sunny out today! And you know how easily you burn!”

“No way!” Lloyd whined. “You always make me stay out of the water for at least twenty minutes to let it set, and it’s way too hot for me to wait that long! I wanna go swimming now.”

Kai lunged for him, and Lloyd yelped, barely dodging out of the way.

“Over here, Lloyd!” Jay cried, already wading into the shallows of the ocean. “He won’t follow you into the water!”

Lloyd hurried after him, splashing up water as he went, accidentally splattering Kai and causing the red ninja to flinch back with a yelp. Sure enough, he froze at the water’s edge, glaring at Jay and Lloyd, where they stood, only about ten feet away, laughing at him.

Zane rubbed a hand over his face, sighing. “They’re both going to get skin cancer, aren’t they?”

“At the very least, they’re going to be bright red tomatoes,” Cole laughed. “Oh, it’s going to be a blast when they take showers.”

Zane stared at him, horrified. “Please don’t let Jay do that again. He had the worst blisters, last time-”

Cole held up his hands. “It was a joke, Zane! A joke!”

Zane narrowed his eyes and didn’t reply.

Nya laughed, grabbing Pixal’s hand. “Come on. Wanna go bodyboarding with me?”

Pixal glanced at her. “I don’t know how.”

“That’s fine.” Nya stepped on the board, flipping it up into her hand and handing it to Pixal, before grabbing a second one for herself. “I can teach you!”

“Thanks, Nya.”

As they walked down towards the shore, they passed Kai and Cole, who had finally managed to get Jay and Lloyd out of the water. Cole had his arms locked around Jay, preventing him from running away as Kai slathered sunscreen across his face. Lloyd was sitting in the sand beside him, pouting, his face already smeared in white.

Nya grinned at him. “Can you guys handle yourselves for twenty minutes if Pix and I go out bodyboarding?”

Lloyd stuck his tongue out at her, and Kai rolled his eyes. “We’ll be fine, Nya. I think you’re forgetting we save the city on a regular basis? We’re perfectly capable.”

Nya put a hand near Pixal’s ear, whispering loudly into it. “Betcha anything the beach will be on fire by the time we get back.”

The two ran off, giggling at the sight of Kai’s smoldering glare, before he could set them on fire.

---

To Kai’s credit, he did not set the beach on fire, or anything, for that matter, but when Nya and Pixal returned, they found him and Cole shoveling sand onto Zane, who was chest-deep by this point.

“Zane!” Pixal exclaimed. “Are you alright?”

“When Kai told me he had something fun to show me, this wasn’t quite what I had imagined.”

“Aww, come on Zane!” Kai grinned. “I’m having a great time.”

Pixal shook her head, and stepped forward, grabbing Zane’s hand and pulling him up, sending sand cascading down everywhere. Cole and Kai groaned.

“Aww, come on, Pix, that took forever!” Cole muttered.

“Yeah, we were gonna shape it into a mermaid tail. Don’t you know how funny that would’ve been?”

“Humor is subjective.” Zane rubbed at his wrists. “Augh, now I’m going to have sand in my gears for weeks.” Shooting a glare at Kai, he added, “I’ll remember this the next time you ditch your swimming lessons.”

“Hey!” Kai yelped. “That’s totally different! Sand is warm, and solid, and most importantly, not dangerous!”

“You could suffocate,” Zane pointed out.

Kai scowled. “You’re a nindroid, you wouldn’t have suffocated.”

“You’re related to an elemental master of water. You won’t drown.”

“Being related to a master of water and being a master of water are two very different things! I control fire, not water, I can’t do anything to protect myself.”

Cole rolled his eyes. “You’re so lame. Remind me again why we brought our friend with aquaphobia to the beach?”

“Technically,” Zane said, raising a finger, “the word you’re looking for is thalassophobia. Kai doesn’t fear water in general, only large bodies, such as-”

“It was his idea,” Nya interrupted. “If it weren’t for him, we’d still be at the Monastery, filing papers.”

“I never suggested the beach!” Kai snapped. “That was your idea!”

“Yeah, well, your suggestions were lame. The beach was the obvious choice.”

“Hey,” Pixal interjected, suddenly realizing they were missing a couple of people. “Where are Jay and Lloyd?”

Cole sighed, pointing up towards their stuff, where Jay and Lloyd were struggling with a large, yellow duck inflatable that was very much not inflated at the moment. Jay had his lips around the mouthpiece, his face red.

“Blow harder, Jay,” Lloyd insisted, hovering by his side. “You’re hardly doing anything!”

Jay pulled his head back, breathing out heavily as the redness faded from his cheeks. “I’d like to see you do better! You’d probably pass out after a minute.”

“Would not!” Lloyd snatched the floaty away from him, blowing hard into the mouthpiece, putting even less air into the floaty than Jay had. His face reddened as he huffed desperately, although he still wasn’t making much progress. After a few moments, Jay pulled it away from him.

“Okay, that’s enough. I don’t want you to actually pass out.”

Lloyd glared at him, panting. “I wasn’t… going to… pass out.”

Jay sighed, grabbing the inflatable and staring at what looked to be the eyes and a very flat, crumpled-looking beak. “At this rate, we’re never going to get Mr. Quackington blown up.”

Lloyd’s nose wrinkled. “Mr. Quackington?”

Jay blinked at him. “Yeah, that’s his name.”

“No, it’s not! His name is Mr. Waddles!”

“Mr. Waddles? What kind of juvenile name is that?”

“Oh, like Mr. Quackington is any better!”

“It is! It’s loads better!”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Is so!”

“It’s not!” Lloyd snapped, green energy sparking between his fingers. Jay glanced down at them thoughtfully. “Hey, what if…”

Lloyd was evidently catching on to Jay’s train of thought, his eyes lighting up. “We can use my powers to inflate Mr. Waddles!”

Jay narrowed his eyes. “Quackington.”

Lloyd bared his teeth, the small fangs glinting. “Waddles.”

Jay sighed. “Okay, whatever. We can use your powers to inflate Mr. Waddles.”

Lloyd grinned widely, whether about the promise of getting his inflated duck or having won the name debate with Jay, Pixal couldn’t tell. He held up a hand and formed a basketball-sized sphere of green energy. Jay’s eyes widened, and he held the mouthpiece up to the energy. Lloyd channeled it inside, watching with glee as the duck puffed up, the yellow plastic slowly tinging green, making the duck look like he was about to be sick.

Zane took a step forward, holding his hand out. “Lloyd, wait-”

There was a sharp snapping noise as the floaty popped, and Lloyd and Jay cried out in horror as the yellow pieces of plastic fluttered to the ground. Lloyd fell to his knees, gripping the busted plastic and wailing, and Jay landed next to him, crying, “No! Mr. Waddles, you were so young!”

“I can’t believe he’s really gone,” Lloyd sniffed. “He was my best friend in the whole world.”

Kai threw up his hands. “Great. You spend the last several years of your life looking out for him only to get replaced by his inflatable plastic duck.”

“Oookay,” Nya said, walking over to Jay and Lloyd and ushering them towards the picnic blanket. “Someone’s obviously been out in the sun too long. Go sit under the umbrella and let’s have something to eat.”

“Good idea,” Zane agreed. “I’m sure we’re all getting hungry. Jay, could you grab the picnic basket? It’s right behind you.”

The lightning ninja grabbed the basket, peering inside briefly as he carried it towards them. “I hope you brought the Pringles. I could really go for some of those right now- augh!”

Before anyone could stop him, Jay was falling to the ground, the basket flying out of his hands and landing sideways in the sand.

“Jay!” Kai cried. “Look what you’ve done to our picnic!”

“Hey! That was totally your fault! Why did you leave your shoes right in the middle of the sand, perfectly positioned for someone to trip over?”

“Why were you clumsy enough to get in the way of my shoes?”

“Guys, guys, it’s okay,” Zane assured. Walking over, he carefully lifted the basket out of the sand. “I’m sure it’s still salvageable.”

“Yeah, but now all our food is going to taste like sand,” Lloyd moaned.

“Lloyd, the food barely touched the sand,” Nya pointed out.

“Doesn’t matter. Every time you go to the beach, if the food gets even remotely close to the sand, it always gets sand in it. Every time. It’s one of the great mysteries of the universe.”

“Well, I think you’ll survive,” she said, passing Lloyd a sandwich and a bag of pretzels. Lloyd took them, but narrowed his eyes.

“Brings a whole new meaning to the word ‘sandwich.’”

“Just eat your food, mister.”

Lloyd shot her a glare, but grudgingly obliged. As Pixal bit into her own sandwich, she realized Lloyd was right, she could feel granules of sand between her teeth as she chewed.

“Hey… at least it adds a little crunch, right?” Cole grinned.

Kai grimaced. “Next time, I elect we don’t let Jay anywhere near the picnic basket.”

Jay chucked a grape at him, but Kai turned at the last second, catching it in his mouth. “Ha!” His gleeful expression faded as he caught sight of something behind Jay. “Um, Lloyd, you have someone you wanna introduce us to?”

The group turned to see a seagull had approached them, tilting its head where it stood only a couple feet away from Lloyd. The green ninja was staring at the bird with wide eyes, an awed expression on his face.

“Lloyd,” Nya sighed, “please don’t tell me you fed it.”

“He’s not an it,” Lloyd snapped. “His name is Scully.”

“Great.” Nya rubbed her hands over her face. “We’re already into name territory.”

“Scully?” Kai’s nose wrinkled. “Isn’t that the name of the seagull from The Little Mermaid?”

“No, that’s Scuttle,” Lloyd sniffed. “They’re completely different.”

“Lloyd,” Pixal scolded, reaching for Lloyd’s wrist just as he tossed another chunk of his sandwich at the seagull, “Feeding wildlife is not a good idea, it can be dangerous-”

Lloyd shrieked suddenly as the bird launched itself at Lloyd’s face. He scrambled to his feet, screaming, and Kai lunged forward, pushing the others out of the way. “Move, move!”

“Get it off me, get it off me!” Lloyd shrieked as the bird’s wings flapped in his face, sending feathers everywhere.

“Blast it with your powers!” Kai called, looking worried but keeping a respectable distance.

“I can’t! He’s on my face!”

“Well, I can’t do it, I’ll set you on fire! Nya, you do it!”

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” the water ninja spat through gritted teeth, globes of water already forming in her hands. “I just need to get a clear shot! For the love of… Lloyd, stop moving so much!”

Lloyd hardly seemed to hear her. “He’s going to claw my eyes out,” he wailed, batting weakly at the creature.

“Nya!”

Nya quickly thrust her hands forward, sending a large ball of water at Lloyd’s head, drenching him and the seagull. The bird squawked angrily, falling to the ground.

“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” Nya and Kai darted over to him, Nya taking his face in her hands as Kai peered over her shoulder. A small red scratch stretched across his left cheek, but apart from that, he appeared unharmed, just frazzled.

“Dude!” Kai cried. “You just got attacked. By a seagull!”

“It owned you!”

Lloyd shot Jay a glare. “Did not.”

“You should have seen your face!” Jay laughed. “Oh wait, you couldn’t- there was a bird in the way!”

Lloyd crossed his arms. “I’d like to remind you how you reacted that time when my uncle set that berserk chicken on us.”

“The chicken had lightning powers. Hardly comparable to a simple seafowl, bud.”

“Ugh, I hope this doesn’t get infected,” Nya muttered, running her finger along the scratch. “We should probably get you checked for rabies when we get home.”

“Nya, I’m fine,” Lloyd groaned, pushing her off. “A seagull isn’t going to give me rabies.”

Nya shrugged. “With your luck, I can never be sure.”

“This is why you don’t give food to wild animals, Lloyd, it makes them bolder-”

“Watch out, Lloyd!” Jay shrieked suddenly, and they whipped around to see the seagull had caught its second wind, squawking as it charged at Lloyd.

Lloyd shrieked, taking off down the beach with the seagull in pursuit. Nya sighed, putting a hand on her head. Kai grinned, walking over to her and putting a hand on her shoulder. “Do you think he’ll learn his lesson?”

“No,” Nya said without hesitation. “Absolutely not. That’s the sad part.”

“Hey,” Cole said, pointing a finger down the beach. “The volleyball court’s just opened up. You guys wanna play?”

“Sure. Tell Lloyd he can join us when he gets that seagull taken care of.”

Nya glanced towards the green ninja, who was currently lobbing balls of energy at the bird and missing by an embarrassingly wide berth. “Looks like it could be a while.”

---

“Great job, team!” Nya cheered, high-fiving Pixal and shooting a grin at Cole. “Although, if I’m being honest, the rest of you didn’t put up much of a competition.”

“Hey, don’t look at me!” Kai snapped. “I was carrying the team! Jay, Lloyd, were you planning on helping me anytime soon?”

“I was trying!” Jay insisted. “But you kept getting in my way!”

“Because every time I let you get the ball, you dropped it!”

“Hey! I never said I was good at volleyball, okay? Why are you attacking me, Lloyd sucked too!”

“It’s not like I ever had time to fit in volleyball practice between all my green ninja training! It wasn’t exactly a top priority!” “Are you telling me you’ve never played before?” Kai spluttered.

“I’ve played!” Lloyd insisted. “Uh… once or twice.”

Kai facepalmed. “Why did I let you come on my team?”

Lloyd grinned widely. “‘Cause you love me.”

Cole elbowed him. “It’s because he lost the coin toss and Nya got to pick first.”

“Hey!” Jay yelped. “Are you telling me you would have picked me last?”

“After I saw you play, yeah,” Cole snorted.

“I’m still not convinced on some of those calls, Zane,” Kai said, walking over to the nindriod. “I don’t think that one play near the third point was a foul.”

“Hey, the ref’s call is law,” Nya smirked. “Stop trying to cheat your way to victory, Kai.”

“I’m not cheating! Zane’s girlfriend is on your team! He’s obviously biased!”

“I’m a nindriod, Kai. I cannot be biased.”

“Stop being a sore loser, Kai.” Behind her, a wave swelled up. She raised her hand- then pointed it forward at Kai.

Her brother shrieked as the seawater drenched him.

“Nya! What’d you do that for?”

“You deserved it, with all the whining you were doing. Besides, you looked hot. I was just doing you a favor.”

“It’s alright,” Lloyd laughed. “You can share my towel, don’t worry.” As he handed Kai the towel, the fire ninja eyed it shrewdly.

“It’s got ducks on it. Of course it does.”

“Hey, you want the towel or not?”

“No, I’m taking the towel.” Kai wrapped the towel around himself, shivering, unfurling the ducks for all to see. Cole snickered, and Kai shot him a glare.

“Should we pack up, then?”

Zane nodded. “If we want to be back in time for dinner, probably.”

The team trudged back to their blanket, wet and sandy, but chatting amiably. They had nearly packed up all their things when Lloyd cried out suddenly.

“Where’s my wallet?”

Zane frowned. “Didn’t you put it in the valuables pouch?”

“I thought I did, but…” he paused. “Oh, wait. I tripped over Jay. I must’ve forgotten to put it in after that.”

“Well, then, it’s gotta be around here somewhere. What color is it, Lloyd?”

“What do you think? Green.”

They spent a good ten minutes searching through their entire bag and the surrounding sand, to no avail. It quickly became clear that if Lloyd’s wallet had ever fallen around here in the first place, it wasn’t here now.

Kai shrugged. “Oh well. It’s not that big of a deal. You don’t have any cards, and I don’t think you were carrying any of the cash. We can get you a new one.”

“No, but I had the things in there!”

Cole frowned. “The things?”

“You know.” Lloyd lowered his voice. “The things. That the mayor gave us?”

“What?!” Jay yelped. “Those were in there?” “You lost them?” Kai cried. “Lloyd, how could you?”

“It’s not like I did it on purpose!” Kai groaned, rubbing his face. “We should’ve never trusted you with them. Or at least split them up, so they weren’t all together.”

“I still do not understand.” Pixal frowned. “What are these things that are so important?”

“They’re a top-secret gift from the mayor,” Jay whispered. “We’re not supposed to tell anyone we have them. Not that telling anyone now would matter anyway, because we don’t have them anymore.”

“It’s not my fault!” Lloyd insisted. “It’s that stupid seagull’s, he’s the one who distracted me-” Lloyd paused, his eyes widening. “That’s it! The seagull must’ve swiped my wallet when it was chasing me!”

“Looks like we have a lead,” Kai growled.

“Wait a minute, does anyone else hear that mysterious music-”

“Oh no,” Pixal muttered, putting a hand on her forehead. “Zane, please don’t tell me you’re going to do this again.”

“It seemed that, after only a few weeks, it was time for me to crack yet another case.” The odd, deep voice rang out, and they turned to see Zane slipping on a fedora.

“Where did that even come from,” Pixal despaired. “I’m positive you didn’t bring that with you. Positive.”

“Again, I was to be accompanied by my trusty assistant, but this time, my highly trained ninja associates would also be coming along, all determined to reclaim what someone had stolen in the heist.”

Jay glanced between Pixal and Zane. “What is happening right now? Am I supposed to know what’s happening?”

Pixal shook her head. “It’s a long story. Just go with it.”

Zane tipped his hat down. “Already, we were off with a very promising lead. I suspected the culprit to be the feathered fiend that had been spotted lurking around at the scene of the crime only an hour prior.”

Kai snorted, placing a hand on Jay’s shoulder. “Oh, this is gold! Did you mess with his voice again, Jay?”

“No, I didn’t touch him! Pixal, you didn’t…”

She shook her head. “Believe me, I wouldn’t do this if you paid me. It was all him.”

Jay grinned. “What do we do next… detective Zane?” He and Kai simultaneously burst into laughter, leaning against each other for support.

Zane side-eyed them. “The primary suspect was as clear as a black bear in a snowstorm, yet the whereabouts of the creature were still unknown. It had vanished into thin air, without leaving so much as a trace in its stead.”

“Hey,” Lloyd said suddenly, leaning down to pick something up off of the sand, “What about this?”

“It appeared to be part of the plumage of a species of avian native to these shores. Could it belong to the specimen we were looking for?”

Kai plucked the feather from Lloyd’s fingers, examining it. “The feather was white with a dark tip, definitely having originated from a seagull- although the spiked, disturbed edges implied that this was from no ordinary gull- it was from one who had recently been in a fight.”

Jay grinned. “It seemed like we had hit the jackpot. Already, we were one step closer to tracking down this culprit.”

Pixal groaned. “Don’t you two start, too. It was bad enough with just Zane.”

Nya grimaced. “Yeah, this is already getting annoying.”

“How is a feather going to tell us where the seagull is now?” Cole asked.

“I could sense the wind was blowing in from the northwest,” Zane narrated. “If we wanted to find the culprit of the caper, we would have to walk upwind, hopefully leading us to the source of the feather.”

“Alright,” Pixal sighed, “let’s get this over with.”

“And so,” Zane grinned, “The Great Gull Caper began.”

The team trudged up the beach for about twenty minutes, to no avail. They passed many other beachgoers, pointing and staring as the ninja passed, but no seagulls were in sight.

“Are you sure about this, Zane?” Pixal asked.

“The feathered suspect had gained an hour’s head start in its escape from the scene, meaning we would have to hasten our pace if we ever hoped to catch up.”

“Oh, I am not walking an hour just to find this thing. Are we sure it’s that important?”

“Yes!” the guys yelped in unison.

“It’s a very important gift from the mayor! It would be rude to lose it,” Jay said. “We have to get it back!”

“Couldn’t you just ask for another… whatever they are?”

“No! They’re one of a kind!” “Well, can we at least hurry this up? Frankly, I’m getting quite tired of Zane’s shenanigans.”

Zane grinned at her. “Although she voiced her disapproval, my assistant knew the efficiency of my methods, as they had gotten us out of a pinch the last time things had been amok.”

“First of all, I was the one who successfully found Dyer last time. You just ended up getting caught.”

“Perhaps, but you used my techniques.”

Pixal huffed. “Second, I don’t appreciate that you keep calling me your assistant. If anything, we’re partners!”

Zane adjusted his fedora. “So it was a promotion she was after, eh? Well, if my assistant could prove her worth by properly complying with my techniques in this case, she may find herself with a loftier position in the future.”

Pixal sighed. “Whatever. Let’s just find the stupid bird, and go.”

The group trekked after Zane again, and Pixal wondered how long they would be here, when Zane suddenly stopped, causing half of the gang to crash into him.

“What?” Jay yelped. “What’s wrong? Why’d we stop?”

Zane pointed near his feet. “It seemed like the culprit had been careless enough to leave behind tracks in the sand.”

Pixal peered over his shoulder. Sure enough, the tracks of some avian species left a trail in the sand- and after consulting her database, it appeared to match the foot of a seagull.

“We’re getting closer!” Cole said. “It has to be around here somewhere.”

Nya’s eyes went wide, and she pointed towards something in the distance. “Look!”

Down the beach, a large group of seagulls was flocking around a half-eaten pretzel, flapping their wings and squawking as they tried to push past each other.

“It could be any of them,” Lloyd despaired. “How are we going to know which one was the one who stole my wallet?”

Jay smirked. “There’s only one way to find out.”

Lloyd eyed him nervously. “How?”

“One seagull, in particular, has come to associate you with food. One seagull has been known to chase you down.”

“Oh,” Lloyd paled, taking a step back and waving his hands. “Oh, no, I do not like where this is heading…”

“Come on, Lloyd, do it for the team,” Cole pleaded.

“You are the one who lost them in the first place,” Kai agreed. “It’s only fair.”

Lloyd groaned. “Why do I let you bully me into these things?”

“Go on,” Nya gave him a gentle shove. “We don’t have all day!”

Sticking his tongue out at her, Lloyd stepped forward, towards the seagulls. Several of them looked his way, a few flapping their wings anxiously and squawking in warning. Lloyd stopped, swallowing.

“Um. Hey. I don’t suppose any of you have seen a green wallet around here?”

Jay rolled his eyes. “They can’t understand you. Get closer!”

“Okay! I’m going, jeez-” he broke off with a yelp as a seagull darted in front of him, nearly tripping him as he stepped on its tail.

The seagull shrieked, and, in a flurry of feathers, the flock broke into a frenzied panic. Lloyd’s eyes widened, and he cried out, running away and frantically ducking swooping seagulls.

He darted behind Kai as a last nervy seagull hopped after him. Kai held up a fist, which burst into flame, scaring the bird off. Kai glanced back at Lloyd, amusement sparkling in his dark eyes. “You okay, bud?”

Lloyd glared. “Don’t look at me like that. These birds are vicious!”

“Look!” Pixal pointed at a gull that had remained behind. With the others out of the way, she could see the small, green wallet between its beak.

“That’s the one!” Cole cried. “After it!”

For ninja, the group was embarrassingly unstealthy as they clamored after the bird, shooting elemental powers at it and screaming as they narrowly avoided each other’s blasts, so that by the time the seagull reached the water, the beach was a mess of crystalized sand, crevices in the ground, and various burn marks from fire, lightning, and energy.

“It’s a seagull!” Nya cried. “We’ve faced giant snakes, lords of darkness, elemental masters, Oni, more criminals and gangsters than I can count, and an evil video game AI, yet we can’t catch one measly seagull? It shouldn’t be this hard, you guys!”

“It’s getting away,” Jay cried, pointing at the bird, who had finally taken flight and was heading out over the ocean.

“No!” Lloyd moaned. “Now we’re never going to get it back!”

“Not on my watch,” Nya growled, racing past them towards the docks. “Come on!” “Oh no,” Kai groaned. “Nya Smith, whatever you are thinking, stop it right now, because I’m not doing it.” “Come on, Kai,” Lloyd insisted, grabbing his wrist and yanking him along. “We have to hurry!”

They raced after Nya, who was running down the dock towards a man who was examining the boats. Kai followed them more slowly, taking careful steps.

“Sir, we need to use a boat, right away! We’ll pay for it, we promise!”

The man shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am, but these are all private boats. The only one we have is that one,” he pointed to a small, worn-looking fishing boat, “and the motor’s broken, so it’s of no use to anyone.”

“It doesn’t matter, I can take care of that. Everyone, get in!”

“W-wait,” the man stuttered, looking flustered.

“We’ll bring it right back, I promise! Now, come on, we don’t have much time!”

“No!” Kai insisted, as everyone else piled in. “Nuh-uh. No way. Not in a million years. You are not bringing me out into the middle of the ocean in a tiny, crowded boat with a busted engine!”

“You don’t need an engine when you’ve got me!” Nya raised her hand, and the water swirled under the boat, rocking it slightly. “Now, come on, we don’t have time for this!” “Y’know what.” Kai took a couple of steps back from the boat. “I’m good. I’ll stay here. You guys have fun finding the wallet. I’ll cheer you on from the beach. The dry, dry beach.”

“Nope.” Cole reached forward, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him in. “This is your gift we’re saving, too. If you want to get part of it, you’re coming with.”

“Finally!” Nya huffed. The water rippled beneath them, and suddenly, it was propelling their boat, and they were off.

“Where’s the bird?” Nya asked. “Does anyone see it?” “Over there!” Cole pointed slightly towards their left, where the seagull was gliding away with surprising speed. Getting into the boat had slowed them down, and it had gotten a large head start.

Nya gritted her teeth. “Hold on.”

“Don’t go faster!” Kai yelped from where he huddled near the middle of the boat, protectively sandwiched between Lloyd and Cole. “If you tip this boat, I will never forgive you.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Nya growled, although the boat slowed slightly as they continued.

“Our team continued to chase the thief, determined to put an end to the Great Gull Caper and put the culprit to justice. Even when our path took us across the raging waters of the ocean, with nothing but a rusty, broken old boat, and deep, swirling waters around us, filled with the dark abyss and the creatures that lurked there…”

“You mean like sharks?” Lloyd perked, peering over the edge. “Did you see any? I wanna see one!”

“Nope,” Kai yelped, pulling himself into a ball as he sat down on the floor of the boat. “Nopety nope nope nope. I’m done. I’m outta here.”

“The prospect of sharks was a dire one, but one we were willing to take. We would get that wallet back, no matter the cost- even if it meant competition from this fierce predator of the sea.”

Kai screamed into his hands. “Just end me now!”

“What Zane means to say,” Pixal said, elbowing Zane sharply, “is that sharks are actually very off-put by the taste of human flesh, and do not go after humans on purpose.”

Kai stared at her. “Oh joy, now a shark can devour my flesh by accident, what a relief.”

“Do not worry, Kai,” she told him. “There is only one estimated death by shark per year in the greater Ninjago City area.”

“Knowing my luck,” Kai grumbled, “I’ll be that one.”

“Did anyone bring their phone with?” Lloyd asked. “I wanna get a good picture when the sharks come for Kai.”

“I call dibs on his katana,” Jay exclaimed. “Y’know, the super flashy one with the flaming dragon carved into the handle?”

Lloyd wrinkled his nose at him. “Why would you want a fire dragon on your katana? You’re the lightning ninja!”

“Hey, just because my element is lightning, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a super dope fire design when I see one-”

“Guys,” Cole sighed, pushing his way between the two arguing boys. “No one is getting eaten. We’re perfectly safe here, on this boat.”

“Cole’s right,” Pixal agreed. “The sharks around this area are smaller, reef dwellers, and won’t come after us. They may, however, come after our seagull friend if he gets too close to the water.”

Kai made a noise in the back of his throat, and Cole scowled at her. “Thanks for the help, Pix.”

“Nya,” Jay whined, “the seagull’s getting further away! We have to go faster!”

“Don’t!” Pixal cried. “This boat has not been manufactured to withstand a lot of weight. With seven people, especially when two of them are titanium, going too fast would be sure to capsize us.”

“I told you I should’ve stayed behind on the shore,” Kai wailed.

Lloyd leaned further over the edge, raising a hand to his forehead to keep the glare off of his face as he peered intently into the water. “Is… is that a shark?”

Kai stared at him. “Shut up. You’re just baiting.”

Lloyd shook his head, his eyes lighting up in a way that was not reassuring in the slightest. “I’m not! It’s a shark! It’s a real, live shark! I’ve never seen one this close before! Except at like, an aquarium!”

Kai closed his eyes, rocking himself gently. “You’re lying. You stupid liar, I hate you.”

Cole peered over, following Lloyd’s gaze, and promptly bit his lip. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“This is a dumb prank, you guys!” Kai was half-yelling by this point.

“Stop being so loud,” Lloyd hissed. “You’ll scare it!”

Kai blinked at him. “I’ll scare it?”

Lloyd crossed his arms. “A scared shark is an aggressive shark.”

Kai’s mouth snapped shut.

“I can’t believe this,” Cole muttered. “Did we really not bring any weapons?”

“No!” Lloyd yelped. “Cole, you wouldn’t!”

“I would if it kept us from being eaten.”

“For the last time, sharks don’t eat humans!”

Cole ignored him. “Well? Did we?”

Nya snorted. “Why would we bring weapons to the beach?”

“Hey, with how often this city gets attacked, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Nya rolled her eyes. “It was supposed to be our day off.”

“It’s fine,” Pixal reported, keeping a careful eye on the shark. “It’s swimming away now. As long as we leave it alone, we’re safe.”

Kai frowned. “Looks like the gull isn’t so convinced, though.”

Pixal glanced up. Sure enough, the seagull was eyeing the shark nervously, pumping its wings as it flew higher and higher above the surface of the water.

“Do something!” Jay shrieked. “If we don’t stop it now, it’s going to get away for good!”

“Lloyd!” Nya cried. “Is your wallet waterproof?”

“What?”

“Just answer the question!” “Yes! Yes, it is!”

Nya gritted her teeth. “Hold on, everyone!”

Suddenly, a vast wave rose out of the water, looming over the seagull.

Kai’s eyes widened. “Nya, be careful, you’ll hit us too-”

But it was already too late, the wave crashing down, downing the seagull, and soaking them in saltwater. The team cried out, and Kai screamed, throwing his arms over his head in a futile attempt to protect himself. As they all tried to lurch away from the spray, the boat rocked precariously, and, for a horrifying moment, they were suspended there, on the point between balance and capsize.

And then that moment was over, and they were all falling into the ocean.

Pixal’s world immediately dimmed as she plunged into the water, quietness enveloping her like a blanket. For a moment, she was too shocked to do anything, until a foot thrashed past her face, snapping her out of her trance as she swam towards the surface.

A couple of feet before she reached it, a metal hand snatched her wrist and pulled her the rest of the way up.

“Pixal!” Zane cried, his detective voice dropped. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. What about everyone else? Are we all here?”

Zane nodded his head behind her, and she turned to see the others all within a couple of feet. Cole had his hands on the now upside-down boat, trying to use his strength to push it over, but it was hard for him to get a good grip and stay afloat at the same time. Just behind him, Jay was spitting out a mouthful of seawater, sending ripples across the surface of the ocean as he treaded water. Lloyd was doing the same a couple of feet away, only the green ninja was struggling a lot more because of the arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

“Don’t let me go, Lloyd!” Kai yelped, although the feat would’ve been impossible even if Lloyd had wanted to- the fire ninja was clinging to him like a barnacle. “I can’t swim!”

Lloyd sighed. “I know that, Kai. It’s the only reason I’m letting you hold on to me like this.”

“I can’t believe this happened,” Kai cried. “We’re going to die out here. This is the worst day off ever.”

“Hey!” Lloyd snapped. “It’s not my fault this happened!”

Nya shot them all a sharp glare from where she was drifting alongside the boat. She didn’t even bother to tread water like the rest of them, instead using her powers to keep herself afloat. “It was going to work until you guys made such a big fuss about getting a little wet and tipped the boat.”

Cole sighed. “We’re not going to die. As soon as I get this right side up again, we’ll climb up and get out of here. Can you give me a hand, Zane?”

As the nindriod moved to help him, Kai suddenly went rigid.

“Lloyd,” he whispered.

“What, Kai?”

“Something just bumped my foot.”

“It’s probably just seaweed, Kai,” Lloyd sighed, looking down- and promptly froze.

“No one. Move.”

Jay squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh no, oh gosh, don’t tell me that’s what I think it is, this is not happening-”

“Jay, shut up,” Nya whispered, her face pale as she watched the dark shape lurking below them in the water.

“Everyone, stay calm,” Pixal murmured. “Don’t make any sudden movements and try to look it in the eyes.”

“Please, the last thing I’m gonna do is look at it,” Kai breathed, burying his face in Lloyd’s hair.

After a moment, the shark slowly swam past, losing interest.

“It doesn’t care about us,” Zane realized. “It wants the seagull.”

Several yards away, the gull was floating on the water, still trying to shake off the moisture from Nya’s wave. Suddenly realizing the danger it was in, the bird raised its wings- and launched itself into the air, just as fierce jaws snapped against empty air where the seagull had been less than a second ago.

Kai’s fingers dug tighter into Lloyd’s shoulders, and Pixal caught Jay biting his lip as he swallowed back a scream, but, its prey lost, the shark was already swimming away.

“Gotcha,” Nya murmured, reaching a hand out and snatching up the wallet, which the seagull had dropped in all the commotion, before it could sink to the bottom of the ocean.

“Okay. That’s great. We got it. Now can we get out of here?” Kai pleaded.

After a minute, they finally got the boat flipped over, and Cole hauled himself aboard before helping to lift the others. Ten minutes later, they were all safely out of the water and on their way back to the dock, and Pixal had never felt more relieved by the fact.

“So,” Jay asked, as the boat glided through the water, leaning closer to Nya. “Did they survive all that?”

“Let’s see,” Nya murmured, opening up Lloyd’s wallet. Pixal leaned forward, anxious to see what all the fuss had been about.

“Yes!” Jay cried, pulling out seven slips of paper. “They’re all here!”

“Wait.” Pixal snatched one from his hand, quickly scanning it. “A summer pass for free all-you-can-eat ice cream from the Dairy Dragon?”

“Yup,” Jay smiled, passing them out to the others. “The mayor gave them to us as a gift after we saved the city from Prime Empire. That’s what we were going to do today, after the beach, actually.”

“You’re telling me,” Pixal deadpanned. “That we just risked our lives. For free ice cream.”

“Free ice cream is free ice cream, Pix.”

“You’ll understand once you’ve tried their butter pecan,” Nya told her. “It’s to die for.”

“Butter pecan?” Jay spluttered. “No way, the Ninjapolitan is best.”

“You heathen, chocolate fudge is obviously the best flavor-”

“What are you guys talking about, mint chocolate chip is superior!”

“You just like it because it’s green.”

“Do not!”

“Do so!” Nya sighed, putting her head in her hands. “Here we go again.”

“Calm down, all of you,” Pixal said. “You can get whatever flavor of ice cream you want. Just do me a favor and try not to end up capsizing us in the middle of the ocean this time.”

Jay hummed. “No promises.”

[luna-redamancy]

Weird Qs 1, 25, 33 💛

Hi Lovey! Thank you so much for the ask! I hope you're doing well!

What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?

I use the "Spectral" font in Google Docs! The default is Arial, and my changing it kind of depends on how long I plan to sit there writing. So, when I write series or just really long fics I like to change it to Spectral because my eyes like it more, but if it's a quick fic where I'm just using the document to get the writing down so I have a save-point (too many times has Tumblr crashed on me while writing a request in my ask box...I learned the stubborn way) then I leave it on Arial.

25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?

Thorin drinks red wine. In the book, Thorin arrives with Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur along with Gandalf. When Gandalf asks for a "little red wine," Thorin asks for red wine as well, while his kin drink porter, beer, coffee, etc. I thought it was interesting because, in the movie, we see the production of wine being something of Elvish culture (More precisely, of the Greenwood realm), not Dwarvish and his repeated on-screen portrayals of not liking the Elves. Very stupid detail that has clung in my brain since I first read the books.

33. Do you practice any other art besides writing? Does that art ever tie into your writing, or is it entirely separate?

I draw digitally as well as traditionally, I also really love painting and photography! Sometimes they do have some overlap, for example, I have a WIP drawing of Thranduil succumbing to Hanahaki disease based on my fic "Forgive me, My Love."

I sometimes post my art in videos on Tiktok so sometimes the videos I create or have in drafts inspire fics or snippets that soon get turned into fic concepts.

[thestraggletag]

The Game, a Rumbelle Chess AU

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

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

Rating: Explicit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like a dance, he thought. And somehow familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why did you change your name?”

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

“That’s a rather personal question.” 

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled, the picture of innocence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a date.”

.

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

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

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

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

“Thistles.”

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

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

“So, what should we play for tonight?”

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

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

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

Flirtatious, almost.

“Do tell.”

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

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

“What would be the rules?”

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

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

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

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

“My earrings for your cufflinks?”

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

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

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

“Wondered when you were going to do that.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s a lovely colour on you.”

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

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

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

“Help me?”

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

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

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

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

“Quid pro quo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, dear.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s finish this, Arran.”

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

“I’m afraid your underwear must go.”

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

“Let’s finish this, then.”

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

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

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

“What is it you want, Miss French?”

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

“How about a kiss?”

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

“Like this?”

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

“Higher, Arran.”

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

“Higher, please.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re big.”

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

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

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

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

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 39- Periapts

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

How many hermits does it take to find protection amulets? And not bring home even more junk like a target run? And what do they do when the Guild of Gedeon discovers them?

_________________________________________

“Grian, those shoes are worthless for you- you already have wings!” Iskall waves his arms, exasperated by his shopping buddies. In the midst of the Redland bazaar, the hermits have separated out to find supplies they both need and could use. Iskall tones himself down as two Gedeons walk by, the entire area going quiet and watching as the council guildmembers march on. What are they doing in Redland?

“Yeah, but you don’t. You guys could use it though!” Grian buys the sandals without second thought, and without haggling for the price. Mumbo groans. They have yet to even purchase a protection or repelling item- or any amulet. He’s not sure if Grian understands saving money, and can only look away, across the busy, bustling bazaar to see who else is having better luck. 

Hypno can’t help but play with the dowsing rods in his hands, only for xB to grab one rod before the two pieces can cross paths. “Those aren’t a toy, give me those things. Do you want to summon a storm?”

“It could be useful! A big storm to battle off a husk storm!”  Hypno grins, before patting his hands against his friend’s shoulder. “It’s alright, man, we can grab some talismans right after this. But this is too cool to pass up!” 

Together, with xB’s innate kipling knowledge of enchantments, they pick out a few talismans. Wards against harm and unfortunate thoughts. Removing the law of attraction, or at least easing it. Two of the talismans were mass produced, before xB advised Hypno that unique amulets were likely stronger, picking through boxes and glass cases full of strange, vibrant pieces. 

But it doesn’t take long for xB to get distracted on his own. Reeling back when he sees it. “Whoa, I didn’t know these still existed! I thought the last of the moodium ores have died out!”

“But xB, we’re supposed to be looking for amulets.” Hypno mimics xB, but he’s grinning. “What even is it?” 

“It’s a mood ring!” xB’s voice rises and falls to make it sound mysterious. 

Hypno isn’t much impressed. “You mean the trinkets you get from the candy store as a kid?” 

“No! Those were inspired by real mood rings. Watch this.”  xB slips the ring on, and covers the pink, round cut gem and closes his eyes. Hypno snickers, watching for the stone to change color just because of xB’s body heat. His snicker fades, lip quivering as he feels globs of hot tears fall from his eyes. What the hell, why is he crying? Why does he feel so sad? 

“You…” xB’s grin and a wiggle of his bejeweled finger is all he needs to see to know what’s happened. “Asshole! You changed my emotions!” 

“No, I didn’t. You were already sad about something, I just amplified that. I also can smell that you didn’t brush your teeth this morning.” xB covers his nose, pulling off the ring before taking a deep, relieving breath. 

Hypno isn’t sure what he’s sad about, but it was obviously there. He wipes away the tears, large droplets and streams down his cheeks. Ruining his cool guy attitude, just crying in some random shop in the middle of a bazaar. He looks around for something to raise his epic points, but becomes distracted when he sees three Gedeons roughing up a shopkeep, demanding some kind of council tax he never heard of. In fact, all of the bazaar is quieter than other times he’s been to Redland. As if a nightmare patrols with Sidero’s henchmen. Perhaps that’s what saddens him. Even here, the Council’s influence is felt. 

Further down, nestled in an arcade offshoot, Ren, Jevin, and Cleo are in the middle of an intense battle. Not with swords or magic, but words. 

“300 rupees.” Cleo declares, holding up the protection talisman. The sigilized stone dangles in the air, twisting and casting it’s armoring gaze out on the bazaar.

“800, little lady.” The portly merchant reaches out, threading his fingers around the cord and starts to pull it back.

“350, and you get to keep your fingers for calling me a lady.” Cleo lays her other hand on the hilt of her sword, smiling a demure grin, her sickly green skin stretching for him to see. 

“Fine.” The merchant untangles himself from the fight and the amulet, grumbling under his breath as he takes the money from Jevin’s outstretched hand. “I dunno why people are suddenly buyin’ up all the protection amulets. There some kinda guild war about to break out?” 

“Not exactly.” Ren snickers, before trodding out of the tent and back into the sunlight. If he were on Eremita, he’d stretch out and sunbathe, sunglasses perched just so that he can see the clouds make their own creations in the sky. His daydream is ruined, however, when he feels a rap against his rear, tail tucking between his legs. 

“Hey boy, wanna get the stick?” Jevin teases, waving a snarled old staff for Ren. 

The mixed-up mage isn’t amused- though, the werewolf in him does make his heart beat in excitement to chase a stick. “My dude, I’m not even a real werewolf. I just know I rock a tail and ears.” 

Cleo shakes her head. “This is ridiculous. Who would waste 2000 rupees on some stick? These merchants are out of their mind. Now I see why Scar left his home.” 

“That’s not just ‘some stick’ li-” The merchant stops when a flash of metal glints against the sun, backing up until Cleo sheathes her sword again. “I- it’s a shift stick. It’s a one time use, takes the holder back in time a minute. A do over, a chance to fix a mistake. Perhaps even more useful than any stone necklace. One of a kind, and for such… unique customers like you, I’ll lower the price to 1500 rupees.” 

Jevin pulls out 5 gold rupees, before Ren and Cleo can say anything, and clutches the stick. “Totally worth it.” 

“How do we even know if it works?” Ren isn’t sure if it does exactly what it claims to do. They may have bought the most expensive branch in the world, but Jevin refuses to let it go. 

“We can ask Xisuma. He can check or something, he’s a smart guy.” Jevin shrugs. They have enough money, especially with how well Cleo’s haggling has gone. They could buy three shift sticks with the money they’ve been given, and still have enough to buy even more talismans. 

The three wander along the bazaar, meeting with other hermits on their way. BDubs and Keralis show off an entire chest of shielding stones, while Scar is laden with more golden amulets than anyone. When Cleo presses him on how he managed to find so many unique and powerful charms, he only smiles. “I know a thing or two about the trade business.” 

“Those are the dragon spirits on them.” Cub points out the twisting, dancing dragon. Without wings and the white pearl accents, it’s easy to identify which of the spirits is depicted. Ashtios, the Northern Wind Dragon. Another depicts winged dragons, finned dragons, sheared dragons. Fire, water, and earth. The spirits and sages that aided the gods to create the earth, and who provide median between the two realms. Nothing is more protective than a dragon, and they can feel the strength in the spell of each amulet. 

Down the bazaar, the hermits jump at the sound of metal clashing and magic being cast. Followed by yelling, Keralis and Doc are chased from a shop. The shopkeep waves her broom at the two. “What kind of freak eats a bug in the middle of my store! Get back here you cretins!” 

Doc’s gruff snicker is only matched by Keralis’s whimper. “But it was gonna help us. It was just a noisy locust.” 

The two escape from the bazaar, disappearing into the crowds of Redland. BDubs points in the direction his friends just escaped, blinking away confusion. “Should we be concerned about them?” 

“Keralis is with Doc, he’ll be fine.” Xisuma waves. “Besides, their grown men.” 

“Looks like we weren’t the only ones who got distracted by other goods.” Cleo nods her head at the books in X’s arms. 

Xisuma looks offended by the statement, and stutters over his breath to explain himself. ‘The-these are ancient works! They could have important information about dark magic!” He looks at the stick Jevin’s holding. “What kinda crap are we bringing home now?” 

“We have flying shoes.” Iskall holds them aloft, Grian preening the white feathers flat against the golden laces. 

“Dowsing rods and a mood ring.” xB keeps the metal rods far away from Hypno, who seems all too keen on starting up a hurricane in the city.

“And what we hope is a stick that can turn back time.” Jevin holds it up. “Otherwise I’m going to use this stick to beat that merchant for lying.” 

Lucky for Jevin and the merchant, Xisuma can feel the magic in the whorls of the wood. “I’ll say, these are all pretty impressive. Useless for our cause but… temporal magic is difficult. Were all our rupees wasted on things we didn’t intend to buy?” 

“Not the Convex!” Cub grins, hefting the smaller of the duo over his head, blue embers gleaming from their eyes. “We have enough protection amulets to destroy whatever Dolios got!” 

Xisuma opens his mouth to answer, but another voice cuts through the air, his own faltering and fading against his mask. “Now what reason could you have to go against Magistrate Dolios?” All of the hermits turn, seeing a squadron of members from the Guild of Gedeon, red tassels that mimic the Council’s golden ones fluttering in the wind. Behind them, the broom wielding merchant sticking her tongue out at the hermits. “Wait a minute- I think I’ve seen these scum before.” The center mage points at Mumbo. “You beat me in the duel!” 

Xisuma meets his gaze with TFC, both with their eyes wide. Behind him, Iskall rolls up his sleeves and snaps his gloves tight, ready for a fight. Mumbo’s fraught voice whispers out from beneath his mustache. “No one bought any smoke bombs, did they? Anyone?”

The guildmembers hear his words, and three magic circles rise. Mumbo shrieks and hides behind Grian. “Why did we have to send our two best fighters to Alphasgard?” 

Wind blusters against the hermits, tearing flags against their poles and sending the bazaar into chaos. Grian’s wings open, flight feathers brushing against the stone walls on both sides of the bazaar. He beats his wings down, and a gale force wind sends the bucket-headed goons of the Council knocking into one another, rolling down and into the mudcaked gutter. “Alright, I think the shopping spree is over guys. Time to bounce!” 

One second, the head mage is on his feet, the next he’s collapsed on the floor, snoring. Hypno’s wild purple magic circle twists in his hand, eyes blank and full of sleep while he searches his own mind. Digging through his dreams. The other two wizards slip their way out from the gutter, sharp spines of one’s spell driving forward like horns of a bull. But a dense fog appears in the midday sun. 

It’s also bright blue. Beef turns, taking the sudden cover as his chance to escape. All of the hermits follow suit, though Joe remains a few paces behind to follow Hypno. “Blue fog that smells faintly of cotton candy...I would love to study your psyche and dreams one day, my dear friend Hypno.”

[lokislittlesigyn]

OG616 : Thor 1 - Pt.6 [The Mourning]

[My masterlist, where all parts of this and my other fics can be found]

Pairing: Loki / Sigyn (basically an oc based off the marvel/myth namesake)

Warnings: Angst, some.. Hopelessness? And mild flirting.

Author’s Note: Very long one here. Hope you enjoy!

Taglist: @high-functioning-lokipath

To be added to the taglist, just ask me here or send a message! <3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A very distinct, sharp pain washed over Sigyn as she pondered Odin's words. Like a knife plunging into her gut, twisting, pulling - but never leaving. Only hurting worse and worse, the very air in her lungs seizing up.

Loki is dead.

Her throat burned.

Loki is dead.

Tears streamed down her face.

My Loki is dead.

She broke. Her entire body shook with a sob as she collapsed onto the couch she was seated on, weeping. "He can't, he- He's not, he's not.."

"Sister.." Thor wrapped her in a hug, his jaw set firm. Frigga placed a hand on her back.

Odin’s grip tightened around Gungnir. "He's gone."

"No he's not."

"Sigyn-"

"He's NOT!" She screamed, struggling in Thor's grip, who clenched his jaw as he held her. "He's not- He can't be, he.. Loki.." Her body gave way, unable to cope.

Thor helped her stand, letting her sob against him.

"I wish it were true," Odin resumed, forgiving the interruption, "That he could still be with us. But he made his choice."

Sigyn glared at him.

"You made your choice when you lied to him! When you lied to all of us for countless years. We built our life around that lie!" She choked back another sob. "Now our lives are ruined because of it."

Odin didn't respond.

"Sigyn, have care how you speak." Frigga stepped between them, finally composed, though her eyes still glistened. "We need time to grieve, all of us. But perhaps, you most of all." She cupped Sigyn's cheek, wiping a tear away. "Go rest. Arguing will breed nothing but more pain."

Frigga was right. Arguing now would only make things worse - Odin wasn’t exactly known for a cool temper. But her head was still spinning. Loki couldn't be gone. There had to be some other way. Straightening up, Sigyn wrung her hands together. Swallowed. "I-I am sorry, Allfather.. I spoke out of line.."

Odin waved his hand, still looking away.

"Thor," Frigga managed a gentle smile at her son, "Please take Sigyn back to her chambers before you visit the healers."

Thor nodded, and without another word, he and Sigyn left.

~~~~

Sigyn stayed in her chambers for days on end. She ignored the time. Refused to eat. Refused to sleep in her bed - no, their bed - it still smelled like him. She spoke to no one. Retreated into the solace of being completely and entirely alone. Once the dust had settled, the wounded healed, and the palace put back in order, a feast was held for those who defended Asgard and helped Thor return home.

Sigyn was required to attend.

I can't exactly refuse... She reasoned, pulling on an emerald green gown. Putting on her favorite necklace, she gazed in the mirror.

She was pale. Paler than usual. Sickly and thin, with dark circles under her eyes. Hardly the shining goddess she would be expected to appear as. She looked down at the necklace. She’d had it for a long time. A rectangular medallion on a thin, metal chain - the medallion bearing two serpents, intertwined with each other, each biting their own tail. A symbol of Loki’s adaptability and cunning.

"If you should like to...” Loki had murmured, obviously nervous has he offered it to her, “I would be honored to see you wear it.”

It had been a perfect gift, marrying her colors with his symbol. She barely took it off, except of course when she was expected to wear coordinating clothes. Then it lived in a small wooden box on the dresser, safe from dust.

This will be my first meal without you. She ran her thumb over the symbol. I love you. I miss you.

Composing herself, she left her room.

~~~~

Servants and guests alike stared at Sigyn when she arrived. She was late. She adjusted the necklace, ignored their whispering. Ignored the stares, the side glances...

Maybe I should’ve stayed alone.

"Sigyn.." Sif walked up to her. "I am so sorry for your loss.."

Sigyn merely watched the warrior as she spoke. She felt like something inside her had died along with Loki. Something was lost. She wasn’t sure if it would ever return.

Sif swallowed. "Truly, I am."

With great effort, Sigyn spoke, her voice dry from lack of use. "Thank you, Sif." She forced as much of a smile as she could, then took her seat.

Conversation picked back up. Stories were told. Laughter spread.

Sigyn stayed there. Motionless. Expressionless. Staring at her untouched goblet. This wasn't worth it. Nothing was worth it. Nothing had meaning anymore.

She turned to look at all the guests. They were eating together happily, drinks sloshing over their food as they raised toasts and struggled to contain their laughter at Volstagg’s stories.

Their spouses hadn't been taken from them. They hadn't lost someone.

This is life now, isn't it. Sigyn turned back to her empty plate. This is the lot I was cast.

Her vision grew blurry with tears.

The curse worked. Loki is dead. I'll never be loved agai-

No.

She clenched her jaw.

Don't you dare start thinking like that. Don't you give up now. Keep going. Keep fighting. If not for yourself, for him. Do it for him.

She looked back at all the familiar faces around her.

Be strong. Be strong for him.

A tear ran down her cheek.

Make him proud.

"A toast, to Asgard! For the glory of our realm!" Roared Volstagg, raising his glass.

Be strong for Loki.

Sigyn stood and raised her glass with a smile.

"To Asgard. Our home."

~~~~

Time passed. The grief-stricken goddess still wept for her lost husband, still dreamed about him every night. But as the months went on, she wept less. She slowly began healing from the wound deep within her heart. Accepted that for now, Loki was gone.

For now.

She had thrown herself into old books and tomes, determined to improve, to make her husband proud. In the shadows of familiar bookcases within the palace library, she found writings on the Norns. The sisters Wyrd, Veranthi, and Skuld - three powerful beings controlling the past, present, and future. And there in the crumpled pages, she found a familiar symbol: the web of Wyrd.

Three sets of overlapping lines, the it symbolized the inherent interconnections of all actions - and all realities. How the past influenced the present, the present the future, and the future, perhaps the next life.

Our next life... Once the Asgardian twilight comes, and I embrace a final sleep, I will wake up and see him again.

We won’t be alone.

She would remind herself, with each new day, she was another step closer to seeing him again someway, somehow. Alive or dead, they would be reunited. The thought of it inspired a little spark of hope within her. With each passing day, she spent hours pouring over old spellbooks. Studying ancient runes, practicing spells. Mastering them.

She filled books with ideas, charts, musings.

And most of all, she remembered Loki.

She mapped out his entire life, beginning to end. Considered everything that had happened. Asking Thor, Odin, and Frigga exactly what he'd said to them - and exactly how they'd responded. Recorded what they said in books of her own. It helped her grieve.

But it also served her in other ways.

Rumors spread quickly throughout Asgard. Rumors of the prince who was hungry for power. Who stole the throne, and tried to kill his own brother to keep it. Who abandoned his wife in her time of need. Who betrayed his family and his realm.

The liesmith.

Trickster.

Murderer.

Sigyn considered it her duty to dispel false assumptions about him. And as she traded for a new book at the marketplace, she heard one such assumption. A group of ladies stood nearby, gossiping over their goods.

"There she is - that's her, the princess."

"Oh my,"

"Lokiwife, wasn't it?"

"Yes, that's her," A pretty brunette leaned in closer to the others, "I heard she and Loki had quite the time before he.. Well," she frowned, earning murmurs from her group.

Sigyn glanced their way, eavesdropping on their conversation, tucking the book into her satchel.

A blonde nodded in agreement. "Anyone would have a rough time if their husband abandoned them like he did."

"Abandoned?"

"Oh yes," The blonde shook her head, "It was just awful. The Warriors Three said he was always envious of Thor, always wanted the throne. And when he got the chance to steal the throne, he took it."

"If only Thor had been crowned in time. None of this would have happened.” The youngest piped up. The brunette shrugged an agreement.

“Such a waste - we waited hours for that coronation.”

“We had such a nice view, too.."

"A nice view of Prince Thor, certainly." The brunette nodded, her cheeks turning a slight pink.

The blonde smirked. "I'd even say Loki was glad Allfather Odin fell into the Odinsleep.. After all, that gave him access to the throne."

"Finally got him what he wanted," Mused the brunette.

The blonde huffed, "Though a lot of good it did him. Abandoned his wife and his honor, and what did he gain? He's likely in Helheim now.." The group murmured again in agreement.

Sigyn couldn’t take it anymore. "Excuse me - beg your pardon, ladies," She smiled, walking over to them. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation."

The women's eyes went wide. They bowed, paying their respects. Sigyn nodded her own greeting.

The brunette was the first to speak. "Yes, Princess, we were discussing your husband.."

"And his life's motivations. I heard." Sigyn glanced at the blonde, who gulped.

"We meant no offense to you, Princess.."

"Tell me, did any of you know Loki?"

They shook their heads.

Sigyn sighed. "You must understand: he was not evil. The Loki I knew had not a single malicious bone in his body."

"But he was jealous, Princess. Lady Sif said so, I heard her discussing it over a goblet of mead.." The blonde fidgeted.

"And she's right."

The ladies blinked.

Sigyn straightened up. "Sif is correct. Loki was jealous. And do you know why? He spent his life feeling less than Thor. How do you think Loki felt, then, when he found out his life was a lie? That his greatest fear was true because he was different, he was lesser?”

The women were quiet. Sigyn paused, then continued.

“Loki didn't want the throne. He wanted to be like Thor. To be equal, not less. So when Queen Frigga gave him the throne - he took it. She told him to make his father proud, and he tried to do just that. He tried to prove to Odin he loved him, he was his son, and - and yes, he tried to have Thor killed." Sigyn swallowed.

"I won't deny that. He likely did it to prevent Thor returning and squelching his efforts. But consider why he did it. Loki was... Mislead. He made the wrong choices. He tried to prove himself by vanquishing the Frost Giants, Laufey among them. And what did he have to go off of?" She laughed a single, sad laugh, "We're all raised to fear Jotuns! Slay them like the stupid beasts they are! Hunt them down, bludgeon them! What else would you expect him to do?"

By now a small crowd had gathered. Curious passersby all stared at the princess.

They probably think I'm mad, Sigyn mused, But I don't care. This isn't about me. It's about Loki.

"So he tried it. He tried massacring the Jotuns - and was foiled. Again. By Thor. Again! He was trying to prove himself! Desperately grasping at the final threads of hope! And on the Bifrost," Her breath caught in her throat, "On the Bifrost, that night, he begged Odin for approval. And how did Odin respond? He said no to his son, to the boy who only wanted to be as loved by his parents as his brother was." A tear streaked down her cheek.

"And he fell. He gave up. My husband died because his hope ran out. He could bear the pain no longer." Sigyn stepped toward the blonde, "So the next time you talk about Loki, I ask you to remember that. I hope you remember how my husband, the most wonderful, beautiful man I knew, lost hope that night. And now he's gone."

Without another word, Sigyn turned. Pushed past the crowd, ignoring their stares and whispers.

"Come, Villeildr," She mounted her horse, squeezing his sides with her legs, "It's time we take our leave."

~~~~

Later that night, Sigyn was in the library when a familiar voice called her.

"I thought you'd be here." Fandral stepped in, smirking, his cape sweeping behind him.

"Here I am." Sigyn's focus remained on the book.

"I heard you had a run-in with some acquaintances of mine today."

Sigyn stopped reading.

Fandral continued. "Gave them quite the talking to. Did you rehearse it, or did it simply come to you?"

She shut the book, peering up at him. "They were lying about Loki."

"You seem to forget he lied too.."

"Of course he did. We all do; that doesn't make it right. They were lying about him, Fandral, disrespecting the dead - spreading false rumors about how he 'always wanted the throne.'"

"Well, he was always jealous of Thor.."

She huffed, "I know."

They sat a moment in silence. Fandral moved closer. "I was hoping you would join me for a drink tonight. You’ve barely left the palace in.. Well, far too long."

"I don't drink."

He looked hurt. "You used to."

"There are many things I used to do." She returned to her book, hoping he’d get the hint.

"And I could help you with more than one, if you so wished..."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Remember that bit about respecting the dead?"

"Yes?"

"You're doing a horrid job."

He chuckled.

"Now, even I can't be the best at everything, dearest Sigyn."

"Oh, I believe it." She smirked.

His brow furrowed. "You were meant to be the goddess of compassion, you know."

"Compassion is like sympathy; I can sympathize with you and still point out the fact you're inappropriate."

"You sympathize with me?" He smirked.

"Fandral, do not twist my words.."

"Even if it makes you smile?" He tilted his head slightly. She couldn't resist a small huff of a laugh.

With a slight sigh, he took her hand and kissed it. "Ah, I may never be anything more than your friend, Sigyn," He lowered her hand, smiling at her. "But even if that's the case, I am honored to be your friend."

She smirked, nodding at him once. "Thank you. You're a good friend, Fandral.. Even if you are rude."

With another chuckle, he sprung to his feet. "Until we meet again, fair Sigyn," He bowed, "I take my leave." Turning on his heel, he headed for the door.

"Fandral?"

He stopped.

"Don't get too drunk. Lady Sif is tired of cleaning up after you."

He shot her a grin, then disappeared around the corner.

He's going to get absolutely ruined. Sigyn thought to herself, shaking her head.

[crystalninjaphoenix]

Nevermore

A Stitched Story

JSE Fanfic

It’s been a long while since the last part, hasn’t it? And even later, since I don’t usually post fics in the middle of the week. I have an excuse for the latter, I was too sick to do anything except lay down all weekend. But as for the former, I’ve just hit writer’s block, basically. But I finally got it done! I think I had trouble cause there are a couple important reveals in this chapter :3c And since it’s been a while and you could be confused, I suggest reading at least the last two stories before this one, but hopefully you enjoy anyway!

Tagging @septic-dr-schneep for inspiring this AU with this post.

Read where it started: Stitched Together | Season One

Previous season two stories: No Strings on Me | Nightmare World | Normalcy | The Notion of The End | Nobody’s Home

A week passed before Jack finally got up the nerve to talk to JJ again. Well at least, talk to him about more serious matters. He didn’t know why he was so nervous about it. Maybe he’d just been busy. After all, things had been different ever since Marvin and Jackie...returned. The apartment felt crowded with six people inside its walls.

Jack woke up that morning, got ready, and immediately started down the hall. Or, not immediately. He had to be quiet, and thus careful. With the lack of sleeping areas in the apartment, Schneep had recently started crashing in Jack’s room. And Schneep didn’t fall asleep easily anymore, so Jack was careful not to disturb him when he was.

He followed the sound of a voice talking down the hall to the living room, peeking his head inside. Everyone else was in here. JJ was sitting in the armchair, reading over one of the magic books. Chase was on the couch, with Jackie on his left and Marvin on his right. He was scrolling through his phone and talking animatedly. “And this is you two when you first moved into your apartment—oh sorry, ‘flat’ as you called it. Ha...you kept correcting me. See, there are all the boxes?” As usual, neither Marvin nor Jackie responded much to hearing this. It was...still kind of creepy, the way they were just staring.

Jack cleared his throat, and Chase looked up at him. “Hey, bro. Good morning, how you doing?”

“Good, I guess.” Jack shrugged. “Um...I wanted to talk to JJ.”

Jameson looked up at that. Catching sight of Jack’s expression, his eyes widened.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Uh, sorry about this.” Chase put his phone in his hoodie pocket. “I just figured that...you know, maybe it was like Gravity Falls or something and I had to jog their memories.”

“Good idea. How’s it going?”

“Uh...” Chase pursed his lips. “Well, I mean...y’know what, maybe it would be better if I worked with one of them at a time. We can give you the room?”

“If you want, yeah.”

“Great.” Chase stood up. “C’mon, bro.” He grabbed Jackie by the hand, pulling him upright as well. And with only a little tugging, he guided him out of the room and into the kitchen.

Jack sat down on the couch, in the now-vacated spot. Jameson sat up straight and closed his book. What is it? he asked.

“Well, uh...” Jack cleared his throat again. “So...you’re the magic man, right?”

Apart from him, yes. JJ indicated Marvin, who was still sitting nearby, expression as blank as ever.

“Well...yeah, but he’s not...” Jack trailed off. He waved his hand in front of Marvin’s eyes, getting nothing. “You both have magic, though, right?”

Yes, but there is a difference, JJ explained. From what you’ve said about him, Marvin was born with magic. I’m still unsure where mine came from, but I certainly didn’t have it my whole life.

Jack nodded. “I see.” He shifted in his seat. “So my point is...if something weird’s been going on, would you be able to...I don’t know, explain it?”

JJ leaned forward. I could try. What “something weird”?

“Okay. So.” Jack exhaled. “Something’s been going on with me for...a while now. Since we got Chase back, and that’s a couple months ago now, isn’t it?”

JJ said nothing, just gestured for him to continue.

“This is gonna sound completely insane, but...sometimes I see things,” Jack finally said. “That aren’t there, I mean. And that I’ve never seen before, and that nobody else sees.” There. It was out, after all this time.

JJ looked intrigued, and also slightly worried. What kind of things?

“Well, they’re...lights. Inside of people. I can only see them when I close my left eye, but they’re there. All different colors, too.” As if demonstrating, Jack closed his eye, looking downward, where he could now see a ball of green light glowing inside his chest. After a brief moment, he looked up with both eyes again. “Sometimes they’re different. Chase’s has these weird...I don’t know, groove things, like impressions. And yours has tiny circles around it, like sparks, if sparks were donut shaped.”

That’s...unusual. JJ’s hands stilled as he thought through his next words. You don’t have any idea what it could be?

“I mean, kinda.” Jack shifted again. “I think...maybe it’s something to do with people’s souls?”

JJ seemed to sharpen. You think you’re seeing souls? That’s impossible.

“It is?”

Completely! JJ emphasized. I’ve never heard of anyone with magic, learned or born with, that can see souls with the naked eye. He paused. Wait. Didn’t you say that it was only in your right eye?

“Yeah.” Jack nodded. “Why, what’s that got to do with anything?”

JJ leaned back again. He looked...completely awestruck. Disbelieving.

“What? What is it?” Jack asked insistently.

Jack...JJ signed slowly. You do realize...that’s not your eye, right?

“What?!” Jack’s hand flew to his face, feeling his right eye under the lid. “How can it not be mine?!”

Because Anti took it, remember? JJ signed gently. It’s not the one you’ve always had. I had to...replace it.

It took a moment for Jack to process the entire statement, his train of thought momentarily hijacked by memories of October before he pushed it back on track. “So...you’re saying it’s your freaky magic that’s the reason I can see shit like this now? How’d you do that?!”

I don’t know! JJ threw his hands in the air. I just remember wanting you to see again!

“Well, I can see, alright. I can see a whole bunch that’s apparently new to the whole magical world!” Jack ran his hands through his hair. “Jesus...and you have no idea what happened?”

JJ shook his head. Maybe the magic took the command to “see” a bit farther than intended?

“Maybe.” Jack leaned back into the couch cushions. “Holy shit, dude, how do you not know how your magic works? Doesn’t it, like, belong to you?”

JJ hesitated, then shrugged uncertainly. I don’t believe it’s normal magic. All of us are diving into realms of the strange that are rarely explored, if at all. He paused. Like, for example. Did you know Henrik has magic, too?

Jack stared blankly at JJ for a solid thirty seconds. “I’m sorry, what?!” That statement just—just didn’t compute. Schneep was the logical mind, the one who remained stubbornly skeptical for the longest time. How could he have magic?

I don’t think he realizes, JJ said. But...last week. The two of us were stuck in a room in Anti’s lair, the door locked. And then he stepped toward it and it just...it was like the world was sliced up and put back together in a different way. And suddenly we were on the other side.

“And you saw this?!” Jack said incredulously. “And he didn’t?! I mean, of course he didn’t see it, but he didn’t realize? And you haven’t told him?!”

JJ ducked his head. Well...it’s a fairly long story to tell via Morse code.

Ah. “Well, tell him anyway! No matter how long it takes, he should probably know about that.” Jack sighed. “How on earth did he get magic?”

I’m unsure, JJ admitted. Maybe something similar happened to him as to what happened to me.

“But you don’t know what caused that, either.”

No, I don’t. For a moment, the two of them sat in silence. And then JJ continued. But back to your main point, why are you telling me about your ability now? Did you just think it was worth knowing?

“I mean, yeah, but also...” Jack pursed his lips. He glanced to his side, where Marvin was sitting. The whole conversation hadn’t elicited as much as a glance from him. “We were talking...last week, about that transference spell. You said it had to do with souls?”

JJ nodded. Why, do you think your ability could come in handy?

“Yeah, in figuring out what happened,” Jack finished. “You know what I saw when I activated this soul vision while looking at...him? I saw that green string, the one we now have in the kitchen. And it was holding a...a bunch of red and blue...light...shards. Like, stitching them together.” That sounded strange, but it was the most accurate way he could think to describe it. “I was wondering if...I-I don’t know. That would be helpful to know.”

It would, JJ said, intrigued. Odd...if you see most souls as lights, I’m guessing that’s a most unusual spell. Perhaps the side effect of the transference?

“Maybe.” Jack squirmed in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. He stood up. “Well...good talk.”

JJ looked mildly surprised, but quickly hid it. Yes, it was. If you figure anything else out about your vision, or see anything unusual, could you tell me?

“I will,” Jack promised. “I’m...I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” And without another word, he left.

He wasn’t sure what made him leave. Just that...he didn’t like talking about that black magic transference spell. And he didn’t know why.

He’d considered using his soul vision to look at Jackie and Marvin, to see if something was wrong with them there. But...thinking about it filled him with an uneasy dread. Like he was afraid of what he would see.

— — — — — — —

“Okay, you have to remember this one,” Chase said, once more scrolling through pictures on his phone. “This was that time I asked you to come over and watch the girls. Remember them? Anyway, you tried to bake chocolate chip cookies without the recipe, and it all ran together into one big, flimsy, super-chocolatey pastry thing that took up the entire pan.” Chase laughed. “Moira really liked it, but I think Lily was just glad she helped.”

Jackie, sitting next to Chase at the kitchen table, didn’t move at all. He was looking at the phone, but that was only because Chase had forcibly moved his head to look at it. His expression might as well have been carved from stone, and there was absolutely no recognition on it.

“Ooookay.” Chase sighed. This was getting nowhere and he knew it. But who knew? Maybe on the seventy billionth try there would be something. “Let’s try something else, then. Um...”

Turned out, he didn’t have to wait that long.

He turned his attention to the phone’s photo gallery for a bit, looking for something good. When he looked up again, he visibly jumped. Jackie was staring right at him. He had most definitely not been doing that before, and he was still silent, but...he must  have moved to look. “H-hey, dude.” Chase gave a lopsided smile. “What’s up?”

Jackie didn’t answer. But after a few seconds, he tilted his head to the side, like he was considering something.

At that moment, Jack walked past the kitchen doorway. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“Oh, uh, great, I—” Chase started to say something, but Jack walked right past without waiting for an answer. “Oh. Okay, you do that then.”

Something grabbed his wrist.

Chase yelped, instinctively trying to pull away but finding the grip too tight. He looked down to see Jackie’s hand wrapped around wrist, right on top of his wristband. Looking back up, he saw that Jackie’s expression hadn’t changed at all. He swallowed, suddenly on edge. “Hey, Jackie. So, uh, a lot of things have changed since you last saw me—before this last week, I mean. One being that I would prefer if you didn’t touch me. And especially—” He looked back down, starting to pry at Jackie’s fingers gripping his wrist. “—especially not there.”

Jackie didn’t react as Chase pried away his fingers and pushed his hand away. He just kept...staring at Chase. There was...something in his eyes. Which would’ve been great, if that something wasn’t making shivers crawl along Chase’s skin. It felt like...like him. But that was impossible. This was Jackie, who was still his friend, even if so much had happened to the both of them.

Then something crashed in the living room, shattering the moment.

“What the...?” Chase stood up, crossing into the hall and leaving Jackie behind. He entered the living room. “Did something fall in—” And then he froze. And screamed.

The standing lamp had fallen over, causing the crash, but that wasn’t what concerned him. No, it was JJ. He was lying on the ground, on his back, and Marvin...Marvin was kneeling on his chest, hands wrapped around his throat and clearly squeezing. Jameson was thrashing as much as he was able, and clawing at the hands around his neck.

Chase leapt into action. “Marvin, no!” He shouted, lunging towards the pair and trying to pull Marvin’s arms away. But Marvin’s grip was furiously tight, a contrast to the still blank expression on his face. But...there was something in his eyes that Chase wasn’t sure he wanted to identify.

“What’s going—holy fuck!” Suddenly Jack was by Chase’s side, helping to pull Marvin away. Between their efforts, they finally managed to separate the two others. Jameson immediately scrambled away from Marvin, pressing his back against the nearest wall and breathing heavily.

Jack wrapped his arms around Marvin, holding him back. Though it seemed that, once Marvin was pulled away, he’d lost all interest in strangling Jameson. Jack looked at Chase. “What happened? I left for two seconds!”

Chase shook his head, baffled. “I don’t know. I heard a crash, and went to check it out, and they were like this!” He looked at Jameson. “Jays, what happened?”

Jameson didn’t respond for a while, getting his breathing under control and rubbing at the sore spots on his neck. After a while, he signed shakily, He started staring at me the moment you left. And then he attacked me! No warning at all!

“What?! That’s insane!” Jack looked at Marvin warily, as if searching for some sign that he was ready to attack at any minute. “Why would he do that?”

JJ only shook his head, baffled.

And in that brief moment of silence, there was a dull thud from the kitchen.

“Oh, now what?” Chase groaned. He reached down and quickly pulled JJ to his feet before going back into the kitchen to check out the sound.

He walked back in to see Jackie now standing by the counter. Chase briefly glanced down to see a plastic box had fallen to the ground, as if pushed carelessly. Then he looked back up to see Jackie holding something. It took him a moment to recognize it as the glass mason jar that was containing that strange, almost alive, green string that Jack had pulled away from Anti. And then it took him a moment more to realize Jackie was trying to unscrew the lid.

“What are you doing?!” He lunged forward, closing the distance in a short time. Jackie put up no resistance as Chase yanked the jar out of his hands. The lid was looser, but not off. And the string inside was writhing furiously and slamming against the glass with enough force to jolt the jar, even as he was holding tight to it. 

JJ appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning heavily on the doorframe. His ankle still wasn’t healed, it must’ve been difficult to even walk that far. What’s happening?

“I...I don’t know.” Chase found himself taking a few steps away from Jackie, who just stood there. “He was...trying to open the jar? You know, the one with this string inside.” He held the jar up.

JJ tilted his head. The string wasn’t...acting like that before, was it?

“I don’t think so.” Chase looked at Jackie. “What’s the matter with you? A week of nothing, and then you suddenly decide to...interact with this, of all things? Are you and Marvin trying to freak us out?!”

Jack poked his head in the doorway. “You guys okay?”

Chase shook his head. “I guess? I-I don’t know. Jackie was trying to get to the string.” He suddenly scowled. “And by the way, what even is this thing? Where did it come from? Why is it alive, or some shit?”

Jack paused. “Well...it could be part of Anti’s soul, or something like that?” He didn’t sound too certain.

“Oh great, and we’re keeping it in a jam jar. Don’t you have a safe or something?”

Jack just shook his head.

You have a point, JJ signed. This thing appears to be...more dangerous than we initially thought. Perhaps we could find some way to keep it safe.

“Or get rid of it altogether,” Chase suggested, glancing at Jackie.

Or that, JJ nodded.

Footsteps sounded down the hall, and suddenly Schneep appeared, hair disheveled and wearing the same outfit he’d worn the previous day. “What is all the yelling?” he asked, scowling. 

Jack winced. “Sorry, Hen. We just...some stuff happened.”

“What stuff?” Schneep demanded. “I was sleeping!”

“Uh...y-yeah, I...I know,” Jack shifted, folding his arms and curling inward guiltily. “Let’s...sit down and I’ll tell you.”

Schneep grumbled, but turned and headed towards the living room, gesturing for Jack to follow him, which he did. After the two of them left, Chase sighed. He looked at JJ and held up the jar, as if asking what to do with it.

JJ shrugged. Seems like it needs to be kept somewhere more secure.

“Yeah, no doubt. Not a lot of secure places in this apartment, though.” 

They ended up placing the jar back inside the plastic box, but then put that box inside one of the cabinets under the counter. And they were so busy talking about whether or not that was safe enough, that they didn’t notice the way Jackie’s eyes tracked their movements, following the string to its new hiding place.

— — — — — — —

Later that night, Chase found he was having trouble sleeping. Again. It was a new development, ever since he...came back, those few months ago. He suspected it had something to do with not knowing it was...acceptable to fall asleep, without someone saying so. He’d been doing well over the last month or so, but for whatever reason insomnia decided to return this night.

He sighed, and got up. Maybe a walk around the apartment would calm him down. Though he’d have to be as silent as possible, wouldn’t want to wake up the others.

He made his way down the hall, towards the living room and kitchen. And then he saw something move in the darkness.

Chase immediately froze. He debated turning back and grabbing his gun—in fact, he was leaning toward that—but what was there to hurt him in the house? It was probably just one of the others. He took a deep breath, and walked forward, turning into the kitchen.

Flipping the lights on, he saw mostly nothing was changed. Except Marvin was crouched on the floor, opening one of the bottom cabinets.

“Marv—!” Chase hissed. “What’re you doing?!”

Marvin didn’t so much as turn his head, just reached forward into the cabinet, and pulled out a plastic box.

“Hey!” Chase darted forward as soon as he recognized the box. He got there just in time to slam the lid down a moment after Marvin started to open it. “You can’t do that!”

And then Marvin did look at him. And Chase shivered, for some reason.

“Um...I’m just going to...” He managed to pull the box away, grabbing it and backing up. Marvin stayed where he was. While not taking his eyes off him, Chase pulled one of the dining room chairs over to the counter, climbed on top of it awkwardly, opened a topmost cabinet, shoved the plastic box inside, and slammed the cabinet door closed. “Okay...” He let out a deep breath, and climbed back down. “You should be asleep, you know that? C’mon, let’s go.”

With a little effort, Chase managed to guide Marvin back down the hall to the bedroom where he and Jackie were supposed to sleep—though Chase would be lying if he said he’d seen them ever close their eyes—and lay him down on the bed. And with a sigh, he left the room, closing the door behind him. That whole thing was...odd. Odd in a way that made you look over your shoulder. What really struck him was that he slept in the same room as the two of them—and he hadn’t heard Marvin get up and leave, even though he was lying there awake.

But he still wasn’t tired. So he walked back down the hall, trying to give the pacing another try.

“What was all that about?”

Chase yelped, jumping sideways until he hit the wall. Then when he saw who it was, standing in the entrance to the living room, he sighed. “Doc, what the hell? You can’t just sneak up on someone like that!”

“Sorry,” Schneep said.

“What’re you doing up?”

“What are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Chase explained. “Now, you?”

“The same,” Schneep said. “I was reading. Sitting in here.”

“Well, why didn’t you turn on the light?”

Schneep blinked. “Did you seriously just ask a man who cannot see to turn on a light? Would that make a difference?”

Chase flinched. “I’m sorry, Schneep. I...I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, now you have. Besides, Jamie is still asleep in here.” Schneep gestured behind him into the living room. “On the sofa. I would not want to wake him up anyway.” He paused. “So what was all that noise in the kitchen?”

Chase sighed. “I...I don’t know what was going on. Marvin was in there. Messing with the cabinets.”

Schneep furrowed his brows. “Why? He and Marvin have been unresponsive for seven, eight days. Now, all of a sudden, this?”

“Yeah...it-it might have something to do with that string,” Chase confided. “Maybe they’re trying to get to it.”

“Why?”

“I-I don’t know.”

Schneep growled. “Well, they have been strange since this started anyway. I cannot feel them.”

Chase stared at him for a moment. “You can’t what?”

“That...that feeling you get when someone is nearby. You understand? I do not get that around them.”

“You mean, like, the hairs standing up on the back of your neck?”

“No, no.” Schneep shook his head. “That is the watching feeling. Do you not understand? The feeling you have when someone enters the room, and you just know someone is there now. And how close they are!”

“Yeah, I...I don’t get that, I think,” Chase said, shrugging. “It’s not that hard to sneak up on me.”

“Hmm.” Schneep looked confused at that. “Maybe it is different person by person. Or they say your other senses enhance when you lose one, maybe it is related to that.”

“Maybe.”

The two of them were silent for a moment. After a while, Schneep said, “You really should go to sleep.”

“I will,” Chase said automatically. “I mean—but, uh, so should you.”

“Perhaps.”

“Jesus, dude, you’re a doctor and you don’t know the benefits of sleep?”

“Ha...” Schneep’s expression fell a bit. “Well...that never stopped me when I was one.”

Oh. Chase stepped forward, voice softening. “Hey, I didn’t mean—”

“Go to sleep, Chase,” Schneep said, turning away.

Chase backed away. “Oh...okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Schneep nodded. Chase turned back, hand trailing over the walls. He still found sleep a while coming.

— — — — — — —

Everyone was awake at the same time that morning, all gathered in the kitchen. Jack was messing about in the cabinets, getting out dishes. JJ was sitting at the table, half-reading one of the magic books, holding it open with one hand. Schneep sat next to him, listening to whatever message JJ was tapping on the tabletop with his other hand. Chase was leaning against the wall on the fringes. Even Jackie and Marvin were there, sitting in the remaining chairs at the table, as blank as ever.

“Hey, JJ?” Jack said. “You know, I would’ve been fine bringing you breakfast again.”

JJ finished his statement to Schneep before answering Jack. I’m sick to death of being stuck on your sofa with my idiotic injured ankle.

“Well, then the next three weeks at least are gonna suck for you,” Chase muttered.

JJ glared at him, then returned to tapping Morse code on the table.

Jack raised an eyebrow at Chase, shutting the cupboard he was messing with. ��That’s a little snappy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, well...” Chase’s eyes darted around the kitchen. They landed on Marvin and Jackie, hovering on them. He shifted uncomfortably, then suddenly pushed away from the wall. “I...I don’t think I’m hungry.” And with that, he left the room.

“Wh...? Hey, Chase!” Jack ran after him.

Chase stopped halfway down the hall, letting Jack catch up with him. “What?”

Jack skidded to a halt. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s—”

“Don’t pull that shit on me, Chase Brody, I’ve known you longer than anyone else in this apartment,” Jack cut in. “I know when something’s up. I...I want to help, so can you let me?” He tried not to sound too desperate, but his question turned into a plea anyway.

Chase looked away. “It...it sounds crazy.”

“Our lives are crazy. Go on, what’s up?”

After a moment of hesitation, Chase sighed. “Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, but...they’re freaking me out.”

Jack blinked. “Who? Jackie and Marvin? They are acting kind of creepy, I’ll admit, and this whole business yesterday was weird—”

“No, it—it’s different.” Unconsciously, Chase rubbed his wrist, reaching under the band and itching. “It’s like...fuck, it sounds crazy.”

“I don’t care how it sounds, if it’s bothering you, then it matters.”

Chase sighed. “They...they’re kind of reminding me of...him.”

Back in the kitchen, JJ finished tapping out his Morse code message. Schneep leaned back in his chair, confused. “I do not understand,” he said. “I would know if I had magic of some kind, yes?”

Maybe, JJ tapped. Didn’t you notice it odd when we got out of the room?

“Well, yes, but I assumed that was you,” Schneep admitted. “Or more strangeness of that place.”

No, it wasn’t. JJ insisted. It was you, I could tell.

“Well, what kind of magic would that be, anyway?” Schneep countered. “To get out of locked places? Is kind of...ah, I do not know. Stupid, I suppose. Yours is more useful.”

For keeping everyone else safe, yes, JJ admitted. But I can’t do simple tasks, or use it to defend myself.

“Those are strange rules, I—” Schneep stopped. In the silence, he heard the squeak of a chair against the kitchen tile. “Was that you?”

JJ, previously busy with dividing his attention between the conversation with Schneep and the magic book, looked up at the sound. In the few minutes since he’d last glanced over at them, Marvin and Jackie had both stood up. Jackie was dragging his chair over to the counter, while Marvin was staring at JJ and Schneep with a...it was almost a glare. JJ jumped, slamming his book shut. He tried to stand up, only for pain to shoot upward from his ankle. He crumpled back down with a muffled cry.

“What?! What is it?!” Schneep half-stood up, bracing himself.

This message had to be quick. J, M, he tapped. Weird.

Luckily, Schneep caught on quick. “What are they doing? Should I get the others?”

That would probably be a good idea. Call, JJ tapped, trying to stand up again, leaning his weight on the table.

Schneep raised his voice. “Jack?! Chase?! Something is happening?!”

It only took a few seconds for Jack and Chase to reappear in the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. Jackie had managed to drag the chair over to the counter, and was climbing on top. The moment Jack and Chase reappeared, Marvin switched his attention to them, watching.

“What are they doing?!” Jack yelled. He ran forward, only for Marvin’s hand to shoot out and grab him by the back of the hoodie as he passed. Jack cried out in surprise.

“I moved the box with the jar to that cabinet!” Chase, said, pointing. “Last night!”

“What?! Why?” Jack asked. He was trying to pull his hoodie away, but Marvin’s grip was unusually strong.

“Marvin was trying to get into it!” Chase explained.

“Well, we should not let them get to it!” Schneep stood up fully, though he looked unsure about what to do.

JJ reached a hand toward Jackie. A circle of blue runes briefly flickered around his fingers before fading. Jameson looked down at his hand in surprise.

“On it!” Chase dashed forward, giving Marvin a wide birth, and was by Jackie in a couple seconds. Jackie had opened the cupboard, and was pulling out the box. “Hey!” Chase tried to climb up onto the chair, but suddenly Jackie looked down at him, and kicked him away, sending him flying backwards.

“Stop it, both of you!” Jack didn’t think either Marvin or Jackie would listen, but he had to try. He managed to pry Marvin’s hand away from his hoodie, but as soon as he’d done that, Marvin suddenly reached forward and grabbed him, holding both arms behind his back. “Let go of me!” He glared at Marvin, and out of the corner of his vision, he got a glimpse of something...glowing. His soul vision. He’d been hesitant to use it before, but now? Well, what was there left to lose? He wasn’t sure what the two of them wanted with that string of Anti’s, but he just knew it wouldn’t end well. So he closed his left eye, letting the soul vision take over.

And in the center of Marvin’s chest, where Jack would usually see the glowing ball of light that he usually saw someone’s soul as...there was a loose pile of blue and red shards. He looked over at Jackie, climbing down from the chair with the box in his arms, and saw the exact same thing. He...he’d seen something like this before...

Chase climbed to his feet and lunged towards Jackie, grabbing for the box. But Jackie wasn’t as keen to let go of items as he was earlier, and a strange tug-of-war started. “Schneep? Jays? A little help?!” Chase called.

JJ tried to step forward, but once again winced under the pain of his injured ankle. Realizing he couldn’t get to Jackie, he looked over at Marvin, still holding Jack. And suddenly threw himself at him. Marvin stumbled.

“I do not know where they are!” Schneep wailed. “I told you, I cannot tell!”

“Can you tell where I am?” Chase said. “He’s right next to me! Help me get this away from him!”

Schneep scowled a bit, as if angry with himself for not thinking about that. And so he ran to Chase’s side. After a moment, he figured out where the box was and grabbed it, adding his strength to Chase’s side.

For a moment, everyone was locked in a struggle. Marvin tried to shrug JJ away while still keeping hold of a wriggling Jack. Jackie kept resisting Chase and Schneep’s attempts to pull the box away. For a moment, just a moment, they all seemed evenly matched.

And then the lid of the box came loose, and opened wide enough for the jar inside to roll out onto the floor with a heavy thunk! 

Chase immediately dropped the struggle for the box, reaching down for the jar. But the string inside seemed to know he was coming. It pushed against the side of the jar, rolling it away from Chase’s grasping hand until it bumped against Jackie’s shoe. Jackie looked down, scooped up the jar, and raised it high above his head.

“No!” Jack shouted.

But it was too late. Jackie threw the jar down on the ground, and it shattered instantly.

The string inside wriggled and stretched, free of its confinement, and it started to grow in size. It shuddered and writhed, splitting in branches like a hydra growing heads. Tendrils reached out, wrapping around Jackie’s legs, and crawling over the ground until they were able to wrap around Marvin’s as well. The green light coming from the string intensified from a slight glow into a blinding glare, and anyone who could see it was forced to shut their eyes.

They opened them again to the sound of laughter. Marvin and Jackie had disappeared, and standing in the middle of the kitchen, static creeping over his skin, was Anti.

“No!” Chase grabbed Schneep’s arm, stepping backwards. “What—where—?”

“S̷u̢͠rpr̕i͏̸͝s̢ed to see me?” Anti waved his fingers. “You shouldn’t be.”

JJ slumped backwards against the kitchen table. He looked around the kitchen, then glared at Anti. Where are Jackie and Marvin? What did you do to them?!

Anti looked over at Jack and grinned. “You’ve figured it out h́av̛én'̛t͏ y̴̴o͞͠u̶?”

Jack didn’t want to say he had. But...he closed his eye again, looking at Anti’s “soul.” Just as he’d seen last time he looked at it, he saw red and blue shards, stitched together with that interwoven green string. But now he realized he’d seen the shards elsewhere. “He hasn’t done anything to them,” Jack said, voice almost too quiet to hear. “He is them.”

“No no no no no, that’s impossible. That’s impossible!” Chase laughed hysterically. “Jackie and Marv are—they’re not evil!”

“Everyone has a little bit of ḑa̷̡r̢k͟͠n̛es͢͠s͏ inside.” Anti waved his hand in front of his face, dispelling the mask of shadows and revealing his face for the first time since any of them had known him. He tilted his head to his left, and his features shifted a bit, looking more like Marvin. He tilted it to his right, and they shifted again to resemble Jackie. “What happens when that’s a̷̕l͏l͝ ͏t̡h̴a͏͡t'̀s̵̢ ̡l͠͠ef͞t̡̢͟?͏́”

JJ started to shake his head, but then his eyes glanced downward, and he froze. The amulets, he signed shakily. The transference did go wrong...just not in the way we imagined...

“There we go, you have a ṕ̨o̸̴ì̶n͞t͢ to existing, a̧͡fte̸ŗ͡ all̶̡̀!” Anti clapped his hands. “Yes, it went wrong. Neither of them expected that one of them would k̦̙̜̼̞i̱̞̳̬̬͉̞̝ļ͇͞l̶̨̛͖ the other! Seems everything go̕͟ǫ̸̛d̸ got lost in translation!”

“You’re lying!” Chase shrieked. A few tears slipped down his face. “They were best friends! They wouldn’t hurt each other, much l-less—!” He choked, unable to even finish the sentence.

“Hmm, w͏ér̸͝e ͏t͠h̡e͟y̨͏?” Anti laughed. “Well, it doesn’t matter. T̡h̷e̷y'r̶̕e̷ g̀ó̷né̀ now. As you saw, there’s ǹơt̛͏h̡̢̀ì̢n͞͝g̶ left except some empty shells—a̴͞n̶d ̵́m̸̵e̡.”

Anti raised a hand. The room filled with the sound of static. Jameson managed to pull Jack close, a blue shield of runes flickering in front of the two of them. Chase backed up, paling.

And then, the air seemed to rip apart.

In between one second and the next, there was suddenly a kitchen knife driven into Anti’s chest. He screamed, staggering backwards. Another second, and then Schneep was in front of him, pulling the knife back out. He was panting, like he’d just sprinted across the room. He blinked, and for a moment, it almost looked like his eyes were black. And then it was gone. “You shut your mouth,” he growled.

Anti seemed to recover from the stab quickly, cracking a grin at Schneep. “That’s a new t̨ŗi̵͠c͠k̨,” he remarked. “Are you going to kil̢͝l̴ ̡̨m̢è͟͢? You, the least u͟ś̀ef̢ú̶l part of the group?”

“Yes,” Schneep said simply. And he lunged again.

Anti was prepared this time. With a burst of white noise, he disappeared, reappearing behind Jack and Jameson. “No, I don’t t̸h̡i̸n͏k͏ ͝s̶̶o.” Anti’s hand darted forward, and Jameson barely managed to swivel the circular shield around to the other side in time to block him. 

There was another rip, and then Schneep was behind Anti, driving the knife forward again, managing to hit his shoulder. Anti shrieked, and spun around before Schneep could pull the blade out again. “Fine. Have it y̴̕͝o̸͢uŗ͠ ͢ẁ͡ay.” With a smile, he reached back and pulled the knife out himself, slashing it forward.

Schneep yelped, leaning backwards, and suddenly he wasn’t there anymore. Anti growled, and in a fit of static, he disappeared too.

The air was still filled with the sound of static. Occasionally the world jumped and fizzled, like it wasn’t sure of its place. Chase looked around. “Wh...what the fuck is happening?” He squeaked. “Did Henrik just—what?”

Jack glanced at JJ. “That would be the magic you told me about yesterday, right?”

JJ nodded.

“Schneep has magic?!” Chase asked, gaping.

“Apparently! Don’t ask how, ‘cause none of us know the answer, not even him!”

The world jumped again, and suddenly the cabinets all flew open in unison. Another jump, and all the dishes shattered into pieces. Another, and cracks shot through sections of the kitchen tile. “And what about this?!” Chase asked.

“I don’t know!” Jack shouted.

Maybe their magics colliding? JJ guessed.

The ceiling overhead groaned, and suddenly bits of plaster fell.

“Whatever it is, it’s destroying your apartment!” Chase yelled. “We have to get out of here!”

“But—Henrik!” Jack protested.

Chase hesitated. “We can go look for him, but we have to be quick.”

Jack nodded.

Chase ran across the kitchen floor, joining up with Jack and JJ. Jameson adjusted the shield to cover them from above, as more chunks of plaster started to fall, and the walls started to peel. “C’mon,” he said, throwing one of Jameson’s arms over him to support him. “We gotta go!”

They didn’t have to go far. The living room was crumbling, same as the kitchen. The lamp was broken in two, the upholstered furniture bleeding cotton. Schneep and Anti were jumping in and out of existence, flickering between places in the room. At first, it seemed an evenly matched sort of chase, but after a while it became clear who was winning. Schneep had no weapon, and he didn’t understand his own powers, making his disoriented. It wasn’t long before Schneep was cornered—literally stuck huddling against the room’s corner, Anti looming over him.

JJ threw out his hand, and a circle of blue appeared above Schneep just in time to deflect the blow from Anti’s knife.

Anti scowled, turning his attention to the group who’d just entered. A smile twisted his face. “Someone’s h̵u̵͢ŗ͠ţ͟in̛g͞! Someone’s ś͟lo̵̴͞w̧.”

“Leave him alone,” Jack hissed.

“Or...?” Anti pressed his knife deeper into Jameson’s shield. Below him, Schneep was trembling, panting, eyes wide yet seeing nothing. “You can’t do a̴ņy͠ţ͝h͡įn͢g̴̢ about it! The f͞à͟͡k̀e̶ magician can only defend, my pu͢p͏̸p̡e̷͠ţ has no weapons, and you can only s͟͠e͡e̢̕ what’s wrong and n̛͞oth̷̀ì̷͞ng̢̕ else!” He laughed, and pressed down harder, sparks flying from the shield. It flickered. “In the end, you’re a̵̷̢̹̻̲l̷̵͕͟ļ̯̗̲̘̭͓̳͠l u̸s̷̢e̴l̡es͞͏s͢͝! So why not let me take out the one who does the ĺȩ̵ąs̨t̷͝ for you?!”

Schneep suddenly screamed and clutched at his head. The world shuddered, and slashed apart, slices of darkness appearing in between broken fragments. When it all settled, Schneep was gone.

Even Anti looked surprised at this, taking a few steps back. But he recovered, shaking his head and smiling at the other three. “Oh well. I can still take care of y͡͏̨o̷͟u̴̷”

Jack, Jameson, and Chase all glanced at each other. And in unison, they sprinted for the door.

The room behind them started to fall apart, wires flying out of the walls, pieces of furniture bursting, the ceiling collapsing right behind their heels. The three of them barely managed to get out the door, Chase and Jack pulling Jameson behind them. Anti screamed. Cracks full of static crawled along the wall, following them. “Keep going!” Chase yelled.

They ran.

 — — — — — — — 

They didn’t stop until they were at least a block away from the apartment building, and then they all collapsed to the ground in unison, breathing hard.

“What—was—that?!” Jack yelled.

Jameson shrugged vaguely.

“That was Anti,” Chase said, staring at nothing. He blinked, and a tear escaped. “A-and Anti was...was...” He buried his face in his hands. 

Jack nodded. He felt...nothing. Just a sort of numbness. It didn’t hurt, though maybe it would later. But for now, it was just...empty. “They...they’re...”

“They can’t be.” Chase looked up. “They can’t be gone.”

Jameson looked up. Chase...maybe—

“No!” Chase suddenly shrieked. “They aren’t gone! An—he was lying! He just took them away again! They’re not him! They can’t be! They can’t! They...they...” He slumped, and let the tears flow. “They can’t have...done that to me. To us,” he sobbed.

Jack didn’t say anything. There was nothing he could say. But he reached over and gently picked up Chase’s hand. Chase squeezed it tight as he continued to cry.

They must’ve stayed there for ten minutes at least, sitting on the sidewalk as morning traffic drove by. Briefly, Jack wondered what onlookers would think, but he didn’t care. They needed this.

After a while, they all calmed, staring blankly out at the city. “Where are we supposed to go now?” Jack whispered. 

Where did Henrik go? JJ asked. We have to find him.

Jack nodded. “But...we can’t just stay on the street. He could find us.”

Chase wiped his eyes. “I...I think I know a place.” He stood up.

Jack stood as well, pulling JJ up and letting him lean on him. “Really? Where?”

“It’s...some way away. We’ll have to walk a while,” Chase admitted. “I just hope she’ll let us stay.”

“Oh.” Jack nodded. “I see.”

“C’mon, let’s hurry,” Chase said. “The sooner we get somewhere safe, the sooner we can figure out what to do next.”

And in silence, they started walking.

[girlinthepictureframe]

The Briefest Kiss Part 9

P9

Alex lay on the couch in his parents' living room, absentmindedly playing with a remnant of wrapping paper left over from the holidays. Christmas had, once again, come and gone. Same old, every year. He'd never been a big fan of it all, the ceremonious acts, the guests, the cards, the gifts, the dishonesty of it all. But this year, Christmas had put him in a particularly bad mood. Rolling his head to the side, he looked at the single gift left lying underneath the slowly decaying tree.

The rectangular box, wrapped in bright red, tied with a golden ribbon and adorned with a gold-dotted card that had none more than two words written on the inside – For Miles – now served as a gaudy reminder that he and the one person he so desperately longed to see were no longer speaking with each other. They hadn't talked in months. And there was so much that Alex wanted to talk with Miles about. Boring stuff. Inane things that he'd seen and heard. Lyrics that had come to him and that he couldn't make sense of. Jokes that he wanted to share. Silly rumors that he wanted to gossip about. Miles loved silly rumors and gossiping!

And, of course, all those feelings that he was experiencing. He wanted to explain to Miles that he'd never meant to walk out of him that night. He wanted to explain to him that he'd simply been unable to remain in the room, waiting, in silence, for him to wake up, not knowing how Miles would react when he inevitably would wake up. He wanted to tell him that his greatest fear that night had been to find Miles staring back at him with regret. Or worse, disgust.

But if he said all that, if he told him all that, using those words, Miles would know that Alex had feelings for Miles that went far beyond the realms of their friendship. If he explained to Miles what had been going on in his head that day, Miles would know that Alex had fallen and most like would forever remain in love with him. And that was an admission he couldn't make, at least not without putting the well-being of his badly damaged heart at risk. How would he deal with Miles' reaction if his reaction wasn't what Alex wanted it to be? And what did Alex want Miles’ reaction to be?

At the moment, Alex was trying to figure all of that out. But the figuring-out part was taking longer than he had expected. He had believed to be done with it all before Christmas. He had expected them to be friends again by this point. A part of him had expected, maybe even hoped, to have fallen out of love with Miles by now. Then it would have been so much easier to go to Miles, explain it all and ask for another chance to prove himself as a friend.

Hence the Christmas present. A hand-stitched, one of a kind, monogrammed pajama, made for Miles. Alex had personally looked up the best tailor in Paris, had hand-picked the fabric, had given detailed instructions and had gone back and collected the finished result himself. The perfect gift. But Miles wasn't here to unpack it. Why? Because Alex hadn't fallen out of love yet. And he was still trying hard to select the right words. “Bloody holidays,” murmured Alex and crumbled the piece of wrapping paper beyond recognition.

“Pauline wishes you a wonderful, if belated, Christmas,” Alex's mother Penny called from the hallway of his childhood home. “She wants you to know you're welcome to drop by whenever you want and hopes that you and Miles get over your silly, little argument as soon as possible! Which, dear, is a sentiment I quite share! I'd like to see Miles again some time. It's been a while. He has always dropped by around Christmas!”

“I told you,” grumbled Alex, “it's not a silly, little argument. That I would have been able to fix! It's a bit more complicated than that!”

“Maybe,” suggested his mother, using that stern, trust-me tone that she had perfected and loved aiming at him for as long as he could remember, “you should tell me what happened. That way I can fix it.”

Alex thought about that idea. It had its entertaining notions. How would his parents react if he went and spilled it all? How would they react if he served them the hard, cold truth?

Mom, Dad, here's what went down: Miles and I fucked until we couldn't see straight anymore, fell asleep, then I snuck out without a word. Naturally, things went downhill from there. Ideas?

The mere thought of that made him laugh.

“Something funny, dear?”

“Could you stop calling me that?”

“No.”

Mothers.

“He's in London, you know? He's staying there for a bit. Pauline told me,” explained Penny. “In case you want to go there. To fix things,” she added pointedly. “Did you insult him? Did you say something bad about his music? Did you break one of his guitars again?”

He rolled his eyes, not moving an inch from the couch. Oh, he had no intention of doing anything anytime soon. He was planning on spending the next days wallowing in self-pity, smoking, drinking, and in general, not giving a damn about anything. “No, I didn't know. No, I did not insult him.” Even the suggestion that he would have done that was bizarre by itself! “I did not say a bad thing about his music! And could you please stop bringing up that guitar-thing? We were jamming out to the Sex Pistols. I got him a new guitar, didn't I?” He sighed heavily. “May I remind you that he broke my window. How come you never hold that against him?”

“He paid for the new window. And he apologized profoundly for it. Besides, if you hadn't filled him up with Tequila, he wouldn't have tried to play basket ball with a brick.”

Alex's jaw dropped. “Is that what he told you? He bought the Tequila himself! He filled me up that night!”

“Oh dear, don't bother. Miles wouldn't do that,” said his mother, amused. “He's too nice for that.”

Too nice? Alex scoffed. Miles? His Miles? Well, he wasn't his Miles any longer, but the idea that Miles Kane was too nice was ridiculous. Alex's mind drifted back to that night last fall. Images of himself, face down, holding onto the cushions for dear life while Miles was having his way with him filled his head. His entire body heated up at the memories. He could still feel Miles' hot breath on his skin, still hear the filthy, provocative words as he came deep inside of him. No, too nice wasn't a term Alex would ever use to describe him. He'd go with hard, wild, passionate, or ravenous. Gentle and kind, but vigorous and rough at just the same time. Fucking addictive, that's what Miles was! Alex swallowed hard.

“Alexander?!”

“Huh?”

“I asked, will you stay for dinner? And what about your girlfriend? When will you bring her around?”

“Uh...soon. Some day. I don't know. Dinner...I don't know yet.” As he watched her make her way back towards the kitchen, he wondered if somewhere in London there was a gift waiting for him. Just as hideously wrapped. Selected by Miles. Unlikely. Judging from the expression of complete and utter disappointment in Miles' eyes last time they saw each other, Alex could be lucky if Miles ever looked at him again.

He got up, grabbed the red-wrapped gift and took it with him upstairs, into his room. How odd it felt to be in here again. The walls still carried the wallpapers from the time he'd gone to school. His old desk sat empty in the corner. His small, single bed, however, looked far more inviting than the massive one he had in his house in France, or the one in his London apartment. This one was made for one person only and it didn't make him feel lonely when he spent his nights alone. He put the gift down on the comforter, sat down on next to it and let his eyes drift around the room.

How much time had passed since he'd moved out? Years. A decade. More, even. The walls were covered in polaroids, pictures taken during their first gigs, when they had been unknown and sometimes booed at. Those times had passed. Which, in a sense, was sad. He still remembered the energy he got from the hecklers, from wanting to prove them wrong.

Alex's gaze lingered on the bookshelf next to the bed. The upper rows were filled with old journals and note pads, filled with lyrics and notes. The most unorganized selection of unreleased songs imaginable. Every once in a while, when he was stuck writing new material, he found himself venturing back to the shelf, digging through some old lines, hoping for inspiration. The lowest shelf carried his old school books. His fingertips traced the creased spine of his old biology book and he smiled. He should throw it away, he thought. He'd never use it again anyway. He was about to pull it out when his eyes caught something shiny below his bed.

A guitar pick. A used, old one. Miles' old one. Alex could tell by the chewing marks on one side. Whenever Miles was struggling with a new melody, he would chew on his guitar pick. It used to drive Alex insane. Now he considered it one of Miles' most endearing little quirks.

Miles.

Alex placed the pick in his pocket, then lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He wondered what his friend was doing at the moment. Was he wasting the day away as well? Was he writing new material? Was he meeting people? Was he having a good time, or where good times eluding him in the same manner they were eluding Alex at the moment?

2014

“Make your decision, babe. My planet, or yours?”

Alex's head snapped up, meeting Miles' slightly-tired gaze fully. “What did you just say?”

“I've been asking you for minutes wether you want to stay here or if we should head back inside,” spoke Miles with a bit of a grin.

“Yes, yes,” said Alex as he waved his hand, “that's not what I...the words, Mi, the precise words, say them again!”

Miles laughed, but relented, no doubt used by now to his odd requests. “Make your decision, babe. My planet, or yours? Were you paying attention to my words, then?”

“I always do when you play,” assured Alex as he walked over to Miles. “I love those words.” He sat down next to him on the sun lounger by the pool, leaned back and got comfortable. “You've just begun writing this new song of yours, but I swear I can already hear it all in my head. It'll sound so good, Miles!”

Miles placed the guitar away and reclined as well. The lounger was big but not that big and so their sides pressed against one another. Alex didn't mind, and neither seemed Miles. “This night marks the seventh consecutive New Year's Even which we've now spent together!”

“That many?” wondered Miles and chuckled. “I'm surprised we can still stand each other after all that time.”

Alex's lips twisted in amusement. “Yeah, me too. Considering how little you care for me these days. Always touring, hanging out with other musicians, spending your spare time on this twittering-thing...”

“Just Twitter,” laughed Miles and wrapped his arm around Alex's shoulder, pulling him closer. “Besides, if anyone's ignoring anyone, then it's you ignoring me! Always touring, hanging out with other musicians, spending your spare time reading those things they call books...”

Now it was Alex's turn to laugh. And his turn to deepen their contact. He leaned his head against Miles' and looked up, as always fascinated by the firmament. “Did I ever tell you the story about the lonely planet?”

Miles shook his head softly.

“Once upon a time,” began Alex, “far, far away from here, there was a big, beautiful cluster of planets and stars. It would have been a magnificent sight to see, no doubt. But, one day, something happened. I can't tell you when that was, or what precisely occurred. And even the scientists can only guess, but they assume the planets no longer got alone with one another. So they split up. One of the planets took a leap and decided to continue his journey through the endless universe on his own. The rest of the cluster remained behind. One would think that people would find the cluster more interesting than the solitary traveller, however, it's the lonely planet that's capturing the hearts and minds of the curious.”

Alex tilted his head to the side and found Miles giving him the most attentive, interested expression. So close to him, against his side, warmed by his warmth, he felt more content and at peace than he had in a very long time. “Sometimes I watch the sky all night, trying to spot the lonely planet as he journeys on, forever moving forwards and never looking back, and then I think of you.” Their eyes met. “You're the bravest person I know, Miles.”

“No,” whispered Miles, shaking his head so gently that Alex couldn't see, only tell my the movement against his cheek. “I'm scared all the time, Al. You're the one who has never shied away from anything. If it weren't for you, I don't even think we'd be friends today. I didn't have the guts to walk up to you. You walked up to me!”

“That's because you left me no choice,” explained Alex. A soft chuckle escaped him as he remembered their early days. “Here's a secret for you: You're the only person in my life I ever walked up to. All my life I've been lucky enough that I never had to make the first move. Jamie, Matt, they were all just there as long as I can remember. My first girlfriend walked up to me and told me she liked me. So did every other one after that. And those who didn't come to me, never much interested me to begin with. But then there was you. You so stubbornly refused to acknowledge me! No matter how hard I tried, how good I played, or how much of a fool I made out of myself whenever you were near, you just wouldn't budge!”

“What? That's not true.”

“Don't deny it Miles!” Alex rolled to his side, out of Miles' embrace, and propped his head up on his hand. “I tried to catch your attention all the time. From the very moment I saw you!” As he looked into Miles' eyes, Alex spotted the confusion and the surprise. “You really don't remember? The other Monkeys and I had just finished playing our set and I was walking off stage when I saw you sitting in a corner. You were wearing headphones, which was pissing me off, because we had performed really well that night and you had the guts to ignore our live performance for some shit on your iPod. I was watching you for a long time. Your foot was tapping on the ground to some melody and I tried to figure out if I knew the song, tried to decipher what song was so good that it was worth ignoring us for. I couldn't do it. Couldn't figure it out.” He saw it all vividly in his head, almost as though he was back in that club. “There were quite a few people there that night. It was loud and a bit crazy. But you didn't notice any of that. You were so lost in that song that you didn't even notice the girl sitting next to you, trying to talk to you. All of you was focused on that one song coming from your headphones. You were the most fascinating thing in the entire club,” admitted Alex a bit sheepishly, trying not to blush under Miles' gaze. “I swore to myself that one day I would write a song so good that it would capture your attention just like that song did that night.”

Miles mirrored Alex's position, a bit of a shocked expression on his face. “I wasn't—”

“No, no! Don't deny it!” Alex looked away and grinned, but in truth, Miles' undivided attention was too much for him. He hadn't intended to admit any of this to him, but the words just kept coming. Still did. “It went on for so long! You ignoring me? Lasted for weeks! We ran into each other a few times, but never really talked. Sometimes I'd get a little nod from you or something like that, letting me know that, at the very least, you recognized my existence. But never more than that! And so, one night, I was so fed up with it that I swallowed all of my fears, and just walked up to you. I was so scared you would find me weird or boring or even laughable. I remember blurting out my words, asking you to teach me that guitar part, not really saying much else. And I remember your smile. You nodded, I grabbed my guitar, and for the rest of the night, we played together.” Laughter erupted from him. “It occurred to me hours later, long after I had the riff down, that I had yet to give you my name. But, by then, it really made no sense at all to just randomly drop it and you hadn't directly addressed me so I couldn't tell wether or not you already knew my name. All of that really confused me and made me mess up all the notes you had spent the night teaching me.”

“So that's why you gave me that piece of paper?” Miles' eyes were still glued to him.

Alex nodded. In retrospect it must have seemed so odd to him at that time. But back then? “I considered it the perfect solution. I wrote my name and number on a piece of paper and handed it to you at the end of the night. It's the only time in my entire life that I ever did that. You're unique in my life, Miles. In every sense of the word,” added Alex, his voice soft and quiet.

He didn't do this with any other person in his life, family, friend or lover. To speak so vulnerably and openly about his actions, his motivations and his feelings scared him for it left him defenseless and put him in a position where he could easily get hurt. But with Miles, he was safe. Miles never laughed at his admissions, never made fun of him for being emotional or made light of his words. Instead, he let Alex know that he was deeply appreciative of being trusted so profoundly.

“I said a thousand million things, that I could never say this morning.” Miles's hushed words broke the silence into which Alex had drifted. At the sound of his old lyrics, Alex's attention perked up and he stared at Miles in surprise. Miles' cheeks carried a soft blush. “That's the line I was stuck on. That night, in the club, when you watched me wearing headphones, I was trying to figure out what made you write those words.”

Alex sat up straight, staring down at Miles. “What?”

Miles took a deep breath. He lay backwards on the lounger and continued, avoiding Alex's eyes. “It wasn't that crazy that night. And it wasn't really crowded, either. I saw you on stage, I heard you playing in front of an half-empty club. You were almost done with your set and even though you guys weren't superstars back then and people had yet to print your names on shirts, the ones that were there to watch you loved you and were in awe of you. Back in those days, you were still trying to find yourself. It would be a while until you'd become your sassy self. But even then there was this aura around you. Something magical. I remember seeing some girls in the audience who were desperately trying to catch your eye. They all failed miserably. Your whole attention was on the music and finding the perfect way to deliver it just right. I don't know why, but in that moment I promised myself that some day I would catch your attention while you're on stage, just because it seemed so very elusive and unattainable, like a unicorn. So there's a secret for you, Alex. You had me hooked around your little finger long before I even knew your number.”

Timidly, Miles searched for Alex's gaze. And found it. “I'm probably not supposed to tell you this, but I was listening to an illegally downloaded bootleg version of 'From the Ritz to the Rubble'. And that piece of paper with your number? I still have that.” The last part came out almost too low for Alex to hear. “My mom found it in my pocket a few days later and asked me if I had any intentions of calling this 'Alexandra'? I told her you were a guy, named Alex, and before I could even begin to tell her about your band and our evening, she asked me if you looked cute and whether or not I planned on bringing you around one day.”

Alex laughed out loud as he lay back down next to Miles. Closer, this time. He bent one arm, laid it on Miles' chest and began playing with one of the buttons of his shirt. “Well, did you say I was cute?”

“I believe I did. You know, in that baby-rockstar kind of way.”

“Hey!”

Miles stuck out his tongue and smirked. “You should have worn a leather jacket that night and not that old varsity sweater. Maybe then I would have described you as hot.”

Alex grinned, quite happy with the fact that Miles remembered their beginning in as fondly a manner as he did. “Think I look hot in a leather jacket, huh?”

Miles rolled his eyes, but smiled. “You know you do. That's why you have so many!”

After a few moments of companionable silence, Alex leaned over Miles and reached for his acoustic. He handed it to him. “Play it again for me, will you?”

“The riff? It's really all I have so far.”

“Doesn't matter. I fear I might have irreversibly fallen in love with your melody.”

“You're such a bloody flirt,” said Miles with a playful wink, adjusted the guitar and begun strumming. “Enjoy.”

Present Day

Alex pulled out his phone, scrolled through the contacts and pushed dial. “Hey, that invitation for New Year's Eve? That still goes?”

“Of course,” said his friend James. “I'll text you the address. Hey, um, he'll be there. Just so you know. There's some rumors and–”

“All's fine,” reassured Alex and hung up. This year would be the twelfth New Year's Eve he and Miles would spend together. And even if they weren't talking at the moment, at some point in the future they would be talking again. He'd make sure of that. Somehow, down the road, he'd find a way to fix them. It would be a shame if they broke their tradition just because a bit of sex and love had gotten in the way it.

Alex got off the bed and grabbed his big duffle bag. The first thing he put in there was Miles' gift. Around that, he stuffed some shirts, a few pants, his favorite pair of leather boots and, naturally, a leather jacket. His favorite one. Miles owned the same one. They had gotten it the same week, in separate cities, unaware of each other, until they'd shown up to some party wearing matching outfits. They had spent the entire night laughing about it.

Once the bag was full, Alex sat back on the bed, took a notepad from the shelf, grabbed a pencil and flipped through the pages until he spotted an empty one.

“Dear Miles,

Speaking my mind, as becomes clearer to me day by day, is, for now, entirely unmanageable. As I have told you last fall, I could fill a series of albums with the amount of truths I'd like to share with you. But it's not the notion of being honest that makes me avoid doing so, it's the part that follows. I quite fear for your reaction. We've always been brutally honest with each other and there's never been a moment in which I've regretted it. Until now, though, there has never been a truth as big as the one which is currently burdening my shoulders. I'm in love with you. And not just a little bit. Imagine that. I want to be your friend, but in your presence my heart's desires overpower my mind's demands. I want you to trust me with your friendship, but how can I ask that of you when I don't trust my own self to keep a platonic distance towards you? I miss our nearness, our comfortable proximity, I miss the warmth I received in your arms when you held me as your friend, but how do I return into your friendly embrace when the longing for a different heat makes me seek out your arms in an utterly carnal manner? These are the questions I need to find answers to before I can figure out how to make amends for the mess I've created. I hope that yo—”

“Alex,” his mother called from downstairs, “your Dad needs your help. Can you come down for a moment?”

Alex rolled his eyes, stuffed the notepad back into the shelf and made his way downstairs. “What's he doing?”

“He tried playing that Bowie song that you and Miles used to perform and he used your guitar for that. The brown one? With the hideous strap? The loud one, Alex. You know which one I mean. Anyway, he messed around with the silver thing, the shiny – the whatever you call it—”

“Bigsby?”

“It won't make any noises anymore. Can you help him?”

“Of course,” he said, chuckled at the idea of his dad playing Bowie on his electric, and made his way towards the garage. “Oh, I won't stay for dinner, by the way,” he called over his shoulder. “I'll be leaving for London later.”

“Good decision, dear. Give our greetings to Miles, will you?”

“I won't...oh whatever.”

[thenerdparty]

Avengers: Endgame Film Review

Written by Shawn Eastridge Has it really been 11 years since the first Iron Man? The Dark Knight might have taken all the credit that year for revolutionizing the superhero genre, but Iron Man’s legacy has proved just as important. While other films in Phase One hobbled somewhere between decent and mediocre, Joss Whedon’s first Avengers exceeded any and all expectations. To this day, it stands as one of the greatest superhero films ever, and it paved the way for the remainder of Marvel’s Cinematic Universe.

Over the course of the past decade, the MCU has seen its fair share of highs (Anything directed by the Russos), lows (Thor movies not directed by Taika Waititi) and everything in between. But through it all, Marvel Studios has maintained a consistent level of quality, conjuring up box office numbers that made Warner Bros SO JEALOUS they ruined Superman in the attempt to catch up. (Hey, WB: I’m still available to help get you on the right track with the Man of Steel. Call me.)

But now, twenty-two movies later, it’s all come down to this. We’re in the Endgame now, the long-awaited BIG FINALE to Marvel’s Cinematic Universe.

Let’s be real, though - we all know this isn’t really the finale. The MCU will chug on and on forever. In fact, we’ve even got another Marvel movie right around the corner. (That would be July’s Spider-Man: Far From Home) And while that knowledge does dilute Endgame’s overall effectiveness - can anyone ever stay dead in the realm of comic books - it seems foolish to recognize Endgame as anything other than a monumental success.

Seriously, this ‘conclusion’ to the MCU’s recently dubbed ‘Infinity Saga’ satisfies on nearly every level, fulfilling arcs set up in prior films and providing proper send offs for characters we’ve come to know and love over the past decade. Instead of collapsing under the weight of its ongoing 22-film arc, the Russo Brothers, along with screenwriting duo Stephen McFeely and Christopher Markus, rise to the challenge and then some, wrapping things up with style, grace and a surprising amount of emotion. That is perhaps the most pleasant surprise: Endgame is genuinely touching in the way it thoughtfully concludes this ongoing story arc. You may find yourself dabbing the corners of your eyes more frequently than expected through the film’s brisk three-hour runtime.

This isn’t all to say that Endgame is without its fair share of flaws - and there are plenty that I’ll get into during the spoiler section of this review - but honestly, the nitpicks feel so minor when compared to all the things that work. Marvel Studios hasn’t just raised the bar for superhero filmmaking and ‘big finales’ in general. They’ve obliterated it.

There. That’s my non-spoiler reaction. MASSIVE SPOILERS await you ahead. So, do yourself a favor: if you haven’t seen Avengers: Endgame already, see it. Immediately. If you have any fondness for any of the films in this massive franchise, there’s no way you’ll be disappointed. Once you’re in the know, come back and check out the rest of this review.

Sound good? Okay. Let’s push forward.

. . . . .

Where Infinity War brought the comic book action early and often, Endgame’s opening moments are more meditative and somber. Our heroes have just faced a crushing loss. They’re still reeling from the devastation of Thanos’s infamous Finger-Snap Heard ‘round the Universe. Nothing will ever be the same.

After staging an effectively heart-wrenching opening scene, giving us a brief glimpse at Hawkeye’s family life before his wife and kids fade into ash, the Russos keep the mood low-key and mournful for the duration of the film’s first act. Then we get one of Endgame’s earliest and best twists: within the film’s first twenty minutes, the Avengers find Thanos and discover he’s destroyed the Infinity Stones to prevent anyone from undoing his monstrous deed. In an empty gesture, Thor chops off the purple dude’s head. It’s a brilliant way to kick things off, throwing the audience for a loop and suggesting an ‘anything goes’ vibe to keep us on the edge of our seats.

The story jumps ahead five years(!!) to find our heroes scattered and broken, attempting to mend together the pieces in a world still devastated by its new reality. I loved that the Russos let us wallow in our heroes’ misery for a bit. You really get a sense of the loss they’ve experienced, that the entire world has experienced. These scenes offer some wonderful character beats and conversations, something that has always elevated Marvel above the rest of the pack.

Scott Lang, a.k.a. Ant-Man, escapes the Quantum Realm (you saw Ant-Man and the Wasp, right?) to discover a significantly altered world. But he brings a message of hope with him: the duration of time he experienced in the Quantum Realm was only 5 hours, suggesting the potential for time travel. Maybe they can find a way to fix the devastation Thanos has wrought by traveling back in time?

P.S. Can I just take a moment to talk about how much I love Paul Rudd in this movie? Ant-Man has been on the periphery of the MCU’s big events and to see him take on such a big role in this movie was a huge thrill.

This glimmer of hope inspires the band to get back together and it’s genuinely surprising where some of them have ended up. Bruce Banner has finally made peace with his meaner, greener side, resulting in Professor Hulk, a version of the character that maintains Banner’s intelligence and personality. Thor never overcame his grief and has spent the past five years descending into drunken slobbery and gaining a significant amount of weight in the process. This provides one of the film’s best sight gags. Plus, it’s maintained throughout! Kudos to you, Russos!

And then we have Mr. Tony Stark himself, the key to figuring out how to make time travel work. But he’s moved on. He and Pepper have an adorable daughter. He has absolutely zero desire to lose what he has. Ultimately the realization that he can save the lives of countless billions - including one surrogate son Peter Parker - drives him to support the cause.

Endgame’s 2nd act centers around the newly reassembled Avengers time-traveling into the past to gather the Infinity Stones, bring them to their future and use them to ‘un-snap’ their fallen comrades. These sequences are fun and light on their feet. They’re especially effective in lieu of the grim opening scenes.

Here’s the thing, though: As much as I love this portion of the film and the way the time travel stuff is handled, I couldn’t help feeling there was a general lack of consequence to everything that happened during this sequence. Even when things skew from the team’s set plan, it doesn’t feel like a significant snag or an insurmountable obstacle. These moments are treated as minor annoyances before our heroes carry on with a new solution, nary breaking their strides or a sweat in the process.

It’s all fun in a Back to the Future Part II kind of way, but it’s treated more as an extended comedy bit than anything else, and to a certain extent, this robs Endgame of some level of suspense. Plus, it’s time travel. Once you throw time travel into the mix, all bets are off, and I couldn’t help shaking that feeling. After all, what’s to stop them from using this plot device again and again in the future, consequences be damned?

At the very least, the wackiness of the time travel sequence is balanced with some great character beats. I loved Thor’s tender moment with his mom. I loved Captain America vs. Captain America. I loved that Tony gets a sincere heart to heart with his dad, offering some much-needed closure. Robert Downey Jr. has never been anything less than wonderful in this role, but his performance in Endgame might take the cake. Honestly, everyone brings their A-game to the table and these moments ground the sequence, keeping it from getting too bonkers.

This sequence is also balanced with a genuinely tragic moment: Black Widow sacrifices herself to get the Soul Stone. I don’t know why this scene has been stirring up some people, because here’s the thing: this moment works perfectly. Natasha (Black Widow) and Clint (Hawkeye) travel to Vormir to obtain the Soul Stone. As established in Infinity War, the only way to obtain said stone is to sacrifice the thing you love most. Clint’s willing to take the plunge. He’s become a monster in the five years since his family’s disappearance (but an awesome, katana-wielding monster) and he doesn’t feel he deserves to see them again. Natasha knows this isn’t true and she’s willing to sacrifice herself to ensure Clint gets his happy ending. After all, he saved her all those years ago. It’s time to return the favor. It’s heartbreaking, but it feels right and Scarlett Johansson and Jeremy Renner sell every minute.

The plan is a success, but it's not without its snags. Past Thanos ends up getting involved when past Nebula tunes into future Nebula’s wifi and begins broadcasting everything future Nebula has seen, including the Avengers’ time travel plan. Thanos gets worked up into a tizzy and he and past Nebula devise a plan to get him into the Avengers’ future so he can ensure everyone snapped out of existence stays snapped out of existence. Also, why not wipe out everyone else in the process just for good measure? Because that’s what big, angry, purple maniacs do. Don’t question it.

Is it a bit weird that the Thanos the Avengers face isn’t the same Thanos so carefully fleshed out in Infinity War? Yeah, a little bit. To be honest, it makes things feel kind of impersonal. This Thanos feels more like the mysterious being teased in dozens of MCU post-credits sequence than the layered, thoughtful villain of the previous film. It’s a bit of a bummer, but it is what it is.

Ultimately, my biggest gripe with Endgame is the same gripe caused by Infinity War’s conclusion. We already knew the disintegrated heroes were going to come back for their obligatory sequels. Their arrival during Endgame’s epic battle to end all epic battles feels inevitable more than surprising.

And, look, let me be clear: Endgame’s climax is the ultimate superhero big battle you’ve been dreaming of since Nick Fury first name-dropped the ‘Avengers Initiative.’ I went nuts with the best of them when all our heroes returned from the abyss for this ultimate showdown, so understand my next criticism comes from a place of love. Once all the heroes show up, the stakes disappear. I didn’t have any doubt the Avengers would win. As a result, the climax is robbed of its suspense. It’s basically fan service to the nth degree, which again, I’d like to emphasize I was totally cool with. It just prevents the battle from conjuring up any emotional depth.

This isn’t The Return of the King. It's not the Battle of Hogwarts or the Death Star trench run or even the first Avengers' Battle for New York. It’s a big, flashy special effects extravaganza overflowing with crowd-pleasing beats, but lacking in genuine (here’s this word again) consequence. Again, I want to emphasize that I loved every second of it, but there’s a significant lack of loss during these scenes. Ultimately, Tony Stark sacrifices himself to save the universe and it’s absolutely BRILLIANT and heart-wrenching, but no one else seems in danger. Iron Man dies so that dozens of franchises can live on.

The remaining twenty minutes or so of Endgame are low key. We witness Tony’s emotional funeral, torches are passed (go, Sam Wilson, go!) and some unexpected-slash-exciting team-ups are teased (Fat Thor with the Guardians of the Galaxy? I am SO in.) But it’s during these quiet scenes that the Russos skillfully remind us what has always mattered the most: the characters. And I’m not going to lie, it’s difficult not to get choked up when Steve Rogers, a man who has sacrificed so much for the greater good, finally gets his happy ending, dancing the day away with the love of his life.

Big finales don’t get much more enjoyable or fulfilling than this. Marvel’s Cinematic Universe will go on and on and on. Inevitably, its quality will wane and fade, but we can rest easy knowing that the heroes that kicked everything off got the send-off they deserved. It might not be perfect, but it’s pretty damn great. Most importantly, it’s satisfying.

With the Infinity Saga, Marvel Studios has accomplished something extraordinary. They’ve touched countless millions across the globe without compromising the artistic quality of this multi-billion dollar franchise. We can rage on and on about Disney’s domination and how everything is just a corporate product and blah, blah, blah, but we’d be ignoring the fact that they got to where they are because they honored their source material and went out of their way to give the fans something special.

So to Kevin Feige and the entire team at Marvel Studios, cast, crew, writers, bean pushers, etc., I’d like to say thank you. You’ve earned every record-breaking penny. We love you 3000.

Now can someone please un-cancel Daredevil?? Come on!!

[imagitory]

Review: The Nutcracker and the Four Realms [Spoilers]

Hey, everyone! So today I decided to go see Disney’s newest release, The Nutcracker and the Four Realms!

Some of you may recall that I’m a rather big fan of the original ballet and was quite disappointed about how little the trailers and promotional materials for this film resembled that very ballet, so I went in with my expectations ridiculously low. Because of this, I was able to see some good in the film, which I’ll go into under the cut, but for those of you who wish to avoid spoilers, I must be frank that The Nucracker and the Four Realms is a mixed bag at best. Those who love the original ballet and book will likely hate how little the movie respects its characters and story, and those who don’t love the ballet and book might find it to be a rather standard action-adventure fantasy film for kids with few elements that weren’t done better in other movies. It’s not as god-awful as The Nutcracker: The Untold Story was or anything: there were good ideas here and there...but overall, I’m afraid I can’t recommend The Nutcracker and the Four Realms to anyone.

For those of you who don’t fear spoilers...a cut!

The Good!

+For the most part, the first fifteen minutes of this movie (taking place in London) felt the way a Nutcracker film adaptation should. There were nice Christmas colors, sparkling holiday decor, and an elegant party full of swirling gowns and happy children. Admittedly I probably would’ve preferred it if the story had taken place in Russia (like the ballet) or Germany (like the book), or even a vaguely European-ish setting without naming a specific city, but hey, can’t win ‘em all.

+All of the actors chosen I thought were pretty good choices. Morgan Freeman made a great Drosselmeyer (though I wish he’d had more of a role in the story), Helen Mirren and Keira Knightley are always good talent (though I’ll come back to problems I have with their characters later), and even the actor they chose for the Nutcracker, Jayden Fowora-Knight, was good enough that I wouldn’t mind seeing him in something else. But for me, the actor I loved seeing the most was Matthew Macfadyen as Clara’s father, who was easily one of the best parts of the movie. This could also be considered a bad thing, as he’s criminally underused, but it doesn’t change how nice it was to see him. (I can only hope that Keira and Matthew were happy to see each other on set again, even if they had no scenes together -- garg.)

+The music was pretty well-handled. James Newton Howard did a good job of not just running all of the usual tunes into the ground -- he gave us a nice haunting remix of the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy during an eerie scene in the Fourth Realm, used the Battle track excellently during a confrontation with the mice, and arranged the Overture perfectly in the opening panning shot (which admittedly looked too CG for my taste, but still communicated the location and mood well).

+Misty Copeland’s ballet performances were excellent. She truly was a joy to watch every second she was on screen.

+The costumes for the most part were well done, as were a lot of the visuals. I have some issues with them that I’ll come back to, but honestly, the majority of them worked well for the characterizations and mood the film was going for.

+Directly connecting Clara to the magical world she enters is, in principle, not a bad idea, nor is the idea of her arrival in that world being more than just a fun finale. A battle in a magical realm will always be more interesting than one done in your living room. I also like the idea that Clara’s facing her real-world problems through her fantasy and that she’s more active in the story...I just would have written those ideas very, very differently.

The Not-So-Good...

+The script. And I mean absolutely everything about it. There is so much wrong with this script and the concept behind it that I will have to make separate bullet points in order to go through all of the problems I had with it:

The characters are beyond underdeveloped. Although I think Helen Mirren, Keira Knightley, and Jayden Fowora-Knight were good casting choices, they honestly had very little to work with. Mother Ginger was supposed to be a villainous sort, but from the very beginning, she never came across that way, despite the script’s and the actors’ best efforts -- hell, in a flashback we see that Clara’s mother actually sort of resembled Ginger! That sure isn’t a hint to who’s really trustworthy or anything. The same can be said for Sugarplum -- honestly, did anyone really not guess that she was the fake-out villain all along, especially after how long Disney has been beating that particular dead horse of a trope? As for our “Nutcracker” Phillip, he really has little autonomy in the story given that he basically follows Clara’s orders as a princess and then, mid-way through the story, we’re supposed to believe that he’s now following her out of real devotion and caring, even though their relationship isn’t given the time and scenes needed to show their growing bond. Drosselmeyer as I said was barely around: we learn that he basically raised Clara’s mother, which you would think means he had a role to play in the Four Realms, but nope! He doesn’t appear anywhere until the end except through his owl familiar that...does absolutely nothing during the entire story. I barely remember any of the side characters in the Four Realms, and I just finished watching this movie about an hour ago. Despite being some kind of a mechanical genius, Clara is amazingly bland. She says she doesn’t know who she is or what her place is, and yet Phillip goes on about how confident she is and basically everyone around Clara showers her with praise. She’s smart enough to teach the great inventor Drosselmeyer himself how to fix something and also tough enough to kick a tin soldier in the face during the climax...but that, in the process, kind of makes her boring and one-note. I never feel like Clara is in any danger or puts herself at any great risk because we never see her in a situation she can’t handle. Even when she’s “trapped” by Sugarplum, it’s at the top of a tower decorated with a chandelier and windows she can easily get out of, so she just jerry-rigs herself and her fellow prisoners a way down after a pointless touch of moping. (I mean seriously, you couldn’t lock her in a dungeon?? With LOCKED DOORS AND WINDOWS??)  And really, hasn’t this archetype Clara’s fulfilling been done to death already? Rather than have her be yet another “girl ahead of her time” (one basically just like her mother, which doesn’t exactly make her special, then), why not have her be nothing like her mother? If Clara had been more like her sister Louise and yet expected by everyone around her to be like her mother, wouldn’t it have made her realizing she has everything she needs inside of herself mean that much more? Wouldn’t it have shown her the value of her own worth if she’d failed to live up to everyone’s expectations at first, rather than her be heralded as “truly being her mother’s daughter” and clearly being so from the beginning?

The Four Realms itself doesn’t really make that much sense. Not only does it resemble Narnia (snowy magical forest that you enter through a magical doorway, time moving differently than in our world, lost human ruler returning to ascend to the throne) and Oz (being split into four parts and, like Oz the Great and Powerful, a ruler of one of those lands being painted wrongly as the villain by another who actually wants to take over everything) a little too much for my liking, but I can’t even figure out its rules. For one, the film can’t seem to decide whether Clara’s mother Marie (nice nod to the original book, actually) created the land or discovered it. In all of the summaries I’ve read, it says that Marie created the Four Realms, and her identity as an inventor would seem to justify this, but in the dialogue, Sugarplum says she discovered each land, and brought its citizens to life through her engine invention thing. Yet if they’re all dolls brought to life and made large by the engine, why are they all doll-sized when they go through the clock to peek in on Drosselmeyer’s party? And how much of that world is actually based on our real world? The film at some points tries to make connections to Clara and her mother’s real life by having Clara and Fritz try to catch a mouse in their attic, depicting a Nutcracker ornament in a flashback, and showing Fritz receive a Nutcracker that resembles Phillip for Christmas, but the film drops the ball in having any of those touches actually mean anything. There are ways you can weave the real world into your fantasy land in a meaningful way -- the film could have had Marie taking inspiration from her real life when she made this make-believe world or even represented Clara’s inner turmoil by making the Four Realms completely make-believe, but instead it just comes across as muddled and odd.

Speaking of Clara’s mother Marie, I really don’t like the fact that I have to insult a dead woman, but...screw this woman! She makes this entire world and then, as her dying wish, tells her adopted father to only have her middle child discover it by leaving the key to her music box there? What, did Louise not deserve to be a princess too? Did Fritz not deserve to be a prince? Your husband, who called you the LOVE OF HIS LIFE, doesn’t deserve to know? Oh, but they’re not like Clara -- they’re not clever and special and different like you and Clara. That’s why you told Drosselmeyer that Clara was your greatest invention, because clearly your other two non-main-character children don’t count. Bite me.

The story crafted doesn’t fit the constraints that a Nutcracker tale must operate inside -- namely, the film sets up the fact that this family is mourning the loss of their matriarch, and yet the entire story focuses solely around Clara. Yes, the original Nutcracker tale is supposed to be about Clara, the Nutcracker, and the Mouse King...but by adding the mother’s death and the arc revolving around Clara and her family coming to grips with it, the story’s basically torn between what it should be about versus what it is about. This family is broken and must be fixed: Clara going into another world that has no connection to anyone but her dead mother to “find herself” isn’t going to fix that. Therefore the central conflict and the driving plot have no connection. The film either needed to take out the family part of the plot or have the entire family discover this world together and connect through their adventures in it in order for this choice to make sense.

On the note of focus, “The Nutcracker and the Four Realms” is a misleading title. A better title would be “Clara, Sugarplum, and Their Dead Mother,” because that’s all that gets any real attention here. Phillip, rather than being a prince cursed into the form of a Nutcracker, is a toy brought to life that serves Clara (the real princess) and has no animosity for mice excluding what has been indoctrinated into him by Sugarplum. He even BEFRIENDS the Mouse King at the end. Yes -- THE NUTCRACKER BEFRIENDS THE MOUSE KING. ARE YOU F**KING KIDDING ME --?  As for the Mouse King, oh ho ho....wait until you hear this. The Mouse King is not a monstrous, fearsome creature locked in battle with his foe, the Nutcracker: instead he’s just an ordinary mouse that fuses together with his subjects into this monstrous giant mouse shape. But they’re not really the bad guys -- no, they’re underlings of Mother Ginger, who’s a good guy. So the Nutcracker plays second-fiddle to Clara, and the Mouse King plays second fiddle to Mother Ginger. TWO OF THE MAIN CHARACTERS OF THE STORY ARE REDUCED TO GROUNDLINGS OVER HERE.

Sugarplum’s motivation doesn’t really make sense. She claims she’s taking over because Clara’s mother Marie left them and that hurt her, but...how do you go from feeling betrayed by your mother figure to “taking over the world”? Is it because the world is one your mother created and you want to destroy it because it reminds you of her -- wait, no, Marie didn’t create it, though, she discovered it, and you only really seem interested in going after Mother Ginger with any great passion rather than any of the other Regents...okay, is it that you were hurt by your mother figure and so you want to create an army so strong no one could ever hurt you again -- wait, but everyone seems to like and trust you, so there’d be no reason for you to fear that and it’s not like you built up that lack of trust earlier...okay, is it that your mother figure chose her real family over her make-believe family and so you want to get back at the family she chose over you -- wait, no, you locked Clara up but you’ve barely even tried to take any vengeance out on her and you looked almost horrified when Clara outsmarted you... Yeah, what I’m trying to get across is that Sugarplum as a villain really doesn’t jive.

Because of the lack of character development and the many disparate plot elements fighting for your attention, no relationship in this movie comes across as particularly heart-felt or genuine. We get almost no build-up for Clara and her father’s disagreement before they part ways (and that confrontation has very little fall-out, so it feels hollow); Sugarplum’s affection for Clara seems so cloying and she is so obviously the villain that it makes it difficult for the audience to see any kind of bond forming (honestly, wouldn’t a kind of buried-deep resentment been more interesting, given that Sugarplum knows all about Clara but Clara knows nothing about her?); and there are so few moments building up Clara and Phillip as equals and friends that the scene where Phillip encourages Clara to stay by saying he didn’t follow her because she’s the princess basically comes out of left field. Even the relationship between Clara and her mother, which is so central to the movie, doesn’t ring true for me because they are so similar. Everyone remarks on how much Clara is like her mother, but that means that there’s no interesting interactions between them. Clara is just a Marie 2.0, rather than her own person, and Marie’s advice to Clara almost seems obvious: if Clara’s so much like the mother she admired, there’d be no reason for her to be as self-doubting as she is. If the film even just tried to show how much Clara still has to learn at some point, that relationship would’ve been that bit stronger, because it would mean that Marie saw something in Clara that no one else did, not even herself.

+Moving on, even though the ballet routines were pretty, they came out of nowhere. Rather than integrate dance seamlessly into the plot by having Clara be interested in ballet or something, the sequences only served to be fluff pieces plopped down into the middle of scenes that don’t connect to anything else going on. It just felt like the filmmakers were trying to remind you that “oh yeah, this is based on the Nutcracker -- I know it doesn’t resemble the Nutcracker in plot at all, but it’s definitely based on the Nutcracker!! 8D”

+The editing at points in this was really choppy and messy. There were quite a few tracking shots that got way up into the actor’s personal bubble, even in scenes that weren’t supposed to be uncomfortable or weird. For example, there’s a moment when Louise, wearing her mother’s old dress, comes to check in on Clara and their father -- the camera keeps the reveal of what she looks like a surprise until after showing the father’s awed reaction for a long moment, but because we the audience have never seen this dress or even a picture of the mother wearing it, we feel nothing when the dress is finally revealed. There’s no emotional gut-punch that would’ve been there if we saw a familiar dress on someone else, so the editing choice seems pointless.

+Even though most of the costumes were pretty, the hair and make-up choices were sometimes bizarre, even for characters that were supposed to be pretty. When Sugarplum does Clara’s hair up all princess-y, it’s supposed to glamorous, but it just looks ridiculous. I also wish that the Regents for the Flower and Snowflake Kingdoms had looked a little less cartoonish -- did we have to have the Snowflake guy have icicle bangs messily dribbling into his eyes? Admittedly both him and the Flower Regent were pretty useless, but their silly designs didn’t exactly make them more appealing. There were also two unfunny “comic relief soldiers” with their hair drawn badly onto their heads, and I don’t know, it just wasn’t a particularly appealing look for characters we theoretically are supposed to like watching. Louise also has a rather odd hairstyle in her first appearances that doesn’t communicate her supposedly feminine and mature character, which is supposed to be a contrast to Clara, but still likable -- instead it makes her look over-the-top and silly.

+Even though many of the visuals were nice enough to look at, there wasn’t much that I haven’t seen before. If you edited footage of the Four Realms alongside Wonderland from Alice Through the Looking Glass and Oz from Oz the Great and Powerful, I think you’d be hard-pressed to tell where one starts and another begins at points. The Christmasy colors you see in the “real world” really should have been dialed up for the fantasy sequences, but instead, there’s not much of a shift excluding seeing people with pink cotton candy and flowery vines for hair. Many of these supposedly doll characters don’t even . resemble toys with hinges or knobs or anything: they basically look like oddly dressed humans. Even a color palette shift would have been helpful in separating the two worlds -- for instance, having a more white/brown/yellow color scheme with pops of red and green for the real world and more of a pink/purple/blue/white color scheme for the Four Realms might have made each one more visually distinctive. It also would have made Clara pop out more if she’d been dressed in a more “ordinary” color scheme (like a pale yellow) that made her stand apart from the most fantastical backgrounds (perhaps touched with a cool lavender or light blue).

At one point I tried to pretend that this film wasn’t an adaptation of The Nutcracker. I asked myself, “if this wasn’t based on the famous ballet you love so much, would you like it? Could it stand apart as its own thing?” And unfortunately, the answer I kept coming back to was, “...It can’t be its own thing, because it’s taken too many ideas from other sources that did them much better.”

A young girl discovering a magical world while wandering around a strange house? The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

A whimsical land of fantastical creatures that can only be saved by a special child? The Neverending Story.

A coming-of-age story where a girl navigates a world of fantasy and adventure to find herself? Labyrinth.

A world of magic and science where good and evil are not what they seem and an ordinary girl can be the princess of a lost kingdom? Castle in the Sky.

And honestly, if all I can think of when looking back on the movie I just saw are the ballet it took its title from and other better movies...what does that say about The Nutcracker and the Four Realms? It breaks my heart, as I so wanted Disney to adapt this classic story, but I wanted a full-length animated musical -- something in the vein of Disney’s Sleeping Beauty -- where any changes made to the plot and characters enhanced the story as opposed to distracted from it. Maybe someday, way down the road, Disney will realize their mistake and do The Nutcracker the right way...whether they do or don’t, though, I’m afraid this Nutcracker movie is doomed to fade from public consciousness, and even though there clearly was hard work put into it, thanks to the overall vision and script, the finished product is so forgettable that I can’t say it deserves better.

Overall Grade: D

[beckytailweaver]

[FIC] Coco - What the Xolo Dragged In  (Part 8)

Beware of extra long exposition chapter where a lot of nothing happens. There are no hugs. This is a travesty.

Seriously. Boring stuff.

(Warning: Mentions of porta-potties. If you’ve ever had the traumatic experience of needing to use one of these stinky, humid little boxes in a hot, dusty parking lot outside of a cheap event populated by careless drunk people. -_- )

Part 8 - (Interlude) Lost Boy

Imelda was exhausted.

Technically, it shouldn’t be possible for a Well-Remembered skeleton in the Land of the Dead to be tired.  She had her entire living family proudly Remembering her all year long, she had no need for food or sleep or even air, she had no real joints to ache or muscles to strain; indeed, under most circumstances she could power on for days at a time, keeping watch over her family as she always had.

She’d started the week thinking that everything was going to be ordinary, as it had been for decades.  And then that pendejo músico who had been her husband showed up out of the blue (she’d been enjoying years of peace in his absence, without him constantly popping in to pester her with his simpering and whining and caterwauling) and dropped an absolute perfect storm of a nightmare in her lap.

She wasn’t really angry with her little Miguelito.  If anything, the child was the most innocent person involved in this entire debacle, despite their difficulties.  She wasn’t entirely sure who or what was to blame for this, other than the dubious ghost that may have been in the Santa Cecilia river, but she suspected that part of it was because of that ridiculous, obnoxious alebrije which refused to be parted from her great-great-grandson (though she knew better than to try to separate them; Pepita would tear down walls if she thought her chosen soul was being taken from her, and Imelda didn’t want to find out what mess a stupid dog might make of her house by attempting to climb in the windows or dig under the door).

She was also fairly certain that something about Miguel’s presence in the Land of the Dead was Héctor’s fault.  She just wasn’t sure how.

It had been simple enough to take in her grandson and get him some food; they still had a few things left over from last year’s Día de Muertos, since everyone tried to make it last until the next, and her brothers always kept a stash of cookies in reserve.  And of course, everyone was delighted to have Miguel in their home, to be able to talk to him and embrace him after years of merely watching him grow through annual visits.  Rosita was practically beside herself to have a child in the house to dote on again.

Despite the quiet, wary boy, breakfast had gone smoothly.  So had getting Miguel cleaned up from the filth Héctor had brought him in with, though the child refused to let her throw away the tattered rag of a poncho he’d worn (and Rosita had coddled him by promising to wash it).  They’d also managed to get some questions answered and made some more introductions, though Miguel remained sullen most of the time.

The real nightmare began after all that, when she and Julio (Miguel’s closest deceased relative) had marched the boy down to the Department of Family Reunions to find out just how to send a living child back where he belonged.  After that, she no longer had time to dwell on her irritation with Héctor.

The Department had no record of his entry into the Land of the Dead, therefore it was certain that Miguelito was not in any way deceased (gracias a Dios).  They also had no idea how a living person could have arrived in the Land of the Dead without dying, or without crossing over the Marigold Bridges during Día de Muertos due to some supernatural influence (something which hadn’t happened in a couple of centuries, by the Department’s best reckoning).  The awe-inspiring cempasúchil spans used to pass into the living world on the Day of the Dead did not even exist outside of that hallowed eve, rising mysteriously from the fog and wind near the Veil at sunset and vanishing into golden dust on the breeze the moment the sun rose the following morning, closing the gates between realms for another year.

The only creatures capable of passing through the Veil year-round were alebrijes, and they could take nothing with them from either world when passing from spirit to mortal form and back again.  The clerks and researchers in the Department were doing a great deal of head-scratching about how Miguel had ended up on this side at all, much less how to send him back.  Living souls fell naturally into the afterlife when their bodies stopped functioning; leaving it took a great deal of magic.

They’d spent the remainder of the day at the Santa Cecilia Department office, with personnel running to and fro carrying books, folders, and clipboards, searching through archives and looking for records of any Remembered soul old enough to recall the ancient days when the worlds of the living and the dead brushed shoulders more often.  They’d had both Imelda and Julio attempt various curse-breaking rituals for hours, from the modern to the arcane, including everything from precious family objects to dried and fresh marigold petals, just to see if there was any way to send their grandson home, but in the end they had to admit defeat; Miguel was not cursed and there was no spell to break.

All the while, that stupid alebrije-puppy sat at Miguel’s side, panting and grinning a doggy grin as if nothing was wrong at all.

When it grew terribly late Imelda called a halt to the frantic testing (Miguel was already sullen and upset and wanted to go home to his parents, and with the constant poking and long hours of waiting he was rapidly moving toward cranky) and took her grandson home to rest.  The child was tired and hungry and Imelda was done with ineffective bureaucracy fluttering around like pigeons.

Then, when they fed Miguel dinner, Imelda had a terrible realization: Their boy would need to eat a sufficient amount of food two or three times a day for as long as it took to find him a way home, and two meager (and rather unhealthy) meals of cookies and sweetbread had already half decimated the Riveras’ modest stores of snacks.

She wasn’t going to have enough food for her grandson to last a few days, much less a week.

It was a chilling, hollow awareness that brought to mind the time before she’d started making shoes, when she wasn’t sure she’d be able to put food on the table for Coco from one day to the next, waiting for another envelope containing meager pesos to arrive.  Only this time it wasn’t a matter of money, it was a matter of wondering if sufficient food even existed in the Land of the Dead.

Imelda asked her granddaughter, who knew what seemed like almost everything, how much time they might have, and Victoria gave her the Survival Rule of Threes: Miguelito might live three minutes without air, three days without water, and three weeks without food.

And three weeks was the outermost limit before he went into a coma and died; infirmity and severe illness would set in long before that.

By the next day, the twins and Rosita were canvassing their neighbors for donations of food and supplies for their lostling living child.  Imelda and Julio took Miguel back to the Department office to harry them for answers again, or at least some solutions to their problems.  And suddenly there were a lot of problems.

They’d all long forgotten how much work it was to stay alive and healthy, when in the Land of the Dead they needed so little.  Miguel had to eat sufficient food and use the bathroom regularly (one of the archivists had found an old chamber pot in the basement like Imelda hadn’t seen used since her girlhood, and placed it in an empty office) and would need to bathe and brush his teeth. Obviously skeletons didn’t need to eat, and especially didn’t need to eliminate after they did; bathing was something done rather rarely and only when there was need (there was no skin to sweat with, no oils or odors to worry about).

Imelda had been horrified to learn that the water piped into their houses for washing wasn’t clean (why would the dead need it to be more than barely filtered?) and this was what she had been giving her grandson to drink.  The Department heads immediately began to fall over themselves to work out water sanitation (they had the tools and materials but no one had ever bothered).  There probably weren’t any bacteria in the Land of the Dead, as there was no way in and nothing really for them to live on, but Miguel was a source of them himself and if he was weakened by dirty water or rancid food he might still take ill.

They would need changes of clothes and bedding for him, and ways to wash those things.  He would need combs, toothbrushes, toilet paper and towels.  He would need a near constant supply of clean water, sufficient calories and nutrients each day, a place to eliminate waste and keep it sanitary, at least eight hours of sleep per night, and ways to keep his mind busy.  The frantic air in the Department of Family Reunions gradually shifted from “How can we send the child home?” to “How do we keep the child alive and healthy until we can figure it out?”

Some members of the Department, faced with seemingly insurmountable troubles for just one kid, wanted to give up; by their logic, it wasn’t the end of the world if one child among millions died and he’d be much easier to care for then.  Imelda wouldn’t hear of it (chasing one vocal individual out of the room with her boot), and took her sniffling grandson home again, leaving the clerks and workers with a stern admonition to keep trying.

At least her fierce defense of the boy’s right to continue living seemed to make him glower at her a little less.

By the day after that, the entire neighborhood around the Rivera home was in a quiet uproar, having heard the news of the living boy and responded with disbelief, amazement, and concern.  People were dropping in at all hours of the day to bring food, spare clothes, extra toiletries, anything they had.  They gave freely, asking after Miguel and expressing their hopes for his safe, swift return home.  Imelda had never felt prouder of her community, nor more grateful for the good friends her family had made in the years here.

The Department pulled itself together as well, not entirely due to Imelda’s shoe threats; there were decent folk there as well.  Technicians arrived to set up a filtration system under the Rivera house so that Miguel would have assuredly clean water to drink and bathe in.  There were a great many things that skeletons didn’t use which were thrown into piles at the bottom of the towers of the Land of the Dead, and some enterprising interns had found and cleaned up an abandoned set of those portable plastic outhouses (suddenly these were much less silly and disgusting things when they were so desperately needed).  One was placed in a corner of the Rivera courtyard near the gate (Rosita immediately set about putting up colorful curtains and screens to make that corner more pleasant and private for their boy), and the Department promised trucks would come by regularly to switch it out for a fresh one.

They had water aplenty, and sundry supplies in forgotten dumps, warehouses, and basements from decades of not being needed by the dead, but they were desperately short on food—the rarest, most vanishing resource.  And Miguel could not live on conchas and chocolate alone.

To Imelda’s surprise, however, more than just her family, friends, and neighbors wanted to share what they had with the mysterious living child.  As the rumors spread day by day, more and more skeletons showed up on the Riveras’ doorstep with bags, boxes, baskets, and armloads of everything they had left over from the last Día de Muertos.  Some had to see Miguel for themselves before they were entirely willing to part with their gifts, but all of them brought something edible.  Most of it was baked goods and sweets that could keep long-term (Imelda and Victoria despaired of turning the poor boy diabetic before they managed to get him home), but sometimes there was hard cheese or jerky—precious protein.

Seeing how willing even perfect strangers were, the Department clerks finally got the idea through their collective idiocy to put out an official announcement about the living boy in their midst and his desperate need for nourishment until he could be returned to his home.  In the time that followed this broadcast through television, radio, and newspapers (complete with a picture of Miguel looking suitably sad and frightened), the entire Land of the Dead pulled together in a stunning display of both shock and care.  There were millions dwelling in the afterlife and most of them had access to one ofrenda or more; everyone was dropping extra food off at Department offices, community centers and churches.  Celebrities made great shows of bringing large loads of gifts.  Even deceased youngsters started taking up food drives in their neighborhoods with little wagons and baskets.

In a matter of days Miguel Rivera was the talk of the afterlife, like a news story about a baby in a well or whales trapped in the Arctic.  Everyone had heard about him and wanted to help.

Enough food arrived that Imelda felt somewhat better about Miguel’s chances, even if it opened up an entirely new can of logistical difficulties.  It was impossible for food to actually mold in the Land of the Dead (mold spores, it seemed, didn’t grow there any more than anything else did), but it could very well go stale or rancid if left out too long. The Department helped her family set up as many refrigerators and freezers as could fit in the pantry, to hold as much of the offerings as they could for Miguel’s daily use; the rest was kept in the care of the Santa Cecilia Department office.  The family’s kitchen was also provided with a larger stove, a toaster oven, and even one of those noisy, new-fangled microwave things (and a stern warning never to put anything metal inside it).

Oscar and Felipe were already tinkering with things to help with food storage and making toys for Miguel.  Rosita was thrilled with cooking for real on a regular basis, even as limited as their menu was, and took up overseeing baths and bedtimes since Miguel didn’t trust Imelda.  Julio worked twice as hard, keeping his duties in the shoe shop and looking after setting up Miguel’s living quarters and sorting out his clothing.  Victoria read up on child care, nutrition, and first aid, eager to help in her own quiet way.  Imelda shook her fist and her shoe at the Department of Family Reunions and demanded day after day that they find a way to send her grandson home.

After long, tiring days of trying and trying every little thing that anyone could find or even think up, from ancient dances to a memorably chilly boat ride, one by one the heads of the Department began to give up.  There was no spell or curse or astral projection; Miguel was physically present in the Land of the Dead and they could find no way to send him back.  In the end, they were sure of only one path back to Santa Cecilia: Día de Muertos.  When the Bridges returned and the gates to the Land of the Dead opened, they would have at least one sure way to take Miguel back to the living world.

The problem was that the Day of the Dead was over two months away.

Imelda wasn’t happy with how long that would take.  Her grandson would have to survive with their makeshift preparations and inadequate food supply for better than nine weeks, and on the other side his living family had to be worried positively sick for him.  She knew how distraught her daughter would be with their precious littlest grandson missing, and in such tragic circumstances; it knotted her nonexistent stomach to picture Coco weeping for the lost child, thinking him dead in the river.

But Imelda would get Miguelito home to Coco, she swore it on her family’s love and honor.  All they needed was to hold on until Día de Muertos.  Just that long, and then they could walk Miguel across the Bridge to Santa Cecilia and take him home.  Oh, what a joy and relief that would be at last!

Miguel himself was...a challenge, to say the least.  He was already upset in general over Héctor leaving him with his family (really, the boy shouldn’t have been surprised; leaving was what her husband did), people he only knew from pictures and stories.  He was sullen when Imelda was in the room and shy with most of the others, and had a decidedly irritating habit of asking when he could see Héctor again.  The others would uncomfortably deflect the question when it came up, but Imelda would tell him the truth, and that only seemed to make the child more and more mulish every time.

Imelda had to admit that she didn’t know her great-great-grandson as well as she thought she did.  She remembered a sweet but bored child during the quiet Día de Muertos feasts at the living Rivera home, Elena feeding him and shushing him, and his young mother keeping him in arms to prevent him running about the cemetery during candlelight visits.  Nothing in those encounters had done anything to prepare Imelda for the energetic, messy, loud little boy who could go from sunny grins to surly scowls in a heartbeat and tended to leave a trail of dust, clutter, and sheer noise wherever he went.

If there was a mess, the boy was sure to be right in the middle of it.  If there was something that could be knocked over, Miguel would discover a way to bump it.  If there was any object that could make sound, the child would rap, puff, strum, or tap almost without thinking.  With his silly alebrije at his heels, he could do all of this nonstop, from the moment he woke until the moment he collapsed into bed.  Poor Julio couldn’t keep up with him in the least, and they could hardly go an hour without Rosita’s high pitched shrieks and squawks as yet another thing went awry or another mess was found.  Imelda’s brothers were entirely too distractable to be good babysitters, but they were the only ones who could match Miguel’s pace when Imelda was busy.

And Miguel could be as moody and stubborn as he was kind and shyly cheerful.  He tended to be quiet around Imelda herself, frowning and only grudgingly responding to her, but he was obedient, even agreeable to the others.  He knew the routine of a shoe shop, and he tried to do what his Papá Julio asked him to when he helped, even if the results were clumsy.  He even tentatively tried to assist Rosita in the kitchen, though that often just made the messes worse.  He missed his living family terribly, and he wouldn’t accept Imelda’s comfort; she would often find him later, curled up next to wherever Victoria was reading a book, sniffling quietly while his great-aunt absently petted his hair.

However, there were a few points the sweet, likable child would set his feet and refuse to budge on, becoming a surly little stone wall, and one of those issues was Héctor, something that never failed to make Imelda lose her patience.  Every negative response from her just seemed to make Miguel scowl more, even if he didn’t directly challenge her.  He clung to the tattered (but clean) wool poncho he’d arrived in like a security blanket and stayed as far from Imelda as he could get.

Coco had been a stubborn girl in her own quiet, sweet way, but she had been far more cooperative and respectful than Miguel.  Imelda’s granddaughters had also been much more agreeable children; Victoria had plenty of her own ideas, but she was obedient and thoughtful.  Elena had of course been quite loud and willful, but in the end she seldom actually disagreed with her family and always did as her mother and grandmother bid her.  Even Elena’s oldest boy, Berto, had been a cranky but compliant baby when Imelda had known him briefly in life.

Miguel was in a class by himself, and half the time Imelda was at her wits’ end.  Equal parts precious and infuriating, the little boy had her by turns melting and tearing her hair out multiple times a day, and the shoe shop soldiered on under Julio while she ran after the child.  Miguel did not seem to like his great-great-grandmother at all, which didn’t help matters when she had to scold him for one thing or another (depressingly frequent).  She’d never had to bark “No music!” to anyone in the family so often as this child, but on the other hand she’d quickly learned that when he got quiet there was usually a disaster waiting to happen.  He knew how to use puppy-dog eyes to great advantage (Rosita had no resistance whatsoever) and would often go right ahead doing something he was told not to do as long as he thought no one was looking; “No” didn’t mean “No” to him; it meant “Go around.”  He was kind-hearted and well-meaning but obstinate and artful and terribly clever for his age.

It was all so wrenchingly familiar.  There were moments Miguel was so much like Héctor had been in their youth that it made Imelda want to scream in fury or just sit down and sob.  Victoria would say something sternly to the boy and Miguel would grin apologetically and clutch at one arm and his entire posture would make Imelda’s ethereal gut clench.  Rosita would call him to the kitchen for a meal and Miguel would dance and skip along to a rhythm only he could hear and Imelda’s hands would ball into fists at the phantom sound of her husband’s whistling.  Julio would ask Miguel to help clean up in the shop and the little boy’s thin limbs would flail as he tried to catch something he dropped, and Imelda had to grit her teeth against the memory of Héctor’s well-intentioned clumsiness.

With plenty of his very own looks and personality, Miguel wasn’t a tiny Héctor (thank all that was holy), but that just made the myriad parts of him that were all Héctor leap out at her like a jaguar pouncing from a tree—unexpected, all-consuming, and painful.  It shouldn’t have been possible, this many generations away, for any of her great-great-grandchildren to take after that pendejo músico so clearly (they all had their little traces, but Imelda could ignore sporadic flickers like so many short-lived fireflies).  It wasn’t Miguel’s fault, blood was blood and no one could change that, but it was so strong in him that there were overwrought moments when it was all she could do not to snarl at the innocent child as she would have her accursed husband.

As it was, she could snap at him sharply enough to send him running angrily to hide in his room under that dratted poncho, the damned alebrije-dog giving her reproachful looks as it slunk after him.  She always regretted her tone when she’d calmed down, but Miguel’s sullen defiance made apologies impossible.  Very unlike Héctor, her grandson didn’t abandon his disobedience when she reprimanded him; he only retreated to nurse his childish grudges in private, regardless of her authority or the logic of her arguments.

To add insult to injury, he continued to ask about Héctor—when he would see him again, when Papá Héctor would come back.  It only made Imelda more furious with her walkaway husband; that man had always possessed an uncanny talent in utterly charming young children, like a guitar-strumming pied piper.  Of course he would find it far too easy to lure in a small boy who was so like him, capturing a trusting little heart like a dove in a net.  Miguel was stubborn enough to hold on to that faithless man, just like Coco had been as a girl, and it left Imelda’s chest aching.  Despite the decades she’d spent trying to keep him away in life and in death, Héctor had selfishly caused yet another of her family to fall in love with him and then left her to pick up the pieces.

She wasn’t truly angry with her Miguelito, despite how infuriating the boy could be.  It was Héctor’s fault, inspiring both Miguel’s stubborn faith in him, and the inevitable crash and burn that would come when their grandson finally realized that man was never coming back for him.  It would hurt him, just like it had hurt Coco, and it was one more log on the fire of Imelda’s anger on top of all the rest of the stress.

Ten days after Miguel arrived on her doorstep (and they still had two months to go, por Dios), Imelda was exhausted, emotionally drained, and ready to wring Héctor’s neck with a fury she hadn’t experienced since the first year after he’d left home.  Back when she’d had little money from week to week, fingers worked to the bone on leather and stitching, and only cruel answers for her daughter’s tearful demands to know when Papá was coming home.

She had only cruel answers for Miguel, too.  Héctor wasn’t coming back because leaving was what he did.  Héctor wasn’t coming back because Imelda would not allow him to return only to break their family again.

She was not prepared to acknowledge the care she had seen Héctor take with the boy in her courtyard, the gentleness she knew all too well from his time with their daughter.  Anyone could be kind to children, and he just happened to be especially good at it.

She was not prepared to contemplate the rare courage he’d shown, standing firm in the face of an alebrije he’d always seemed terrified of, or the way he’d pushed back for the first time when she swung her boot at him.  She could count on one hand the number of times he’d ever raised his voice to her, and the memory of the bite in his tone that day still gave her an uncomfortable pinch in her chest.

She was not prepared to think about the way he’d turned his back on her, the wooden expression on his face, the way he’d spoken as if they were strangers.  She should have been happy it seemed like he’d at last given up.  She wasn’t prepared to think about it, but no matter how she tried she could not forget the shattered look in his eyes.

Even walking away from her and Coco had not left him looking that broken.  She couldn’t understand it.  At this point, she hadn’t the energy to try to understand it.

Ten days in.  Two months to go.  And she’d just come from yet another unpleasant altercation with her grandson, once again over the music the child couldn’t seem to stop producing.  She’d scolded, he’d scowled, and the very next thing she knew she was snapping at him and he was accusing her of making Papá Héctor go away because she hated music.

No one had ever called her mean.  Not her family.  Not to her face.

Miguel had fled from her and was hiding in his room with that damnable poncho again, possibly under the bed this time.  Imelda was sitting in the sala with a cool damp cloth on her forehead, ignoring the passing of time, wondering where all her child-rearing skills had gone and how she was going to survive eight more weeks of this stubborn, surly, uncooperative little boy she loved so much—

“Oye!  Imelda!”

That was Oscar or Felipe.  It didn’t matter which had yelled; where one went, the other was right behind him.  Imelda plucked the cloth from her head and sat up to glare at her brothers as they tumbled into the room.

Felipe waved his arms frantically.  “Miguel’s gone!”

“What?” she snapped.

“Rosita went in to check on him after a while—”

Oscar took up the explanation.  “—because a treat can sweeten him up a little—”

“—you know like she always does? And—”

“—the bed’s empty, that raggedy security blanket is gone—”

“—and the crazy dog is gone too, and Dante—”

“—never goes anywhere without Miguel...!”

Instead of leaping into action, Imelda paused a moment to lean back, drop the damp cloth over her face, and resist the urge to let out a string of dire, blue-air curses that would have shocked even her brothers who knew her younger days well.

“Ave María Purísima...does it never end?” she muttered instead.

Then she stood up, faced her brothers, and took charge once again.  “Close the shop.  Gather everyone and get ready to search.  Send Julio to the Department office to notify the authorities of a missing child.  I will get Pepita.  Vámonos!”

(tbc)

I still really don’t like this whole part, but at this point I have to throw up my hands and post it or it just won’t happen. Can’t seem to tweak it any better.

I had to cram a lot of information (10 days’ worth) into it that would have been much too dry for non-interlude chapters and wrong from any other POV than Imelda’s. She’s in charge of the family after all, and she’s appointed herself head of the shoe business, as well as head of Getting Miguel Home Safely and head of Looking After The Living Child Day To Day.

Think she’s bitten off more than she can chew this time?

I do think she tries to do too much, and doesn’t stop to think about the consequences other than the practical, determined to protect her family for their own good. (Imperfect narrator.)

Miguel’s bad first impression of her is not making anything easy.  He misses his parents a lot and he’s an angry, scared little boy who has a very hard time trusting his primary caregiver who in his mind is hostile to music and hates/drove off the best friend he’s made here.

Still, I’m sorry for the state of this chapter.

[secretlessvicki]

December Magic

Here it is. My first work for my CS 12 Days to Christmas.  

Dec 14: Workaholic/ Business Rivals during Christmas

Inspired by: Hallmark’s Magical Christmas Ornaments

Christmas in New York was always said to be magical. Between the holiday lights on every corner, the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, ice skating in Central Park, sipping hot chocolate with cinnamon in the Village, and displays at Macy’s, the holiday season in The Big Apple was just like stepping into a Hallmark Movie. The only problem was that was for everyone but Emma Swan.

Emma had lived in the city for four years and in all that time she had never once been to Rockefeller Center during the season, nor had she been ice skating in Central Park. She didn’t even have a tree in her apartment. She was the ultimate Scrooge. All that mattered was getting the promotion she wanted and the bigger paycheck that came with it.

She went over the pitch in her head the entire way home from dinner with her best friend and co-worker Ruby. And again, as she stopped in the front lobby of her apartment building to check the mail. Why was asking to move to a different department of the company so damn hard? It wasn’t like she didn’t earn it. She had taken every single one of her client’s books and worked her ass off with editing, marketing, and promotions until each was on the New York Times Best Sellers for Nonfiction. It was time she moved on to what she really wanted.

“Regina, I have been working hard the past two years to make the nonfiction department successful. But my passion is stories. I would love to work with fiction and…”

Goddamn it… this was going to be a disaster. There was no way in God’s green Earth that she was going to get that promotion.

“Already got a gift.”

Emma had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t even realized she was holding a small box in her arms as she stared at the mailboxes in front of her. Nor did she hear anyone walking up behind her.

“Santa must like you.”

That voice. Holy fuck. That wasn’t an American accent at all. Was it English? Scottish? Irish, maybe? She couldn’t quite tell, but she needed to see whom it belonged to. Maybe her midnight dreams of meeting a Hemsworth brother were coming true.

Shit! She had not been expecting this.

Standing in front of her was a literal Adonis. Sure he was shorter and less muscular than Thor, but his ocean blue eyes and perfect smirk made up for it. His profile picture had to be right next to the tall, dark, and handsome description on Urban Dictionary.

“Santa’s my sister-in-law.” Why did she just say that? God, she was an idiot. Not that she was suddenly trying to impress this mystery guy.

“Oh.”

“Well, I don’t mean literally. I mean my sister-in-law sent me this. How long have you been standing here?

“Not long. Just long enough to know you enjoy stories. Name’s Killian.”

The Irishman (he was definitely Irish) extended out his hand in greeting. But Emma could already feel the heat in the apples of her cheeks and the tips of her ears. This is not what she needed right now. Sure, this guy would probably be a great distraction but right now she needed to focus on her proposal for the morning.

“Emma.” She kept her answer short. No need in extending the conversation.

“I’ve seen you around, lass. It is nice to finally put a name to the face. It’s my first Christmas in New York. You from here?”

The way he tilted his head and gave her a genuine look of interest, gave her pause. She just met him all of thirty seconds ago and he already wanted a full conversation. It was 9pm and she really needed to get to her apartment and hope to God that her neighbor was not already blasting his Bing Crosby Christmas music.

“Not exactly. I’ve moved around.”

“Well, this is my first Christmas in the States. I moved here from Ireland about six months ago. I come from a small town and I am eager to celebrate Christmas in the city.”

“You are in luck, Christmas in New York is magical.”

Emma’s voice was laced with sarcasm. All she wanted was for the elevator doors she was not standing in front of to open so she could end this conversation. But as the doors slid open it did not look like she was going to be so lucky. The sexy Irish chatterbox stepped in right behind her.

“Sounds rather exciting. I’ve always wanted to spend the holidays in a picturesque city. I used to watch Christmas movies and imagine what it would be like.”

Emma watched in annoyance as he pressed the button to the fifth floor. Her floor.

“What about you? What do you want? For Christmas?”

Why does he care? She thought to herself.

“For starters, I would like for my neighbor to stop playing that cheesy Christmas music.”

“Oi, not much in the Christmas spirit, are you?”

“I’m not sure what there is to be in the spirit about.”

*Ding. Ding*

Oh, thank god, saved by the beautiful alert of an incoming email.

“So, I take it you do not know your neighbors much then?” He asked with a pop of his eyebrow.

Damn it. He really wasn’t going to let this conversation go, was he? And why did his eyebrow trick suddenly have her licking her lips? Emma, sighed as they both walked out of the elevator and towards their respected apartments. She stopped in front of her own door and unlocked it, only for the 8 on her door to swing loose. She was really going to need to call and get that fixed. She did not want the postman refusing to deliver her mail because he could not find apartment 508.

“Not really. I am not much of a people person. And it’s a big building.”

“That’s what I miss about small towns, everyone practically knows everyone. Maybe if you took a moment to look up from that phone of yours you could get to know them.” Killian stopped in front of apartment 509. “Oh, and by the way, I don’t think Jingle Bells is cheesy.”

“I’m…I’m…I just… the walls are thin and…” She stammered.

“And you do not enjoy Christmas music?”

“Well after a while it all just starts to sound the same. Maybe you could change it up a little. Play something from after 1960.” Emma shot back.

“If you have any more special requests, feel free to knock on my door, Emma. “

The moment the door closed behind her Emma, leaned her back against it as she thought about her not so new neighbor. How had she never seen him before? Was she really that oblivious to the world lately?

She spent the next five minutes trying to get her mind off Killian and his gorgeous blue eyes as well as his panty-dropping accent. However, she had only been succeeding halfway. Pushing herself off the sturdy door, Emma proceeded to go about her nightly routine. She checked her mail (for real this time), checked her email, closed the curtain to the monstrosity that was considered a Christmas tree in the neighborhood garden across the street, and finished with a mug of spiked hot chocolate. No, the Irish cream was not because of the man she had met an hour ago.

Emma had just changed into her much warmer and cozier pajamas and was preparing to focus on her proposal when she heard the ring of someone wanting to Facetime. There was only one person who would want to talk to her this late. Well maybe two, but she had just had dinner with the second option.

“Oh Emma, is that you?”

The distant portrait of a raven-haired pixie appeared on Emma’s screen along with the left side of a blonde-haired man. Emma couldn’t help the smile that crept upon her lips. Her sister-in-law may be a wonderful reading teacher, but technology would never be her strong suit. It was almost as if she were better suited for the fairytale realms of her son’s favorite books.

“Hello, Mary Margaret. You know if you stopped holding the phone out so far you could actually see me.”

“Well, I wanted to make sure David was in the screen. Did you check your mail?”

“Yeah. Thanks for the gifts.”

“Aren’t you going to open them?”

The urgency in Mary Margaret’s voice had Emma pause.

“Shouldn’t I wait for Christmas?”

“No this is important.”

Emma simply shook her head but agreed to open the presents in front of her sister-in-law and brother. As she retrieved the box from the table near her door, Emma could hear Mary Margaret describing in detail how Emma was still wearing makeup and that her hair was curled. “Maybe she was on a date? She really does need to get out more.” With a roll of her eyes, Emma came back to sit down on the couch in front of her phone and began tearing at the perfect candy cane wrapping paper that adorned the small box.

“You got me an ornament?”

“Yes! And when you finally get a tree she will be your first. Oh, go on read the note.”

                                     An angel from Christmas past

                     hang her high to receive the magic that she casts.

“It’s Holly. David explained that when you two were young you used to swear she was magic.”

“That’s because I swore she was the one to create the Christmas lights in our foster house.”

“Oh, come on, Emma give her a chance. Do it because you love us. And because you know that Mary Margaret is only going to nag you until you agree.” David spoke somewhere off the screen.

“Alright, I will put her up on the shelf. Will that satisfy the both of you?”

“I suppose that will work for now. Oh, we have to go, Miracle on 34th Street is starting. Have a good night Emma.”

Saying a quick goodbye to her brother and sister-in-law as well as a quick wave from Leo (with the help of David), Emma hung up and slumped back further into the cushions of her couch. She had no idea what she was actually going to do with the ornament without a tree but if she knew her sister-in-law, Mary Margaret would know if she did not put Holly somewhere on display.

As promised, Emma set the small angel atop the highest shelf in her living room. She had to admit it felt like the little porcelain ornament was meant to watch over the tiny apartment.

“Alright, Holly. If you have any magic in you at all could you get me that promotion? And maybe send me a sign that happens endings do exist. And not just in fairy tales?” Emma closed her eyes to make her wish final.

But the peaceful moment was suddenly interrupted by the recognizable first notes of Mariah Carrey.

“Oh, and if you could help me with that, it would be fantastic.”

Over the next several days packages continued coming. Each one containing an ornament from David and/or Mary Margaret. On the second day, it was a Swan, because it was the name Emma had chosen for herself before she found a home with David and his mother. The note had read something along the lines that ‘no matter how ugly a situation seemed at the time, with enough hope and faith things would always work out and be prettier in the end’.

The third day consisted of two ornaments. The first was a yellow flower to which Emma could only assume was supposed to be a buttercup. The second was a hand stitched, blue and white ‘As you wish’.  This time the note was written in David’s less than impressive handwriting.

                     Remember the first Christmas you spent with me?

      The night we stayed up hoping to catch Santa climbing down the chimney.

                                         Thanks to a certain tale

                                Our lives changed on a major scale

It was clear that David was not the literary master that his wife was, but it still made her smile just thinking that he had tried.

On the fourth day, Emma received yet another box of ornaments, this time at work. She was starting to wonder where exactly she was supposed to start putting these ornaments. She knew this was her family’s way of getting her to get a tree. She decided to wait until she was home to open the package. Currently, she had a different pressing matter.

Earlier that morning, Emma had a meeting with Regina and was still reeling with the news. Regina had allowed her one shot at proving she could handle working in the fiction department. The assignment was that Emma would have to find an author and book that was worth publishing by the time of the Christmas party. The catch, however, was that the party was in less than a month. And all of this had to be while she continued her work in the nonfiction department.

Setting her package aside, Emma dropped her head to her desk with a loud groan.

“That bad, huh?” Ruby strolled in the doorway to the little office.

“Worse. Regina expects me to do the impossible.”

“Probably because you have done it so many times before. You know they call you the savior of non-fiction for a reason. Numbers have tripled since you took over.”

“Yeah, well, Regina wants me to continue doing that plus trying to find the next J.K. Rowling.” She grumbled as she lifted her head to look at her best friend.

“I suppose that is why I was told to bring these to you.”

Ruby set down a pile of manuscripts on Emma’s desk and gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’ll take you to lunch tomorrow if it will make you feel better.”

“Only if it’s grilled cheese.”

“Of course. With onion rings.”

Emma spent the rest of her day neck deep in manuscripts and drafts of potential books. Yet nothing caught her eye. They were all the same thing. Either someone was trying to bring back the vampire phase, or the dystopian end of the world, and her least favorite the romance novels that were nothing more than a Fifty Shades of Grey knockoff. Not one had the spark she was looking for. Not that she even knew what that spark was.

Needing a break from the monotonous reading, Emma decided a much-needed trip to the coffee shop just down the street was in order. She packed three of the last manuscripts Ruby had brought along with her laptop and began picturing the venti cinnamon white chocolate mocha and chocolate croissant she was going to devour.

It took five minutes to explain to the barista who was more interested in his snapchat story than actually working that yes a cinnamon white chocolate mocha was a thing and that if he didn’t make the damn thing she was going to jump across the counter and do it for him. However, it only took half a second for the perfection in a cup to be spilled across the café floor.

“Hey watch it, pal! You just made me waste a drink that took all of my restraint to order.”

“Hello to you too, neighbor. I would apologize for the utter disaster but seeing as how you were the one to run into me…”

Killian leaned against the counter in a way that screamed swagger for a lack of better word.

“How about you let me replace it.”

“Good luck with that it took that kid ten minutes to make my drink.”

“And what was it you were drinking, Swan?” He asked reading her full name on the side of the bright red disposable cup.

Emma stared in both awe and annoyance as she watched her neighbor charm the young girl that was working alongside the others, into making the drink Emma requested. In no time at all Emma had her replacement and an extra croissant for the trouble. All she wanted to do know was to knock the smirk off Killian Jones’ (as she found out when his name was called) face.

“Sorry about your drink, Emma. And I must also apologize that I have no control over the music at this establishment.” Killian pointed to the ceiling as Silver Bells quietly played in the background.

“I deserve that.” Emma winced at the jab.

“Care to join me and tell me what you are doing on this side of the city? Planning to yell ‘Bah Humbug’ to all the undeserving citizens?”

It took everything in her not to roll her eyes and make a rude comment.

“I work at Mills Publishing and I needed a break from all of the terrible manuscripts I have been reading all day.”

“Oh, do tell.” Killian guided Emma over to a table that was in the far corner where a laptop and a mug of what she thought was some sort of cappuccino sat. Ever the foreign gentleman, Killian pulled out the chair opposite from his own.

She found herself telling this virtual stranger all about the past few days at work. It started out with the absolutely horrendous potential books she was sorting through, then to the reason why she was reading them, and then to explain why she wanted the promotion in the first place. In the past half hour, she had told Killian more about herself than she had to anyone in years.

What she learned in return was that Killian was a former Lieutenant in the British Royal Navy whom after his last tour of duty, went to work with his brother building a company that became known as a premier shipbuilder to the Royal Navy. But after a mishap back home, Killian decided to move to the States and start fresh. So now he was helping manage an international shipping company for a U.S. defense company.

Emma was in the middle of explaining to her new friend why she hadn’t bought a Christmas tree but how her sister-in-law continued to send her ornaments in hopes that it would put her in the Christmas spirit when she noticed she had been away from the office for over an hour. What was meant to be a working break outside of the office ended with her chatting away with a gorgeous guy instead of making a dent in her work. Apologizing for having to leave, to which Jones only teased that he knew where she lived if she wanted to continue their conversation, Emma rushed back to her office hoping Regina was not aware that she had even left.

Later that night, Emma walked up the five flights of stairs to her apartment, because the Thompson twins two floors down had managed to break the elevator yet again. She was ready to get into her warm and comfy bed and finish the last few manuscripts she had for the day. It wasn’t her ideal way to spend the evening, but it could have been worse. That was until she heard the groan and soft thud coming from the direction of her apartment.

“Bloody narrow stairwell. The one time I need a proper working lift.”

The voice was unmistakable as Emma felt herself smiling as she cleared her throat to capture the man’s attention.

“Swan. Sorry, I was planning to leave a note.”

“You bought me a tree?”

“It is a peace offering. You know a preverbally olive branch of sorts. Except this is a little more festive.”

“Wouldn’t a potted plant have been more practical?”

“Aye, but there is no fun in practical, love.” His eyes sparkled as he grinned like a child.

“So, I suppose you want me to keep this?”

“That is the idea.”

“Well, my brother and sister-in-law will be ecstatic.”

“I hope it brings you some Christmas magic as well.”

When Emma opened her package that night she was surprised to find a treasure chest ornament. But what was even more surprising was the note.

            From your favorite stories of swashbuckling pirates and their band,

                             You’d look for buried treasure in the land.

                            But the greatest treasure is not gold or art

                   But the kindness that is always carried in one’s heart

It was Saturday when Emma was once again face timing with her family.

“Did you get the box?”

“What box?”

“David, where did you send the box?”

“To her apartment.”

The bickering that quickly ensued was almost enough to make Emma miss the knock on the door. She let her brother deal with the wrath of his wife and focused on whoever it was continuing to knock on her door.

“Delivery for a Ms. Emma Swan. Seems the postman couldn’t make out the number of your apartment, without the 8.” Killian tapped the empty space. “However, I saved the day and signed for it. Thought I would deliver it personally.”

“You just saved my brother an earful from his wife.”

“I am always happy to be a hero. And am I also correct in assuming that those are ornaments in that box.”

“Hero, sailor, detective…you are just a jack of all trades. What else are you hiding, Jones?”

“I’d be happy to show you, Swan.” Killian looped his thumb through his belt loop and leaned against the doorframe that gave Emma serious Danny Zuko vibes. At least Killian didn’t ruin his hair with awful hair gel. “However, I think I will leave you to decorate your tree. How is it going might I ask?”

“Would you like to come in and see?”

Her tree was bare, save for the few ornaments she had been receiving. There were no tree toppers, colorful Christmas lights or popcorn garland. In fact, the tree sat lopsided up against the one wall big enough for it.

From the moment he saw the tree, Emma could tell that Killian did not approve. He lectured her about how it was bad form to leave a perfectly good tree naked at the holidays and then disappeared to his own home only to show back up a few minutes later with lights, garland, candy canes, and a star.

She had never realized that decorating a Christmas tree could be so much fun. Killian had music blasting from his phone (Today’s Christmas playlist) while they worked together to string the lights around the tree and rehang all the ornaments. Emma made sure to tell the story of each one and found that Killian was genuinely interested.

As they hung the garland, together, Emma found she liked the brush of Killian’s hips against her’s as he would hand off his half of the silvery garland. The way the lights made his eyes twinkle and how he looked absolutely adorable singing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” along with Michael Bublé made her heart swell.

Emma didn’t know what had come over her but as Killian was walking out the door after the tree was finally decorated and they watched It’s A Wonderful Life together, she found herself asking him out for coffee again. Sure, she played it off with a sarcastic remark about also treating him to better taste in music, but still, the utterly surprised look that showed on Killian’s face was worth it. But it was Killian’s answer that had left her surprised.

“How about ice skating? I have not been since I was a lad and there is a rink just a few blocks from here. Full warning, there may be Christmas music.” The smile he now sported was starting to become one of Emma’s favorite things.

This is not a date. Emma told herself as she went back to her now more festive apartment.

As she was cleaning up from the decorating, the box from Mary Margaret fell to the floor.

                                David and I first kissed on ice skates,

                            We fell in love as we watched the snowfall,

                          And he proposed to me at the town lighthouse.

                            Remember love can find you anywhere.

Emma hung the three new ornaments at the front of her tree. Were these really some kind of magical ornaments?

Over the next couple of weeks, Emma spent more time with Killian. She would text him when she was bored at work, or the two of them would spend time at each other’s places watching Christmas movies. Killian would be all invested while Emma would make snide comments about how none of this would ever happen in real life.

But the more time she spent with Killian, the more she wished to herself that Christmas love stories were real. Could someone really fall for someone in less than a week? Was she falling for Killian? Sure, he drove her nuts with his extreme love of the holidays, but she liked having someone other than Ruby or David and Mary Margaret to talk to. The not dates to the skating rink or to the Christmas tree lighting in Rockefeller Center, or the carriage ride in Central Park to see the lights, were moments that Emma wanted more of.

It was the night before her Christmas party and Emma was struggling to find a way to ask Killian to be her plus one. Currently, she was sitting on his couch not even paying attention to the special that was on TV, as she tried to think of what to say to him. Would he even want to go with her? Should she just approach it as just friends?

Once the show ended, Emma started the conversation off explaining that she had finally found the author and the book she wanted to use as her first fiction work. She rambled on about the idea of fairy tale characters living in the modern world, each with their own unique story. By the time she was finished she was out of breath and she was sure her face was going to get stuck in a permanent smile.

“Sounds wonderful, Swan. I look forward to reading it. Perhaps a friend and family discount for one of your biggest fans?” Killian asked.

Emma deflated at the use of friend. It seemed she was right that Killian only saw her as nothing more than a friend and neighbor.

“I am just the publisher, Killian. I didn’t write the book, you know that right?”

“Aye, but you have still worked hard on it Emma. I would be happy to be the proud owner of Mills Publishing’s newest director of fiction’s first published book.”

Emma blushed at Killian’s compliment. He always did have a way of making her feel better.

“Oh, that. Do you remember how I told you I had to present this to Regina at the Christmas Party?”

“I believe I do.”

“I was hoping. If you are free tomorrow. Not that you have to or anything. But would you like to be my plus one? It’s just that everyone always brings someone. And for the past two years, Ruby and I have gone together as friends. But this year she is bringing her new girlfriend and I really don’t want to go alone. But if you can’t go I understand. I…”

“Swan, slow down.” Killian braced his hand on Emma’s shoulder. “I am free tomorrow evening. And I would be happy to escort you to your company’s party.”

“Really?”

“That depends. Will there be Christmas music?”

The next day, Emma was putting the finishing touches on her outfit when she heard the familiar knock at her door. On the other side, she found Killian dressed to the nines in a suit and a Santa adorned tie.

“You look?”

“I know.” Killian winked. “As do you, Swan. Shall we head out so you can impress that boss of yours and I can have a drink and possibly a dance with the newest director of publishing?”

“Actually, I have one last thing I need to do.”

It was the last package that Mary Margaret had sent. She had been planning to open it after the party, but something made her feel like she should open it now.

                                       Chapters close and begin,

                              But the story of you will never end,

                                       Keep marching forward,

                   And rolling boulders will turn into stepping stone,

                                 Don’t forget to take a chance

                     You never know when you will find romance.

“A book? Looks as if that promotion is guaranteed now, love,” Killian spoke happily.

The last ornament was hung on the last open spot on her tree. Emma had to admit that despite her initial arguments against having a tree, she loved the darn thing. And just maybe there was something special about those ornaments too.

The pitch to Regina had gone perfectly. The woman loved the idea of the retelling of classic fairytales and gave the position to Emma starting after the new year.

Emma was so ecstatic that she rushed back to the party as fast as she could. All she wanted to do was tell Killian the news and get that drink.

She found Killian near the company Christmas tree talking to none other than Ruby and Dorothy.

“Emma! So, this is Killian? Were you planning to keep him a secret forever?” Ruby pouted.

“She was probably trying to keep you away from him.” Dorothy teased.

“I wasn’t hiding anything, Ruby. I’ve just been busy and I didn’t think I needed to introduce you to my neighbor.”

Emma walked up to the group, a little closer to Killian than she realized.

“You have to forgive her, Swan has been so preoccupied with her potential promotion and renewed Christmas spirit that she has not had the time to properly introduce me to her friends.” His arm wrapped around her waist as Killian tucked her into his side.

“Right, about that. I just talked to Regina. She is going to let me run the fiction department at the start of the new year.”

“Emma that is wonderful.”

“Congratulations.”

It was turning out that this was becoming her best Christmas ever. She had the job she wanted and great friends, new and old, to celebrate with. It was all Emma had ever wanted. The only thing that could make it better was having her brother and sister-in-law there too. There was always next year.

“How about a drink to celebrate?” Killian offered.

Emma agreed. She and Killian promised to find Ruby and Dorothy before they left the party before going across the room in search of the open bar.

The rest of the party went well. Killian mingled well with all of Emma’s co-workers and she wished that there could be more nights like this.

As the evening was winding down Emma and Killian ended up alone off to the side of the room. A Christmas Karaoke had started amongst the party and neither of them wanted to embarrass themselves in public after a few drinks.

“Emma, I just wanted to say that…”

The look in Killian’s eyes sent an overwhelming urge through Emma. She didn’t take the time to speak afraid that she might ruin the moment. Instead, she pulled Killian down to her by the lapels of his coat and kissed him.

The music of the previous song had died down and the recognizable tunes began to play as the two of them slowly broke apart.

“That was…”

“Remember when you asked me what I wanted for Christmas the first night we met?”

“Aye.”

And just like that Emma began to sing along with Mariah Carrey.

“ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS……… IIIIIISSSSSS……… YOUUUUU!”

It was Killian who kissed Emma the second time as the fake snow signaling the end of the party swirled around them.

The next year, Emma was kissing Killian as she sported a new ring on her finger and the lighthouse of his hometown shined brightly in the distance.

[quillerqueen]

Unwritten

Prompt 44 of @oqpromptparty​: Regina picks up the newest book by her favorite writer. Another best  seller that she can’t get enough of. What she doesn’t realize is that  the heroine from those books is inspired by her and the books were  written by her sweet, handsome but oh so shy (at least in RL) neighbor  Robin.

The package arrives around noon, delivered to the stables along with her afternoon charges all fitted out in their riding helmets and little boot Grace is among them, and baby Neal, who’s only just started to toddle but had been riding like a champ (with ample assistance, of course) for two weeks now. Rarely do Regina’s thoughts ever stray from the job she adores—but today is definitely one of those days.

 Another in a long line of Huntingdon’s masterpieces, Unwritten has all the trademark flair we’ve come to associate with him—yet in many ways it’s unlike any of his novels before. 10/10 would recommend!

 Fantastic—in all senses of the word!

 An epic battle played out in one remarkable woman’s heart. Huntingdon’s heroine is stunning in every way.

 Oh, she can’t wait to rip the paper off of this one, pour herself a glass of wine, and read through the night.

Only Regina ends up having to wait much longer than she’d like to crack the spine and leaf through crisp pages, because of course luck would have it she’s forgotten her damn keys at work.

 “Robin can help,” Henry pipes up as she huffs in frustration, and before she can stop him he’s knocking on number 107’s door. “Hey, Robin!”

 “Hello, Henry,” comes the neighbour’s raspy voice with its lilting accent and friendly smile. “Everything all right?”

 “We’re locked out. Can you help us get in?”

 “Somehow,” Robin chuckles, “I don’t think your mother would approve of my picking your lock.”

 “She certainly wouldn’t,” Regina quips, and only then does Robin poke his head into the hallway, his eyes widening at the sight of her. His grin freezes a bit, then his lips pull into an apologetic half-smirk. The scruff is back, she notices, and does it ever suit him. Regina clears her throat (and her wandering mind), readjusts her grip on the rustling package her neighbour’s bright blue gaze flickers to, and sighs in resignation. “At least not under normal circumstances.”

 Desperate times, after all, call for desperate measures.

 Elysia stretched before them, bathed in liquid gold sunshine painting the land in vivid hues as the drab blackness of Eva Quinn’s life lurked behind, shunned and rejected and stripped of its power.

 And the child was reborn—the light of her life, her little prince with claim to no kingdom but the entirety of her heart. He hadn’t come from her body, but she’d carried him swaddled and strapped to her chest through swathes of land, through blistering heat and crippling cold, dismissing all her aches only to soothe his, and braving the eternal night of Erebia with only a vague vision of some unknown but staggering light in the future she was fighting to build for the two of them. She’d left an entire life and part of her identity behind, a life only waiting to happen, and carried him here, where they could both be free.

 And the babe stirred in her arms, blinking his little eyes dazedly as a playful sunbeam tickled his chubby cheeks—and hers—for the very first time.

 They had reached their destination—and life was only just beginning.

 Regina clutches the book to her with one white-knuckled hand, her other gripping tightly the blanket Henry’s snuggled under, fast asleep with his comic long dropped from loose fingers, his solid warmth soothing where he’s cuddled into her side. She can’t look at him enough, her very own precious little prince—except she can barely see through the tears she hasn’t realised are rolling down her cheeks—and have been for a while judging by the state of the front of her pyjamas. Oh dear god.

 This heroine has hit a nerve. Several nerves, rather. Regina’s chest had squeezed when, driven by circumstances, centaur heiress Eva Quinn had given up her birth right and her hooves (and it should be cringe-worthy perhaps, this odd allusion to Ariel applied to a mythical humanoid-turned-human, but somehow Huntingdon’s managed to make it not so) in search for a better life. Yes, Regina’s chest had squeezed so hard she could barely breathe, scraps of memories of her equestrian career and its untimely end floating to the surface, old emotions flooding her. They no longer scratch and claw at her since she’d worked through them and made her peace with the course her life had taken, found happiness even. But they have a dull, bitter tang all the same, and likely always will. Rarely does she voice them, for rarely has she felt understood—except now, with this fictional kindred spirit, she does.

 And then there’s the wonder that is a child, a child not grown under your heart but in it, no less, and that’s another aspect of Eva Quinn that plucks at her heartstrings—something she has evidence of, she thinks, sniffling and shaking her head as she decides against changing her pyjamas so that she doesn’t wake her dozing son.

It is past midnight after all—an hour for most reasonable working people to be asleep.

Regina fluffs her pillow, adjusts the lamp, and reads on.

 To say the book’s exceeded her wildest expectations would be an understatement. Her expectations meanwhile had been sky-high, what with each of her favourite author’s last dozen works topping the bestseller list and lingering there practically until his newest piece hit she shelves. And she loves them all; but Unwritten, she can already tell five chapters in, is just…special.

 It’s…fairytale-like. Unusually so for a Huntingdon, who despite his clearly positive outlook and fantastical medium enchants Regina by precisely his realism interspersed with sharp witticisms and clever satire—all while he manages to retain an astonishingly unshaken faith in humanity. She wants to scoff at that, the blind idealism—but it isn’t that, not really. He sees the flaws, describes them in vivid detail—and yet. She can only envy him. And thank him, perhaps, for inspiring her to keep her heart open and her guard, well, if not down then at least a bit lower than it would otherwise be.

 If only she could tell him face to face. But Robert Huntingdon is a mystery, a pseudonym whose true identity remains hidden from the public, whose only recourse is the author’s social media and fan mail address. Regina isn’t into either (thank goodness the ranch she works at has someone else to run their social media), and so the only time her enthusiasm bursts forth is when she recommends his books to friends (and, sometimes, strangers) left and right.

 Even, it turns out, to clearly busy neighbours at the most inopportune moments.

 “Morning, sister,” Leroy the postman greets in his usual morose manner as she shuts the door behind her in the morning, tapping his foot and holding up a large box of whatever it is Robin Locksley’s trying to haul over the threshold and into his apartment.

 “Thanks again for yesterday,” she peers inside, and Robin turns around to give her one of those grins that make her belly flutter.

 “Any time,” he shrugs, fidgeting with a tear in the corner of the package and effectually blocking it from sight as he leans against it.

 Regina finds that a bit—off-putting, to be honest, feels almost unwelcome by this odd distance between them as she hangs awkwardly in the doorway while he remains stationed inside by his monstrous delivery. She’d find him hostile if it weren’t for the smile playing around his lips and reaching those warm, crystal clear eyes.

 She waves the book around on impulse, itching to open it even though it had barely been two hours since she’d put it down to take a twenty-minute nap before she needed to wake Henry for school. She knows Robin likes to read, has had brief discussions of books with him before when they shared short elevator rides, so why not recommend him this treasure?

 “Have you started the latest Huntingdon yet?”

 “Oh—well…” he rubs the back of his neck, shifting in place. “I haven’t had the pleasure yet, no.” And then, with visibly increased interest: “How are you liking it?”

 Regina is just about to unleash her full enthusiasm on her poor, unsuspecting neighbour, when Henry yells at her to hurry up or they’re going to be late, and Robin escapes with just a gasp-turned-yawn and a quick wave as she races for the car.

 Slowly but surely, Regina resigns herself to becoming an absolute mess every time she immerses herself in Eva Quinn’s story. She forgets about her surroundings, developing limb stiffness and backaches from the variously convoluted positions she finds herself in, and for the first time in her life arrives to work fifteen minutes late because for a moment she’s forgotten there’s a job she needs to get to. The only reason she even cooks that night is Henry, but after she burns her trademark lasagna by some miracle (not really—she was sneaking peeks at the pages again, dammit, and didn’t event hear the timer go off), they end up ordering in anyway.

 The world, so the teachings went, was split into two great realms, eternal night and permanent light, with no third land for those caught in between.

 If the world was indeed black and white, Eva Quinn was clearly evil.

 Everything she touched turned to dust and ashes. It was like she carried a taint, and whichever way she offered a helping hand, whosoever’s life she touched, that taint would spread to them like the plague. Despite her best efforts, regardless of her intent, darkness followed her.

 Perhaps her mother had been right all along. Perhaps, borne of darkness, Eva Quinn was darkness incarnate—and how could she escape herself? Flee from a fate inscribed in her very core, a personal night she carried around in her heart?

 She’s glad for the wine tonight, grateful for the slight prickle and burn of alcohol sloshing down her throat and into her belly.

Regina doesn’t hate herself. She can say that now, finally. But she also knows all the darkest corners of the lonely, convoluted labyrinth that is self-loathing. It took years of therapy to heal the damage inflicted by her own mother, and oh how broken, how unworthy she’d once felt. And still those dark thoughts, those patterns of self-hate do still rear their ugly head sometimes. They may never quite go away, having been so deeply ingrained in her—but on most days she can handle them now.

 Eva Quinn isn’t there yet. She doesn’t see, even rationally, that the path of destruction she believes she leaves behind is invisible to everyone else in Elysia, dwarven kingdom of purest hearts. She doesn’t see the fruit of her labours in the cloud of smoke rising from the blazing trail of ashes she supposedly leaves behind. She’s appalled then astonished to receive summons to the royal palace for recognition; remain sceptical of her own worth even as Bianca Neve’s court applauds and cheers the newly knighted champion of the righteous and true. Disgusted by the concept of preordained roles to be fulfilled in life rampant in both kingdoms, Eva channels her energy into establishing a new colony, Ephemera, for those who wish to break out of the confines of their prescribed fate.

Regina spots the flaw in her plan immediately, knows she’s doomed to failure looking for happiness outside rather than inside before it even happens, and caresses the inked pages as if she could somehow bestow even a bit of gentleness, understanding and compassion, through the paper. If only she could shake Eva Quinn by the shoulders, if only to pull her into a rib-crushing hug—and she grins. It’s such a Mary Margaret thought to have, one Regina would have absolutely detested being on the receiving end of once upon a time. Things change though. People change.

Eva Quinn—Regina has to believe this—is also going to get there. Next chapter, or the one after, or perhaps the following one, her journey to self-acceptance must surely begin. And Regina will be there every step of the way.

 The good news is, Eva Quinn’s journey does begin a number of chapters later, and Regina is indeed very much there—even though it’s at three in the morning. 

The bad news is, this book is going to be the death of her.

She doesn’t sleep. The nap she intends to take during her lunch break turns into another reading session, intense enough that she drops the fork halfway through her kale salad, food and sleep all but forgotten.

Food and sleep all but forgotten, Eva Quinn rode through forests and plains, through mountains and dales, through desert and storm, to the castle shrouded in a darkness thicker and more suffocating than it’d ever been. All for the sake of a sickbed. For a few words, whispered and slurred, into her ear as she kissed her father’s cheek and sprinkled it with tears. Perhaps if she’d come sooner, or had never left in the first place, he’d—but no. She couldn’t have stopped the inevitable. Her father smiled, a bright, childlike thing in the absolute simplicity of his happiness, and how did she have the power to bestow so much joy upon anyone?

There’s a light in your heart, darling, he told her and seemed to literally beam at the thought, there’s always been light—and now it’s strong, like the heart you carry it within.

Her shrivelled heart, filled with enough magic to sweeten a dying man’s last hours? Large enough to smuggle some of Elysia’s sunshine into the land of forever new moon? Could it be?

Eva Quinn couldn’t comprehend.

Yet as her father breathed his last breath, his words were ones of pride, and love, and absolution of past wrongdoings in exchange for the promise to allow herself happiness.

Papi had been gone for years. Ten, to be exact—the entire span of Henry’s life. Oh how proud he had been, how moved to hold his namesake, his precious grandson, for the first—and last—time when the adoption had been completed.

Regina cries for him tonight, cries for all the time they weren’t given together, then cries over all the time they had been gifted as she thumbs through albums filled with memories of her childhood and youth.

No one had loved her quite like him, or sacrificed so much for her happiness, even if he’d failed to protect her from his heartless wife.

The last chapter looms before Regina as she breaks open another box of Kleenex. Already she’s overtaken by that unique sense of loss experienced in the wake of a brilliant book. She doesn’t even begrudge Robert Huntingdon for turning her into an undignified sobbing mess on the regular, because few other experiences in her life have been so utterly—freeing.

Cathartic.

Change is incremental, and balance comes from within. As people from all corners of the world begin to embrace the good and bad in themselves, the sun and the moon shine for everyone again. The border between the kingdoms of light and dark is gone, and her son will grow up in a better world.

Eva Quinn’s heart has never been stronger.

Regina is left staring at the page. She’s barely breathed through the last few pages, but now her chest expands and she feels light, refreshed and almost weightless despite the alarming lack of sleep lately.

She’s still processing, still reflecting when the doorbell rings.

Startled, she shoots a glance at the neon display of the microwave. There’s enough daylight that she doesn’t need it though, and sure enough, it says 08:15 am.

Oh, shit.

“Robin, I’m so sorry,” she stammers out as soon as she yanks the door open. “I completely lost track of time—”

“Regina, what happened?” His voice is laced with worry, alarm etched into his frowning face. “Are you all right? Henry?”

It takes a good while for his meaning to sink in, and when it does, Regina is mortified. He’s standing there all gorgeous in a blue button-down shirt while she’s still wearing her work clothes from the day before, and the lack of make up will have those glorious bags under her eyes she’s developed in the past few days on full display. Her hair’s dishevelled, tear streaks running down her cheeks, eyes puffy from lack of sleep and excessive crying. Oh god, what a sight she must be.

“W—he’s fine. We’re both fine. Henry’s still asleep—shocking for a Saturday morning—but I’m sure he’ll be up the moment he hears Roland’s over.”

“Are you quite sure? Apologies, but you look like you haven’t slept a wink. And the flu’s been making the rounds of late—”

“It’s not the flu,” she says, then chuckles at the absurdity of it all. “I’m not sick. Just silly. I blame Huntingdon, actually.”

“I…see.” Robin draws back at that, a grave look settling on his features instead of the shared laugh she expected to garner from her joke. Instead, she gets a guilt-ridden: “I’m sorry.”

“For what? Unless you’re secretly him, you’ve nothing to apologise for.”

Her teasing only has him withdraw further, and that’s not like him at all.

“What gave me away?”

Is he—is he joking? But either he’s developed an impenetrable poker face in the last five seconds, or—he’s being serious.

“Oh my god,” Regina breathes. This cannot be.

“You’re mad,” says Robin, and it could be an accusation or a denial, but he delivers it instead as a n apology. “I quite understand, I shouldn’t have—should’ve been more discreet—”

It is then that it truly hits her.

“Eva Quinn is—is she—?”

“Inspired by you, yes. I never intended any harm. Truth be told, I never planned for you to find out. Although part of me thought you might—maybe even hoped that you’d see yourself the way I—the way others see you. Anyway, no one knows—nor will they ever, I promise you that.”

He’s rambling, churning out words like he expects her to cut him off any second now and possibly never speak a word to him again.

Regina has a temper—but she doesn’t exactly feel the urge to burn him down with its force.

“Robin, I’m not angry with you.” Funnily enough, it’s true. Is this how starstruck feels? “I’m just—this can’t be real. You’re my favourite author.”

“Present tense?” he asks hopefully, and she rolls her eyes at him dramatically, pleased to see his whole body relax.

“Are you in the book? As a character, I mean?”

“Ah, self-inserts,” Robin plays along with the theatrics, mischief in his eyes. “A blemish on everyone’s literary resume. So of course I went there. Not a primary character in Eva’s life—just a guest appearance here and there.”

“Oh. You’re—you’re Tobin Wood.”

Yes, Tobin Wood, friend for a rainy day, popping up here and there at different times of Eva’s life, always with a word of encouragement to spare and never asking for anything in return. He’s not ever on Eva’s radar as a romantic match, and with that knowledge, despite his own secret pining, he never vies for her affections. Regina found this refreshing, and healthy unlike many such occurrence in the realms of fiction and reality both.

She’s not sure where this sudden, indistinct pang of disappointment is coming from now.

“You did miss one thing after all,” Regina mutters before she realises she might be giving away a bit too much. Or perhaps not—if Tobin has a crush on Eva, perhaps this means Robin has one on Regina, too? He stares at her expectantly, his brow creased, and her mind feels sluggish as she stares back into all that startling blue. “About me and,” she clears her throat, “well, your heroine.”

The truth is, he did an incredible piece of work, and the effort he put in makes her feel all manner of things. Scraps of information, brief exchanges, subtle, cryptic hints at her life casually shared and forgotten—from these he assembled the puzzle, and the picture is startlingly accurate and at the same time somehow more stunning than she ever saw it—saw herself—for.

Robin rubs the back of his neck, trying to stifle the flush creeping up it. He cocks his head and regards her for a bit. Much to her surprise, his answer carries not a hint of bashfulness.

 “Perhaps,” he admits, “but I daresay I’ve captured the essence. Strong and tenacious, no matter what life throws at you. Passionate about what you believe in—and a fiery temper to match. Blunt and guarded and kind, and fiercely devoted to those you love. A sarcastic dreamer. A brilliant instructor—and a wonderful mother.”“Is that really how you see me?” she whispers, blinking back tears that are definitely a sign of exhaustion rather than simply of the impact of his words.

 “Yes,” he says softly. In response to her watery smile, he adds a smirk of his own. “And an avid reader, apparently.”

 Regina chuckles, and just like that, the prickle in her eyes stops.

 “Especially when it comes to Hunti— When it comes to your books.” Dear god, this man, Robin Locksley, her very handsome, very shy for some unfathomable reason, neighbour, is in fact also Robert Huntingdon, the author she looks up to and whose works have meant so much to her—and his latest success is inspired by none other than her. By Regina Mills, currently awkwardly leaning against the door close enough to said man that she gets a whiff of that delicious cologne that’s all fragrant pine and the crunch of leaves under hiking shoes. And he seems just as stunned, just as pleased by the latest revelations as she is. “I—thank you. This is the most unique, wonderful compliment I’ve ever received.”

“Not creepy?”

“No,” she laughs, because it really isn’t. He’s never not respectful when describing Eva Quinn, or any of his characters, really—be it their thoughts or their appearance. It’s something she likes about his writing—the utter lack of gross objectification or blatant sexism all too rampant in literature and life at large, the care and maturity his characters are crafted with instead. “Not creepy at all.”

“Oh thank goodness,” he exhales with a self-deprecating, apologetic little grin. His lips fascinate her, and he seems emboldened when he catches her staring. “Regina—” He reaches for her, then seems to think better of it and thrusts his hands into his pockets. She wishes he hadn’t. “Not to sound presumptuous, but would you like to—”

“Papa? Papa!” Roland sprints across the hallway and comes to a halt between the two of them. “Regina! Can we go now? I can’t wait to ride Foxy again!”

Robin chuckles, throwing Regina an apologetic look as he sweeps Roland into his arms.

“In a moment, my boy. Let’s give Regina and Henry just a few more minutes to get ready, and then I’ll drive us all to the ranch, how about that?”

And that’s not their usual routine, but he’s probably reached the conclusion she shouldn’t drive in her degree of sleep-deprivation—and he’s certainly not wrong. Regina musses Roland’s wild curls—he’s cute as a button, and she can’t be mad at him no matter what, including this particular interruption. But she’s frustrated, and clearly so is Robin. He was about to ask her out, she just knows it, and damn if she doesn’t stomp out every last bit of doubt he might still have about her interest in him.

“Robin?” she calls after him. “You still owe me that drink you were gonna ask me out for—perhaps after dinner?”

His smile is absolutely radiant, and the way it pulls into a smirk makes her heart—and not only that—flutter.

“I suppose I do.”

And that, they’re both soon to find out, is only the start.

Not because it’s written; but because in the end, the hand penning your story is your own.

[ncmagroup]

by Steve Kearns

  The scent of popcorn wafts through the living room. Assorted candies and snacks are spread out across the coffee table. You’ve loaded the sofa up with blankets and pillows for maximum comfort.

Is there anything better than a movie night?

I can think of one thing that upgrades the experience: When those movies you settle in to enjoy offer value beyond mere entertainment. I would guess I’m not alone in saying I’ve watched plenty of flicks that had a lasting impact on me.

In particular, I like watching stories that help me grow professionally, by providing me with perspective, applicable lessons, or simply inspiration.

These 9 films, in my opinion, all have something to offer for today’s sales pros. They cover a vast assortment of genres and time periods and subject matter, but at the end of the day, these are all movies about sales, one way or another.

9 Movies About Sales You Should Watch

Death of a Salesman

Based on the classic play by Arthur Miller, this movie was made for the small screen (it premiered on CBS in August of 1985) but offered Hollywood-caliber drama and performances (from Dustin Hoffman and John Malkovich, among others.)

As its name suggests, Death of a Salesman is not the most uplifting of affairs — its protagonist is a failed traveling salesman whose life more or less falls apart — but ultimately there are good takeaways here about setting realistic goals, and accepting ourselves for who we really are.

Money Quote: “Walk in with a big laugh. Don’t look worried. Start off with a couple of your good stories to lighten things up. It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it because personality always wins the day.” — Willy Loman

Glengarry Glen Ross

The early scene in which Blake, an arrogant hotshot sent from downtown to motivate a lagging collection of real estate salesmen, arrives and verbally berates the embattled team is unforgettable. Alec Baldwin’s vitriolic, profanity-laced takedown is riveting, hilarious, and heartbreaking all the same time. “Put that coffee down! Coffee’s for closers!” he barks at Shelley Levene (Jack Lemmon) as he meekly tries to pour a mug.

Levene is one of the classic salesman archetypes in cinema, personifying the pressure and rejection that can be incumbent to the profession. (The character became something of a pop-culture stereotype in and of itself.) The movie is a fun throwback to a bygone era, with salesmen dialing up prospects from phone booths and desperately yearning for that coveted stack of Glengarry leads. (If only they had Sales Navigator to generate their own!)

Money Quote: “A-B-C. A: Always, B: Be, C: Closing. Always be closing.” — Blake

The Big Kahuna

Most B2B salespeople know about the thrill of chasing that huge, game-changing deal. The one that makes your month, or even your year. That’s the focus here, with the titular “Big Kahuna” being the CEO of a large company who is targeted by a trio of industrial lubricant sales/marketing reps at a trade show.

The interplay between these three characters and the many reflective moments make this comedy a worthwhile view even beyond the laughs.

Money Quote: “It doesn’t matter whether you’re selling Jesus or Buddha or civil rights or ‘How to Make Money in Real Estate With No Money Down.’ That doesn’t make you a human being; it makes you a marketing rep. If you want to talk to somebody honestly, as a human being, ask him about his kids. Find out what his dreams are — just to find out, for no other reason. Because as soon as you lay your hands on a conversation to steer it, it’s not a conversation anymore; it’s a pitch. And you’re not a human being; you’re a marketing rep.” — Phil Cooper

The Pursuit of Happiness

A career in sales can be a struggle, requiring us to look deep within ourselves. No film epitomizes this truth better than The Pursuit of Happiness, in which Will Smith plays a medical equipment salesman named Chris Gardner who finds himself homeless after a run of bad luck. He tries to dig his way out of destitution and provide a better life for his son.

Gardner’s sad plight turns into an uplifting resurgence as he employs a variety of savvy sales tactics during an unpaid internship at a brokerage firm, focusing on the highest-value prospects and relying on his strong interpersonal skills. Through impressive performance, he earns a paying job and eventually starts his own successful company. I dare you to watch this film and not feel utterly inspired.

Money Quote: “Walk that walk and go forward all the time. Don’t just talk that talk, walk it and go forward. Also, the walk didn’t have to be long strides; baby steps counted too. Go forward.” — Chris Gardner

The Wolf of Wall Street

Here we have the flip side of the coin. Leonardo DiCaprio’s Jordan Belfort rises from humble beginnings to Wall Street kingpin thanks to his ability to execute (and teach) the hard sell. Once he gets on the phone, his persuasive abilities are divine as he convincingly paints worthless stocks as can’t-miss opportunities.

Belfort quickly climbs the ladder as he builds his company Stratton Oakmont into a powerhouse, all while he spirals out of control amidst drugs and debauchery, and things eventually unravel in rather spectacular fashion.

Money Quote: “The only thing standing between you and your goal is the [BS] story you keep telling yourself as to why you can’t achieve it.” — Jordan Belfort

Boiler Room

Like Wolf of Wall Street, Boiler Room depicts aggressive brokers peddling junk stocks with inflated promises in search of hefty commissions, albeit in a very different style. Compared to most other movies listed here, this one takes a somewhat more serious look at the impact and consequences of dishonest sales tactics.

Money Quote: “There is no such thing as a no-sale call. A sale is made on every call you make. Either you sell the client some stock or he sells you a reason he can’t. Either way, a sale is made, the only question is who is gonna close? You or him?” — Jim Young

Jerry Maguire

After dramatically breaking off from his sports agency to go it alone, Maguire (played by Tom Cruise) has to sell himself to clients to remain viable. The decision that sent him down this path is one that resonates in today’s digital sales world: quality over quantity. He wanted to work with fewer clients in order to deliver better and more personalized service.

Ultimately, Maguire is only able to convince one client to stay with him at his new solo venture, but the strong relationship he builds with Rod Tidwell (Cuba Gooding Jr.) eventually gets noticed by others, opening new opportunities and saving his career.

Money Quote: “The key to this business is personal relationships.” — Dicky Fox

Moneyball

Sticking in the sports realm, we come to the story of Billy Beane (Brad Pitt), who transformed the way baseball front offices operate with his innovative approach as Oakland A’s general manager back in the early 2000s. This film (based on a book of the same name) shows how Beane built a small-market contender by identifying and capitalizing on market inefficiencies. In this case, his data-driven approach points him toward on-base percentage as an undervalued asset.

You are (probably) not in the business of constructing an MLB roster, but the takeaway for sellers is this: What’s your market inefficiency? Where is the untapped opportunity in your space that competing salespeople are overlooking?

Beane’s attempts to sway traditional mindsets in the organization toward a new, unfamiliar way of thinking might help inspire any sales pro who faces a firmly established status quo.

Money Quote: “We are card counters at the blackjack table. And we’re gonna turn the odds on the casino.” — Billy Beane

A Christmas Story

Okay, this one’s a little outside the box. You won’t find this cherished holiday staple on many “Best Sales Movie” lists, because it’s not about sales in any way. Or is it?

Throughout the entire movie, young Raphie is trying to sell his parents on the Red Ryder Carbine Action 200-shot Range Model air rifle that he so desires, playing up the benefits (a compass in the stock, and this thing that tells time) while downplaying the widespread objections (one is liable to shoot his eye out). Eventually, his resolve wins out.

It’s an epic tale of tenacity and persistence.

Money Quote: “It was a classic, mother BB-gun block. ‘You’ll shoot your eye out!’ That deadly phrase, honored many times by hundreds of mothers, was not surmountable by any means known to Kid-dom, but such was my mania, my desire for a Red Ryder carbine, that I immediately began to rebuild the dike.” — Ralphie Parker

Watch and Learn

Not all of these movies cast the sales profession in the best light. Few of them tie directly to the work we do today of engaging prospects and building relationships in the digital space. But as you watch these heralded classics, you’re bound to come away with some insight and food for thought.

At the very least, you’ll have a stomach full of popcorn and candy. Now there’s an easy sell.

  Go to our website:   www.ncmalliance.com

  9 Movies Every Salesperson Needs to Watch by Steve Kearns The scent of popcorn wafts through the living room. Assorted candies and snacks are spread out across the coffee table.

[italkstuff]

BEDS Day 23: Based on vs. Inspired By

One of the topic suggestions I got at the beginning of this project was from The Beallman, who suggested I talk about “in name only” adaptations. I’m taking this mean adaptations that aren’t so much based on the original story as inspired by . . . that is, they take the premise of the story, but take it in a different direction. This is actually a topic for a much longer video I’m planning when I get into the Disney genre, but I do have some ideas bouncing around as of now.

A number of movies spring immediately to mind here. First is one I already reviewed, “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?” based on the not-terribly-well-known “Who Censored Roger Rabbit?” I mentioned in that review that the two stories pretty much have three things in common: One line of dialogue (“fifty-year-old lust and a three-year-old dinky,” . . . a line that sounds really strange out of context, I just realized), four character names, (Eddie Valiant, Baby Herman, Jessica Rabbit, and of course, Roger), and perhaps most importantly, the basic premise of the story: a murder mystery in a world where cartoon characters and reality coexist. The movie basically took those elements and took it in a completely different direction. There was still a murder, but not the same one. Some of the character names were the same, but not the characters themselves. Judge Doom and the Dip were completely fabricated by Disney. And the cartoons in question went from being comics in comic strips to TV and movie cartoons. (Actually, you should really just watch the review. It was several years ago, but I still think it’s pretty damn good.)

Fast forward a few years, past the Disney Renaissance and to the end of the post-Renaissance slump. Disney, in trying to compete with 3D animation companies like DreamWorks and Pixar, is trying just about anything they can to stand out from the pack, but also almost seeming to distance themselves from the Disney Renaissance, which had become the quintessential Disney Formula that they were trying to avoid. All but one of the Disney Renaissance films was a comic musical, usually with some kind of romance involved, if not the focal point of the entire movie. None of the movies in the post-Renaissance slump--which we’re going to say for the point of argument included Fantasia 2000, Dinosaur, The Emperor’s New Groove, Atlantes: the Lost Empire, Lilo and Stitch, Treasure Planet, Brother Bear, Home on the Range, Chicken Little, Meet the Robinsons, and Bolt--fit into this formula.

For whatever reason, Disney decided to return to their tried-and-true genre for the next movie, The Princess and the Frog, but with one key difference. Where the Disney Renaissance films had, by and large, been based on other works, following them closely enough to still be considered “based on,” The Princess and the Frog took more of a Roger Rabbit approach to the work it was supposedly based on, E.D. Baker’s The Frog Princess. Just as with Roger Rabbit, it takes the basic premise--in this case, the idea that when the princess kisses the frog, instead of the frog turning back into a human, the princess instead turns into a frog--and taking it in a completely different direction. I’ll admit I haven’t actually finished E.D. Baker’s book, but I’ve read enough to know that the two stories are completely different. For one thing, the book takes place in a fantasy realm and the movie takes place in Louisiana. For another, the book’s protagonist is a princess named Esmeralda, while the movie’s is a black waitress named Tiana. But that unique premise is still the same, and it works in the movies favor, because even though it is based on another work, it still has a feeling of originality.

Tangled is the same way. It’s the story of Rapunzel, but with a twist. Unlike the other faerie tale movies, which take a few liberties but still tell the basic story as it’s known, (The Little Mermaid notwithstanding), Tangled tells a completely different story. It revolves around Rapunzel, but kind of in the same way Ella Enchanted revolves around Cinderella. Yes, it’s a retelling of that story, but it’s the original story encased in a completely new story. So Tangled, though very similar to the Renaissance films in that way, still has that feeling of being original, because the main plot of the story is original. (And yes, I have written this Books vs. Movies review already.)

I could also talk extensively about Frozen vs. The Snow Queen, or the last couple seasons of Game of Thrones, but those three examples are enough for this blog, and all of three of them seem to work quite well. Unlike Disney’s The Little Mermaid--which advertises itself as Hans Christian Anderson’s The Little Mermaid, in spite of the fact that it completely misses the point of the story--these stories aren’t really trying to be their originals. In fact, all three of them change not only the story, but the title of the original story, as if to say, “No, no, this isn’t the story of Rapunzel, see? It’s the story of Tangled!” And from what I can see, all three of these stories benefit from taking the original story as a jumping off point for their own creative work. In a lot of ways, it’s a great middle ground. You get to use some good ideas from another creator, but you don’t have to be boxed in by the constraints of their particular story.

Two problems can emerge. The first is when a story that is “inspired by” another story tries to sell itself as the story, which I don’t see as a problem in this case. Roger Rabbit and Frog Princess really weren’t well-known enough to bring a bunch of people to the movie theatre, and while Tangled may have advertised itself as a Rapunzel story . . . well, I mean, that is what it was, in the end. The second is related to this, and it’s when a movie isn’t quite sure where the boundary between “based on” and “inspired by” is. The Ella Enchanted movie is a good example of this. If you watch it as its own thing, it’s . . . well, not a great movie, but not horrible, a decent way to spend an hour and a half. If you watch it as an adaptation of Gail Carson Levine’s book, however--which is what it was advertised as, and essentially what it was--you’re left feeling deeply confused and frustrated, because what you watched is NOT Gail Carson Levine’s book. The Little Mermaid has the same problem. It has too much in common with the original story NOT to be based on it, but it takes the story in the complete wrong direction.

I do feel like more and more, people are taking more of the “inspired by” approach to adaptations, Disney in particular. Big Hero 6 is based on Marvel comic characters, but I don’t believe it actually adapts a particular story. Moana is based on Polynesian myths, but again, the particular story is original to Disney. And of course, Frozen. And these three moves are, I think, some of the best movies Disney has ever produced. As long as moviemakers know where the line is between “based on” and “inspired by,” I don’t see this continuing trend as a problem.

So, there, now you’ve got a little sneak preview into some of the stuff I’ve been thinking about for videos. Hope you enjoyed this insight into my thought process, and until next time, friends and fellow VEDSies, I’ll see you tomorrow.