#although worth mentioning that i have slowly been working on a file collecting all my minnie and rick aus

[plumbus-central]

doodle dump #3

[pure-kirarin]

Slow & Steady [P3] [Sabo x f!reader] (+18)

A/N : Hi !! sorry for publishing this later than I expected, but I got a beta reader and we worked on this chapter for longer. Please do tell me if you like this more <3 We put a lot of effort into it. Now, enjoy !~ Genre : Romance - Smut - Bestfriends to lovers General warnings : Alcohol consumption - Dark themes - Swearing - S m u t - possessiveness - Mention of ex-relationships - jealousy

Synopsis : Isn’t love a matter of timing after all ?That’s what Sabo has always thought. It was about finding the right tempo, making the right moves and hitting the right spot. Patience is a virtue after all, and he had a lot of it. It all started when your ex cheated on you. You were heartbroken, you needed someone and he was there. Was he always that hot ? You didn’t know. But after that night you have never seen him in the same way. Also, please guys comment because this is the first work I put so much efforts in. If I feel like people don't like it, it just feels not worth it to me and discourages me :( I have 2 other multichapters planned but I am thinking of abandoning them because people don't seem to like it...Anyways, please do interact if you like it :)

Part I - Part II -

In the last chapter :

You looked at Sabo go away and you followed him shortly after. Meanwhile Ace was sitting on the couch and watching some movies. You went back home and was quite tormented. It wasn’t the right time to worry as you had your assignments and studies to deal with. On one hand, you didn’t even have the time to think of your ex boyfriend and his cheating but on the other, you felt like you were let down by Sabo.

But why ? He didn’t do anything.

He just found himself a new friend and a potential new girlfriend.He didn’t even talk about her, but why where you so upset by him meeting her ? After all, he had the right to date just like you always did.A few days have passed and you didn’t get the chance to talk to Sabo. Your exams were getting closer and closer and you didn’t feel ready.Usually, Sabo would help you with your assignments but you were too scared to ask. You realized how much you relied on him and how he has been always there for you.

Who were you exactly to him ?

Maybe you took him for granted.

As you were on your bed looking at the ceiling and trying to collect every drop of motivation in your system to study, you heard your phone ring. It was Sabo’s ringtone !

P III

“Hi (Y/N),how are you doing?”

“Oh, Sabo! I'm fine. Kinda busy studying. And you? Haven't heard from you since last time.”

“Sorry about that. My schedule has been extremely tight lately. But I am free now!”

“I was just thinking of you. I have to turn in my history assignment tonight and I might need your help...Pleaaaaaase~ I know you're so good at history, please come save me!”

You could hear him laugh on the other side of the line. His laugh sounded so bright, making your heart flutter. You really did miss him. In the end, you were best friends, right?

“Alright! I'll come rescue you. After all, I have to make up for disappearing.”

“Sabo, you're the best! Would you mind coming to my place?”

“I'll be there in twenty minutes. See you then.”

“See you!”

Hanging up, you thought to yourself: you’ve never been this happy to see Sabo. You rolled on your bed in excitement. Twenty minutes seemed enough to make your room and yourself look somewhat presentable, he has never seen your messy room before. Fifteen minutes later, Sabo was in your room, both of you sat on the bed and started studying. Sabo had always been a top student, he was passionate about history in particular. Helping with your assignments was never a big deal to him.

Now that you gave it some thought, maybe most of your good grades were thanks to his help. He had tutored you many times when you were both in high school and that stayed a constant in your life even now.. Once you finished and sent the file to your professor, it was already late afternoon and Sabo was putting on his coat to go back home.

You had almost forgotten about what happened last week because of all the studying. Things weren't awkward anymore. But you wanted to bring it up because you couldn't help but think about the words he said.

“Sabo ?”

He turned back and looked at you with a smile.

“Yes? Do you need something else?”

“Don't go, I want to...  I want to ask you a question.” You patted the place next to you on the bed.

“Are you alright? You look very pale.” He sat next to you and the proximity made you extremely nervous. Although he had been close to you so many times before, you wondered why this time his proximity was affecting you so. The built up tension was getting unbearable. You could feel the knot in your stomach tighten, but you had to do it, you had to relieve yourself from this situation, otherwise it will still preoccupy you. With a nervous toss of your hair, you asked him, your eyes fixated somewhere on his chest :

“Well...Did I say something weird to you last time?”

“Last time?” he repeats in apparent confusion..

“Well, you know, when I got drunk, did I say something weird?...when you took me back home…”

You didn't even dare look at his face.

“Oh...nothing worth mentioning. Don't worry.” A sweet smile.

Oh, really now? I asked you to fuck me and you're saying “nothing fucking worth mentioning”? Bullshit.

...Or did I make all of that up?

“Didn't I…” you stop, clearing your throat, “didn't I ask you..to...well, you know…” You looked away in exasperation, annoyed that you had to say this and that you could feel your face quickly heating up. You felt your helplessness more fully now as you were discreetly looking at him to guess his reaction. Your eyes were shy and avoiding, looking his way then looking away continuously, almost instinctively.

“Hm? What?” He was amused, the bastard.

“Well...Didn't I ask you to fuck me or something?”

He burst out laughing, looking at your flushed face and the way you said that so fast that he was tempted to tap his ear and tell you that he didn't hear you quite well, but he simply refrained. That would be too much teasing.

For now.

And it wasn't the right time

yet.

“Ha, that.” He marked a pause, “it's only worth mentioning if you want to.”

You bit your lower lip, so he did remember…”Well, about that…”

“Just ask me to and I'll forget.”

But what if I don't want you to forget? You fucking idiot. When did you turn out to be this hot? Did seeing his morning wood put me in such a mood? Do I have this little self-respect? Risking our friendship like this?

He leaned closer to you so that his face was only centimeters away.

His minty breath was ghosting over your cheek;

“But just so you know, there's no going back.”

Was this the same Sabo from a few minutes ago? Was he really tempted to have sex with you? You felt flattered. You thought about Nami's words. Was he really into you? You felt insecure.

You've never felt insecure before.

You contemplated the idea for a second. You had just broken up with your boyfriend and you were now yearning to get fucked by your best friend - a guy that you've never even seen in that way before.

But how many things did you truly know about Sabo? How many things were you not seeing and being unaware of when it came to this man? You were slowly coming to the realization that he had been keeping a lot of things private - his personal life and thoughts mostly held close to himself at all times.

It was always about you in this friendship. And he was patient, oh so patient. You wanted to see all these sides to him that you've never seen before. It was like discovering the hidden door of a secret Eden.

You closed your eyes. You knew that he wouldn't hurt your feelings. You trusted him. You wanted this. You wanted to break the spell that got you dreaming of what you were denied.

You nodded and his smile widened ; Here you were falling, finally.

“I didn't expect anything less from you. What a brave girl you are. I was waiting for you to bring this up. Took you quite a long time.”

He twirled a strand of your hair between his fingers, pressing his hot lips on your forehead. Your breath stopped for a second, eyes closed tightly. You weren't used to this tension, your heart was beating uncomfortably fast.

Where did the prude Sabo that you always imagined go? He was acting normal a few moments ago, and now this? This was definitely more, or at least different than whatever you would have expected.

Your cheeks warmed up at his praise, you were just like a little girl that was given a piece of candy. But you wanted way more.

“Now that I think of it… you haven’t been really good, have you? You said things that you shouldn't have. You’ve tested my patience quite a bit the other day, baby.”

It sounded so natural, the way he called you baby, as if he had always done it. It surprisingly took you not even two seconds to adjust to this new Sabo that you saw. In hindsight, you think you might’ve longed for this Sabo, one who is so open and expressive with you.

“Huh ? What are you on 'bout ? I still stand by my position…”

Saying this was a bad idea.

He raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, it's true, I've never seen you with a girl before. Wouldn't be surprised if you were a virgin. But it's okay, I don't mind… well… teaching you…”

You looked away. It felt a bit off, as if you were playing a role but you were very much into it. There had always been that bratty side to you that he loved so much. He smirked, rolling his eyes. Always with the tough talk huh? He thought.

Smiling knowingly, he reached out for your face. He gently gripped your chin between two fingers, brushing his thumb over your lower lip as he said,

“Looks like you need a good lesson.” He shoved two gloved fingers into your mouth, taking you by surprise and making you instantly back off a bit.

“Hmm. Let's put this dirty mouth of yours to better use.”

He took his fingers out of your mouth, leaving a leathery aftertaste on your tongue. His arm encircled your waist and he held you up effortlessly, securing you against his lap. As you were just wearing a dress, you could feel him getting hard through your panties and you couldn't help but tighten your thighs at this feeling, getting instantly turned on. When did you start wanting him this much?

The corner of his lips curled up as he saw you already getting eager from a simple touch. His arm held your hips in place so you didn’t move around.

He replaced his fingers with his lips, kissing you hungrily. It was nothing like that drunken kiss that you both shared the other night. His tongue got you feeling butterflies in your stomach, heart pounding so hard as you pressed your chest against his, seeking his warmth.

You were going have sex with your best friend and he had a huge dick and he was nothing close to the vanilla prude guy that you expected him to be. You were thrilled. Everything happened so fast. You never realized that you were so desperate for his touch.

You tangled your fingers into his blond locks, moaning into the kiss. You pulled away, cheeks ablaze, impressed by his skills.

“You're a good kisser…”

“Look at you getting all worked up by a kiss...Tell me, who's the virgin here, huh?”

You blushed at his remark and looked away. Cute, he thought to himself.

But it wasn't enough. Not yet. With a sense of urgency, you kissed him again as if it was your last chance to taste his lips. His pace was slower, he wanted to take his time to enjoy this moment while you wanted to rush it up and go to the next step. Breathless, you pull away, hesitant and curious.

“Sabo, do you… Do you like me?”

“I do.” He put his forehead against yours, making you  look deeply into his eyes. The look he was giving you seemed unfamiliar, making you feel intimidated. How did he hide his feelings so well and why did he say them now?If he said he liked me before, would it have been differentWhat changed within him, to make him act like this and most importantly, what changed within you to make you need him so badly? You dipped in for a kiss, trying to get a grasp on your feelings. It didn't feel weird, it felt good, as if you had wanted it for so long.

“Sabo,” you stuttered. He loved the way your voice cracked, how hesitant you were, how your cheekiness disappeared, leaving behind only your conflicted emotions. “I thought about what you said last time and...I...I think I want to. Now.” You emphasised on the last word, goading him into agreeing.

A victorious smile danced on his lips.

“You think?”

He smirked and lifted your chin up so you could look right into his eyes. You couldn't help but close the gap between the two of you, shamelessly rocking on his thighs to get some friction. You kept thinking about the words he had said when you were drunk, you really wanted him. Yes, maybe it was just lust. Maybe it was just a strong desire to sabotage the most precious thing that you had. But for now, you needed his warmth. He pulled back, making you groan in displeasure like a cat in heat. He smiled, his lips barely grazing yours and added,

“You're not ready yet, kitten.”

The look of disappointment on your face said it all. You couldn't believe he turned you down. Once again. You were so adorable, for a moment he thought that he would just snap and take you right there.

“What do you mean ‘I'm not ready yet’ ?! I just said I was. I want you too. That's what I said. I'm sober now, I'll recall how good you are.”

“Patience is a virtue.”

He smiles, and you would’ve given years off your life just to punch him. You could swear you still felt him hard against you and he was acting so composed. You didn't want to let him go.

You were scared that if you did, he would disappear into dust. You felt so desperate, so humiliated.Dying for his attention and heartbroken from past experiences.

“I have to go now.” He lifts you up with ease, placing you on the bed again. He then put his coat on. You looked at him leave with puppy eyes and for a second he hesitated. He was tempted to change his mind. But he had waited for so long and he couldn't afford to ruin everything now. Not when you were so close, so ready and eager to take him.

“Don't go.” You pleaded.

“And who will feed Ace?” He says with a smile.

“I don't care. Don't go…” You got up and hugged him from behind, tightly, letting your mask fall. His departure and abrupt ending of the tense situation he had placed you in, his act so nonchalant, had awakened some insecurity within you.It was driving you insane.

You were confused.

His heart melted at your sweetness. He remembered the reason behind his love for you. You were so fragile, so honest.

“I really have to go, princess.” How could he say such things so easily? “But I promise that I will make up for it next time.”

---

Tag list : @vemuabhi @chloe-abbacchio @mwls-garden @soanywaysistartedsimping @portgaslari @lofi-coffee If you wanna get tagged just ask for it :)

[sapphicscullyy]

With You

100. “We could... you know, go together, if you wanted.”

Thank you so much for the prompt @bitshortforastormtrooper. I’m sorry it took agessss to get around to but please enjoy. This can also be read for your convenience on ao3. Tagging @today-in-fic

+++

8:29 am 27th August J. Edgar Hoover Building

Scully blustered her way into the office and shut the door behind her, slumping back against it with her eyes closed. She took several deep breaths before opening them again, attempting to cool the flush in her cheeks, only to find Mulder staring at her, concern in his eyes. The bastard. He didn’t say anything, just waited to see if she would explain her strange behaviour. Scully sighed.

“I just spoke to Skinner in the elevator,” she began slowly.

“If it was about the late case report, don’t worry,” he said quickly, “I was just about to head up there now to hand it in.”

“No, it wasn’t that.” She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “He asked me if I was attending the Director’s Ball on Friday evening. Of which Skinner informed me that he had given you both of our invitations several weeks ago.” Her tone implied that this was more of an interrogation than a statement.

At least he was smart enough to look slightly guilty. “He may have mentioned it.”

“Mulder…” she groaned in exasperation. “It’s in three days,” she stuttered, “and I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Scully, you could wear anything, even one of your old pantsuits with the massive shoulder pads, and you would still look amazing.” 

She glared at him even as the blush returned to her cheeks. “I am not wearing a suit.”

“Why don’t you take the afternoon off?” Mulder suggested lightly. “We only have paperwork to do today. I can deal with it.”

“Are you sure?”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

She huffed a laugh, deciding not to think about the answers to his question. “Thank you,” she said.

Silence filled the office for a moment, then the rustling of paperwork as Mulder collected some files from the desk.

“Are we-” Scully faltered, then continued tentatively. “Do we have to bring dates?”

“I think everyone has a plus-one invitation; I’m not taking anyone, though.” He stood, not meeting her gaze as he shuffled the papers in his hands.

“Why not?” 

“I’m not sure anyone would want to go with Spooky Mulder.” He laughed as though he had told a joke. 

“We could… you know, go together, if you wanted.” Scully swallowed, suddenly overly conscious of the lump in her throat, barely daring to breathe in wait of his response.

“It’s alright, Scully. You don’t have to stick with me. You could have any man you wanted.” He stood from behind the desk, file in hand, and walked over to where she was still standing by the door. He gently moved her aside as he opened it. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said, flashing her a grin, the one that made her go weak at the knees every time, and shut the door behind him.

“What if I want you?” she whispered to the closed door, her words too loud in the empty office.

+++

2:43 pm 

That afternoon, Scully pulled into a parking space in front of a small boutique shop that she often eyed as she drove past on the way to work each day. She had only been inside once before, and it had been a few years ago when she had treated herself to a day of therapeutic shopping after a particularly gruelling case. She had bought a new pair of heels, which she had only worn two or three times since, but the feeling of buying them had been worth it. 

A small bell above the door chimed as she entered. A woman popped her head out from behind a rack of clothes, greeted Scully, and told her to yell out if she needed any help. Scully smiled at her in thanks and wandered along the rows of dresses, running her fingertips lightly across the fabric. 

She wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to wear to the event, so she chose a few dresses at random to try on, hoping to find something that would work, or at least narrow down her choices. 

“Would you like to try those on?” the voice of the saleswoman behind her made her jump. She had a hand outstretched for the dresses draped over Scully’s arm. “Let me take them to the changeroom for you while you keep looking.” 

“Actually, I’m ready to try them on now.” 

“Of course, come this way.” She led Scully to the changeroom, drawing aside the large curtain for her, but she paused before closing it. “May I make a recommendation?” She didn’t wait for a response. “There’s a dress that’s out the back and I think that it would look perfect on you. I’ll go grab it while you try these ones on.” With that, she closed the curtain, leaving Scully by herself. 

The first dress was a red, strapless number that came to just below her knees. The fabric pooled nicely around her figure, and she had a pair of heels and a clutch at home that would go quite nicely with it, but she was concerned that there was too much skin being shown to be considered ‘proper’ for a work event, though she knew Mulder would most likely appreciate it. 

As would every other straight male in the room. She silently chastised herself for letting her mind wander to such a dangerous topic. 

The second dress she had picked up was a shade of green that she knew immediately would not suit her as she held the dress up to her body in the small changing room mirror. She replaced the dress on its hanger without even bothering to try it on. 

As she slid on the third dress, she thought it might be the one. The black fabric was smooth against her skin and the neckline and figure were modest yet flattering. But as she stepped out from behind the curtain to admire herself in the larger mirror, she noticed the slit along her left leg, nearly going up to her hip. She sighed at her reflection. She didn’t particularly want to be that exposed in front of her male colleagues, especially since she knew Skinner would be amongst them. She wouldn’t be able to meet her boss’s eye for days afterwards. 

At that moment, the saleswoman walked back in, another dress draped over her arm. She stopped when she saw Scully.

“Oh honey, you look absolutely stunning,” she exclaimed.

“Thank you,” Scully dipped her head at the compliment, “but I’m attending a work function and I’m not entirely convinced by this.” She gestured to her exposed leg.

“Of course,” she shook her head knowingly. “Here, give this one a try. I think it will suit you perfectly.” She handed Scully the dress from her arm.

Ducking back into the change room, she removed her current dress and slipped on the one the saleswoman had given her. Black, silky fabric that clung to her skin but almost appeared to be cascading down her body and onto the floor. The straps were thin and the neckline was low, although not dangerously so. The back dipped just low enough that she wouldn’t be able to wear a bra, but so that her ouroboros remained hidden.

The woman gasped quietly as she emerged from behind the curtain. “That dress looks like it was made just for you.”

Scully examined herself in the large mirror and felt her own breath catch in her throat. She did look amazing. Even with her hair and make-up having deteriorated throughout the day, she felt as though she could walk into any ballroom and fit right in. 

She couldn’t even begin to imagine how Mulder would react upon seeing her in this dress. Would he stop short at the sight of her? Or perhaps he would only give her a quick once over before he swept her into his arms, unable to keep away for any longer than necessary. 

The shrill ringing of her cell phone pierced through the fog of dangerous thoughts that had filled her mind. 

“Excuse me,” she said, stepping back into the changing room. She rifled through her belongings and found her phone. “Scully,” she answered.

“Scully, it’s me,” he said, as a loud crash came through the tiny speaker.

“Mulder? Is everything alright?”

“Just fine,” he replied unconvincingly. She heard the crackling rustle of papers being shuffled. “Do you know where you put the file on Cordelia Knox?”

“Mulder, you put that file on the massive pile on your desk, which I strongly suggested that you sort out before you lose something.”

She heard more rustling. Then a muffled bang. “I found it.” She laughed quietly even as her head fell into her hand. 

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?”

There was a pause. “Have you finished shopping?” he asked tentatively.

“Not quite.” She may have found her dress, but she wanted to buy a nice pair of heels to go with it.

“Then I have everything under control.” Another crash sounded through the phone. “Go enjoy yourself, Scully. You deserve it.”

+++

8:29 am 29th August FBI Director’s Ball

Scully was bored, tired, slightly drunk and extremely sick of the hot and clammy hands of the men who, because she had agreed to dance with them, believed that it was in their right to put said hands wherever they pleased on her body. She had been passed between the arms of the FBI’s worst perverts and creeps for the past hour and the only thing she wished for was a warm bath to wash away the lingering feeling of the many hands off her body. The man she was currently dancing with was no different from the others, in fact, they were all beginning to blend together. His hands sat hot and heavy on her lower back, making the skin itch and boil beneath the fabric. 

There was a small, fickle part of herself that thought of that spot on the small of her back as Mulder’s. It was the same part of her that made her continuously scan the crowds over the shoulder of her dancing partner in the frail hope of seeing him. The same part of her that desperately hoped that he would see her despondence and sweep her far away from this place and all the people in it.

There was a high chance that he wouldn’t turn up at all; perhaps struck by a sudden ailment in the hours between leaving the office and the expected arrival time of the event. She usually didn’t mind his near-perfect streak of missing work events, as usually, he dragged her along with him to wherever he thought was a better place to be, which was anywhere else, really. All she wanted now was to be with him wherever that may be.

She snapped out of her thoughts as she felt the hands of her dance partner slip dangerously low on her back and she was so focused on attempting to keep them in a more respectable place that she did not notice Mulder step forward from the crowd at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes flying from face to face. She did not see the way he stopped dead at the sight of her in the wandering arms of another man. How his eyes sparked first with wonderment, then with indignation. 

But then he was there, standing at her shoulder, politely asking for a dance and sweeping her away without waiting for an answer from the other man. He was inconsequential now that Mulder was there.

In the instant that he pulled her towards him, there was not a single soul present in the room that they were aware of, besides each other. He held her close, but his touch on her back was light and innocent, his fingertips deliciously burning the skin where her tattoo resided. 

“Hi,” she whispered, tilting her head back so that their faces were aligned, noses only inches apart. 

“Hi,” he responded, and she heard everything that he wanted to tell her at that moment. In the way he breathed that single word. She heard his wonder and his passion, and she heard his apology. She could see it reflected in his eyes, swimming there and exposed for her to see. An apology for letting her go alone, for being an idiot, and for all the arms that have held her tonight that weren’t his.

And she forgave him. 

The music was slow and steady, a heartbeat thrumming in the air. She slid the hands which had been resting on his shoulders further up and looped them around his neck. They remained completely oblivious to the world around them as they swayed in place together, unaware of the stare and murmurs of their coworkers, not noticing how they diverted their attention to something else with a quick glare from AD Skinner. Men came up to them to ask Scully to dance, but they went unheard and ignored, skulking away after it became obvious they had no chance of interrupting.

He pulled her closer to him, and she turned to rest her head against his chest, listening to his heart beating out of sync with the music, so she danced to his rhythm instead. Both of them shifted slowly from side to side in synchrony, creating their own metronome. 

She was pulled out of her trance-like state as the music changed to an upbeat song which she was no longer able to drown out with the sound of his heart beating in her ear. She extracted herself slightly from his arms and looked up at him, meeting his eyes. His face was clouded in an indecipherable storm of emotion, but when she smiled softly up at him, it cleared and he returned her small grin.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, and his smile grew even wider. He moved the hands that had rested on her back and took her hand in his own, holding it tight as though he might lose her in the crowd, and led them off the dancefloor. They wove through the tables and people surrounding it, ignoring the people who looked their way in curiosity. 

The heavy doors to the event hall closed firmly behind them and an instant deafening silence filled the foyer. But it was quickly broken by the echoing sound of her heels clicking on the tiles as Mulder tugged her towards the revolving door at the entrance. A tiny laugh, one that could almost be described as a giggle, escaped her lips. They tumbled out of the door onto the street, both attempting and failing to hide their grins.

He hadn’t let go of her hand.

A cool evening breeze drifted down the street, curling around her bare arms and shoulders, so she stepped closer into him, stealing his warmth by proximity. But, for the second time that night, he pulled her closer, an arm wrapping around her waist, hands still entwined.

She tilted her head up and he tilted his down so that their noses were only an inch apart. 

“Where are we going?” he whispered, his breath tickling her lips.

“Does it matter?” she breathed.

“No.” 

There were words that remained unspoken, but she heard them all the same. 

As long as I’m with you.

[earlgreytea68]

The Fall Out Boy Lawsuit

OKAY. I’m writing this up very slowly and painfully because I was really looking forward to writing this up SO I PERSIST DESPITE MY COMPUTER’S DEATH. I got so many followers after my Omegaverse lawsuit post and I was like, “Oh, no, they’re going to be very disappointed that this blog is just a bunch of pictures of Pete Wentz and Patrick Stump” and THEN FALL OUT BOY GOT SUED FOR COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT AND I WAS LIKE, “MY TIME HAS COME.” 

In all seriousness, though, this is an incredibly interesting case, because here is what it boils down to: 

I am pretty sure Fall Out Boy thought they commissioned a couple of costumes to do whatever they wanted with. 

The creator of the puppets is alleging that Fall Out Boy actually licensed a copyrighted work for a very limited purpose. 

Okay, so let’s dig into this. 

Once upon a time, Fall Out Boy (probably Pete, let’s face it) was like, “Hey, you know what we need more of in our lives? HUGE LLAMA COSTUMES.” (actually the allegation is the puppet studio came up with the llama idea, but someone on the FOB side decided they needed to be used a lot, so.) Even though many other people might not have felt this gaping hole in their lives from lack of llamas, Fall Out Boy was here for us and gave us what we didn’t know we wanted: SO MANY LLAMAS. These llamas were ev. er. y. where. The complaint has pages and pages and pages dedicated to FOB’s use of these llamas in promoting Mania (I can’t keep up with whatever weird way they expect us to style the name of the album, sorry). 

Okay, so we’ve got these costumes, and if you have been at all aware of Mania-era Fall Out Boy, you’ve seen these costumes. According to the complaint, Fall Out Boy commissioned these costumes. A production studio got in touch with Furry Puppet Studio to order “wearable puppets” for use in the “Young and Menace” music video. They provided Furry Puppet Studio with the music video’s storyboard and some references to give them an idea what they were looking for. Furry Puppet Studio alleges that they didn’t use any of these inspiration photos, and it’s true that the puppets look absolutely nothing like what the FOB team sent to them. Instead, Furry Puppet Studio decided to use a llama monster they’d already created, together with a matching new llama monster. They gave the costumes to FOB with an implied license, they allege, that they only be used in the “Young and Menace” music video. 

Implied licenses happen, of course, but the fact that nothing about this transaction appears to be written down is why I can say that I’m not sure Fall Out Boy was viewing this as a copyright matter. You can have implied licenses regarding copyrighted works, but you want your copyright licensing to be in writing. That is much preferred; it obviously makes everything much clearer. When I first saw the news article about this case, I immediately wanted to see the written contract about the puppets, and come to find out: there is none. That doesn’t mean this isn’t a copyright matter, but it does say to me that I bet it wasn’t being treated as one by the Fall Out Boy side of things. (Or, Idk, maybe they totally knew this was a copyright issue, they just didn’t think to paper it. I can’t get a feel for how often and early lawyers were involved with the puppets.)

You might be wondering why we care about any of this. There is no dispute that Fall Out Boy bought and paid for the costumes. Why can’t they do anything they want after that? Because, if the puppets are copyrighted, when you buy a copyrighted work, that doesn’t give you carte blanche to do whatever you want with it. If you buy a book, you’re not allowed to copy it and hand it out at Target. If you buy a painting, you’re not allowed to feature it in a television show without permission. You’ve bought a physical copy, but the exclusive rights of copyright (like reproduction and public display) stay with the copyright holder, in this case Furry Puppet Studio, unless you have negotiated otherwise. Fall Out Boy did not negotiate otherwise (probably, I suspect, because no one raised the issue that the costumes might be copyrighted works, but again, Idk).

Fall Out Boy loves art. They’re on the record as sharing a love of art and collecting art. I bet they do indeed know what they get when they buy physical art. I just suspect that none of them stopped to think that the costumes might be art. 

Crux of the case: 

Therefore, the entire case hinges on (1) whether the costumes are copyrighted; and (2) whether the implied license granted to use these copyrighted works was limited to the “Young and Menace” video. 

As to the first part, Furry Puppet has copyright registrations, although they’re dated October 2018, which I only mention because if everyone knew they were dealing with copyrighted works, it seems like they would have been registered pretty quickly, instead of over a year after they were created. Sometimes, though, it takes you a while to get around to registration. And while some cases have been dubious about the copyrightability of costumes, the trend has been toward allowing them to be copyrighted, especially after a recent Supreme Court case basically seemed to make most clothing design copyrightable (the cases holding costumes not to be copyrightable tended to find they were “useful articles,” a doctrine usually used to prevent the copyrighting of clothing design, but that doctrine is...a morass right now, to put it mildly). 

As to the second part: 

I bet it’s definitely true that Rubrik only mentioned the “Young and Menace” video when it commissioned the puppets. The argument is going to be whether that therefore implied that they could not use the puppets for anything else. Because the contract is all implied, the court is going to have to spend a lot of time interpreting the parties’ intentions in their agreement with each other regarding the costumes. 

This part of the interaction is probably going to end up being important:  

The “Young and Menace” video was done, as Furry Puppet Studio admits. It was posted on YouTube in April. Months later, copies of the costumes were requested by October 15, because of the Mania tour starting on that date. Furry Puppet Studio reacts to FOB’s team’s request as follows:  

The FOB team contact replied: 

And then everyone moved on. 

So a lot of the case is probably going to revolve around what that interaction reveals about the scope of the implied license regarding the copyrighted costumes and what could be done with them. 

As an aside to this central case, the complaint references this: 

I was like, ...what are they referencing that Fall Out Boy has done this before? I really wanted to know! Especially because a few weeks ago I actually looked for Fall Out Boy lawsuits (THE THINGS LAWYERS DO FOR FUN) and couldn’t find any. So then we get to this: 

I tried to look into this and there is not much out there, so let me know if you know more. The stuff I could find called it an “out-of-court settlement,” which I initially took to mean there was a case that settled and some of the sources explicitly reference a lawsuit, but I’m pretty sure there was never a case, I just can’t find any lawsuit being filed. I could only find interviews with Eisold discussing this, very briefly (none with FOB), and he’s basically like, “It wasn’t a big thing, it was blown out of proportion.” It sounds to me like he raised the issue and they gave him writing credit, quickly enough that no lawsuit ever happened. 

(source: https://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/music/cold-caves-wesley-eisold-talks-dance-music-his-hardcore-past-and-that-fall-out-boy-lawsuit-6596823)

I tried to find what they were fighting over, i.e., what Pete copied, but it genuinely seems like they wrote the songs together, so it wasn’t something existing that Pete copied so much as lyrics Eisold actively provided to them for the song. This does seem like the co-writer credit being left off was an oversight, which maybe indicates that Fall Out Boy has a tendency toward “forgetting” proper copyright acknowledgment, although it only happening once a decade ago isn’t that much of a pattern. 

What I really take away from the Eisold thing, though, is how easily and quickly it seems to have been handled. Eisold even says he’s still friendly with the band (that could obviously be a lie). But he had an issue, he or someone got in touch with the band, and a deal was worked out, quickly enough that no lawsuit was ever even filed. It makes me wonder what happened with this situation. There’s nothing in the complaint about Furry Puppet Studio contacting FOB to be like, “Hey, don’t use our puppets like this,” although that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. And complaints don’t necessarily have to be filed right away. The Supreme Court, again, has recently found that you can wait until it’s worth your while to sue, so I guess that’s what the studio was doing. It’s just tragic to me because it seems like there were plenty of points where this confusion about the puppets and the copyrights and the license could have been brought up, and instead the Mania tour is over and the album’s promotion is mostly done and now this is happening, when the copyright harm that has happened is as bad as it could be. 

Again, totally possible this was all raised months and months ago and couldn’t get resolved without a lawsuit. I have no idea. 

Side note: the complaint doesn’t list the parties and jurisdiction/venue allegations until almost 60 pages in. I’ve seldom seen a complaint set up that way. Those allegations are usually right at the front. Anyone know if this is a new thing? 

[christinaengela]

Hello friends and fans!

Welcome to my 34th newsletter – and this time, I think you’ll notice right away that there’s something different about it!

In Brief:

October already? Wow! One of these days it’ll be December and Saturnalia again! 😉 Oktoberfest is on its way – and of course, our favorite festival of the year: Halloween!

In last month’s newsletter I said that this has been one of the busiest, most productive years in writing I’ve had in a long time, and it’s only right that I emphasize that!

That said, this edition of my newsletter also has to be the most intensively updated and detailed one yet! It even has a gorgeous new header image – and lots of extra information!

Let’s carry on, starting with some of the technical background stuff related to my writing!

Discontinuation of the .net website

As I told you last month, the .net website has been discontinued as of mid-September, so please don’t use the christinaengela.net url/link as the redirect to christinaengela.com isn’t expected to work much longer!

I opened the .net site in September 2018 as an experiment, and set up an array of onboard selling tools – but although I finally had just three direct sales from that website during the past year (amounting to a whopping $6 in all that time!) the cost of renewing the service just didn’t justify the expense. I have no intention of renewing the .com domain either when it expires in 2020, since the cost of that via WordPress would be actually three times the renewal cost of the .net through GoDaddy! I will nevertheless do my best to keep all my url mentions updated – hence this reminder!

Updates On Lulu AND Amazon

As you probably are aware, one of the two main service providers I publish through is Lulu.com (the other I use is Smashwords). While both have their fans and their pro’s and cons, Lulu is the only one of the two that distributes to Amazon straight-off – Smashwords wants you to sell a truck-load of a title via their own site, or Apple, or Kobo before they will even consider forwarding it to Amazon! Also, as I mentioned in last month’s newsletter, I’d updated quite a few titles incrementally on Lulu over the past few years, and noticed that inspite of everything I did, Amazon was still displaying some quite old versions of my books that were no longer available, and not updating to the newest versions!

Upon investigation, I complained to Lulu’s help department, and they clarified: it turns out that while I may have updated a project file on a particular book, those changes didn’t reach Amazon. I’m still not sure if this means the process of “revision” on Lulu is automatic and it didn’t work properly in this case, or if the process is not automatic and I’m supposed to notify them to send updated files to Amazon after making changes – they simply didn’t clarify that part – but in the meantime I found a workaround of my own! By that I mean that I undertook the gargantuan task of republishing my books on Lulu not once – but TWICE in the space of a single week!

Let it not be said that I don’t put enough effort into my books! Whew!

The process involved taking down basically ALL my books that are on Lulu, “retiring” them one by one, and then manually republishing each one again – from the beginning, getting new ISBN numbers in the process! As if that wasn’t stressful enough, a few days after completing the updates I received an email from Lulu informing me that this still wasn’t good enough and that I would have to make changes yet again! Hang on a sec – I thought Smashwords was supposed to be the pedantic nitpicking one?

I decided I’d be damned if I was going to change all the covers again to suit them – I wanted the series names on the covers as well, so – groaning and grudgingly, I took all of Galaxii and Quantum down a second time in the space of one week – and republished them again, this time with titles matching the covers EXACTLY! Fortunately, the next morning I received notice that this had done the trick and all Galaxii and Quantum titles had passed Lulu’s evaluation for distribution and had been forwarded to Amazon, Kobo and Barnes & Noble!

I heaved a huge sigh of relief once that was done!

In the meantime, all the titles concerned were still directly available via Lulu’s own shop page, and of course, everywhere else they’re distributed to – Kobo, Barnes & Noble, iBookstore, Smashwords, etc.

All that legwork is now finally behind me, and the newly updated titles that were supposed to have reached Amazon months ago arrived there by the 20th September! But at least, they’re finally there! I was finally able to claim them by clicking “This is my book!” and added them to my Amazon author page! Only then was I able to ask Amazon to link the new editions to previous editions, which will solve the knotty problem of having multiple editions showing side-by-side there!

Still, the drama isn’t quite over yet, as only once this has been done will I be able to update my GoodReads book listing, since their system allows only ISBN/AISN numbers of books being sold on Amazon, and nowhere else!

To make matters even more complicated, somehow in the publishing process over the past couple of years, a duplicate GoodReads author profile got created automatically by some system gremlin or other, and all my current titles are already listed on that site under “Ms. Christina Engela” in duplicate – as they are on Amazon itself – and I can’t claim or add or merge them with my existing GoodReads author user account either! *Head desk!* Perhaps this issue can be resolved if I create a new user account on GoodReads and claim that account… but I still have to get around to it!

I often wonder if aspiring indie authors out there actually knew the amount of work, admin, research, learning, trouble and frustration lying in wait for them, if they’d just give up and not bother! But then, this is my obsession, so it’s not as if I actually have a choice in the matter!

Reviews

“Dead Man’s Hammer” received an amazing 5 star review from UK writer and reviewer, Lee Hall on September 9! I’m not sure how other writers take it, but when I see glowing reports of something I wrote, containing statements like: “As the Quantum series unfolds, it grows more and more impressive“, “Dead Man’s Hammer is proof that Christina Engela can build an established world and insert so many genres into it along with retaining a unique style of writing that not only tributes her influences but has a way of confiding in readers” and “Throughout Engela’s writing style naturally flows and is fun to read“, I feel like breaking out the bubbly and inviting people round to celebrate!

It’s truly gratifying to realize that the reason a reviewer is saying these things, is because they took the time to read something I wrote. It’s also humbling, and I’m very grateful!

It’s probably worth mentioning though, that “Dead Man’s Hammer” has been available since 2006, and this is the very first review I’ve had of that particular title! That alone should serve as an indication of how difficult it is to get reviews as an indie or self-publishing author!

Theo & Yvonne Engela’s Books – New Covers & Formatting

As part of the revision process I told you about in the previous section, I took the opportunity to fix a few things and improve upon the presentation of my parent’s books! I know, I know, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it, right? Still, I couldn’t help myself! At any rate, what I did was create new covers for my parent’s books to make them stand out more, and also to make them look similar and part of the same series, while also reformatting the interior of the eBook into a more uptodate and modern format – the same as the one I use on all the Galaxii and Quantum books! I think they really pop, don’t you?

Poetry by Wendy K. Engela

A couple of months ago my wife and partner in all things wierd and wonderful, Wendy, published her first book – a collection of her gothic poetry! “Season’s Change“. The collection is now available as an eBook via all the expected places, Amazon, Lulu, Smashwords, and all their distribution partner sites.

Sales & Downloads

Since I made a host of new free promotional items available on Lulu and Smashwords, interest towards the end of July – particularly on Smashwords has been gradually showing signs of improvement. Let’s just say that at least I can detect a pulse! Downloads of my free items are happening, and I feel a little encouraged. On the sales front however, things are still pretty dire. Hopefully they will pick up soon.

Current Writing Projects 

Book 7 in Quantum – tentatively operating under the working title “Underground Movement” – is still under way. Just slowly. At the time of last month’s newsletter I told you I’d just reached over 29000 words… and then I peeled some of those off and shifted them to the next title after that’s draft… so “Underground Movement” is currently sitting at just over 21000 words again! Still, it’s all part of the creative process, isn’t it? Right now I’m pondering whether I shouldn’t just merge the next two title’s stories? The story’s finer detail is still evolving and unfolding, so sometimes it’s easy to lose sight of the path while I’m distracted by all the scenery! Anyway, when I make my mind up, I’ll let you know!

Translation

As some of you may recall, in 2016 I released Afrikaans translations of “The Thirteenth Ship” and “Wiggle Room“, which like the English originals, were made available as free downloads. These have been updated and made available once again!  I also made it a goal back in the day, to get all my fiction works translated into Afrikaans for the local market, but also into a couple of other languages – as far as that was possible! Translation work isn’t easy, as I’m sure you can imagine – translation apps can really mangle the works up, and without a native language-speaker to check these translations I’m still up the creek without a canoe!

That said, I’ve had to rely on volunteers to do it out of their own good will rather than to pay top dollar for paid translation services! All I’ve been able to offer people willing to assist me in this task, is mention of their name in the credits and perhaps to give them a free eBook copy of any one of my paid books upon completion of the job!

Now, before you accuse me of being a skint old duck, please bear in mind that the items I wanted translated were all free sample works for which I wouldn’t get paid anyway! It doesn’t make sense to spend thousands of near-worthless Souf Efikin ronts on something that gets given away for free, does it? That being said, some time ago, a few people volunteered eagerly to translate a couple of short stories, and quietly disappeared, never to be heard from again! This recently was the case as well, with several apparent eager-beavers silently vanishing into the mist! Hopefully, in the long-run I can get some of the novels translated. This is a long-term goal, so I expect progress to be slow.

Communication

I’ve also done my level best recently, to start making a post via my website blog daily and then sharing that across social media instead of posting directly to Facebook, Twitter et al. The goal I’ve kept in mind is to post informative articles about various different characters or elements of my stories – and also to come across to readers as more personable… that is to day, less businesslike and less intimidating. After all, I is human too, and I don’t bite… much! So far, that seems to be helping! Below are links to a few of my most recent posts on The Crow Bar:

The Tech Side #1: A Broad-Spectrum Approach To Sci-fi Storytelling

LGBT Heroes in Galaxii & Quantum – the “G” in LGBT

Secret Weapons of the Resistance: Time Travel, Beck the Badfeller & Cindy-Mei Winter

FAQ’s Answered #13: Who Is Sona Kilroy?

FAQ’s Answered #12: Who Is Cindy-Mei Winter?

FAQ’s Answered #11: What Is The Time Saving Agency?

Storm Area 51! Let’s See Them Aliens! Etc!

FAQ’s Answered #10: Who Is Marsha In “Dead Beckoning” to Blachart?

FAQ’s Answered #9: What Inspired “Prodigal Sun” & “High Steaks”?

Secret Weapons of the Resistance: Fred (the Arborian)

Secret Weapons of the Resistance: Bovine Torpedoes

FAQ’s Answered #8: What Inspired The Akx?

Preserve The Past… Save The Future!

Another Round At The Crow Bar #33 September 2019

FAQ’s Answered #7: What Do I Write About (& Other Questions)

Anyway, let’s move on to some more new releases!

New Releases

Some of you may recall that in 2016 I released Afrikaans translations of “The Thirteenth Ship” and “Wiggle Room“, which like the English originals, were made available as free downloads. These have been updated and made available once again!

  Currently Available Titles:

I currently have 22 unique titles available in 4 series (not including the 15 free promotional items).

Alternately, you can view Christina’s books at Amazon, Smashwords, Lulu or Payhip.

Some of Christina’s titles are available in other languages: Afrikaans.

The Galaxii Series

(Click on the cover images to view product pages for each title.)

The Quantum Series

  (Click on the cover images to view product pages for each title.)

Panic! Horror In Space

Space Sucks!

(Click on the cover images to view product pages for each title.)

Other

  (Click on the cover images to view product pages for each title.)

Non-Fiction

(Click on the cover images to view product pages for each title.)

Edited by Christina Engela

  (Click on the cover images to view product pages for each title.)

FREE Promotional Items:

     (Click on the cover images to open free samples.)

On A Personal Note

As I related to you last month, I have opted to sell via Amazon again. Not that I like them, but there’s simply no other way to make any headway as an author – especially an indie author – without making use of their platform.

The two different earlier editions of my dad’s collection of short stories “African Assignment” I mentioned last time as listed on my Amazon author page have finally – after another round of emails, been merged. At this stage, I’m just waiting for the current version to reflect on Amazon’s database before adding it to my listing and then getting those merged with it as well.

Hopefully some headway will be made soon in this regard, and I will as always, keep you posted.

Fan Mail, Reviews & Honorable Mentions

I found the following items to display in this months issue:

Medium.com has shared my article “No LGBT Stereotypes Here!” from last year on their website.

“Dead Man’s Hammer” received an amazing 5 star review from UK writer and reviewer, Lee Hall on September 9, 2019 – the very first for this title!

My favorite reviewer also tweeted THIS about “Black Sunrise” on the 12th!

I got this review on Smashwords for “The Thirteenth Ship“: “Started average, but the ending was different. 4 Stars” – James Jenkins September 12, 2019.

I was quoted by Stephanie C. Odili on Aug 13, 2019 on an article at Medium.com “The patriarchy longs for the days ‘when men were men’ and women were oppressed, subservient — and they can see no wrong in it. It justifies its former power and lust to hold on to it — and if possible, to regain it…How can oppression and power over another person’s life ever be ‘love’?” ― Christina Engela.

A short story project I collaborated on with fellow author Alex S. Johnson “Negative Wonderland” appears on Pintrest.

CrowdCount has one of my quotes at the bottom of their website in a carousel along with quotes from Margaret Mead, Ron Siltanen and Mother Theresa. “Human rights is a numbers game. Who is going to care if only 20 people pitch for a protest?“

Poopbite (odd name, that) lists one of my quotes on a list about bonfires. “Knowledge and education are the keys to this human tragedy which is a bonfire of hate-fueled by ignorance.” – Christina Engela.

GGGMall is still quietly carrying on, selling my books via their website AND on Bid or Buy.

The Daily Ripple posted a quote of mine from “The Pink Community – The Facts” right at the top of their homepage! “The problem is, in a world where some people (even in the USA, where someone like Donald Trump was allowed to rise to the level of a serious presidential candidate in 2016) have descended to such levels of ignorance that science itself is dismissed by leaders, political and religious as ‘an agenda’, and frightening numbers of people cling to ignorance and superstition because it suits their conservative anti-human rights views and objectives.” ― Christina Engela, The Pink Community – The Facts.

I display my Fan Mail, Reviews & Compliments with pride, gratitude and humility. You are always welcome to have a look.

Hate Mail & Horrible Mentions

I’ve had nothing in this department over the past month, other than a couple of pitiful dick pics and weak insults – surely my haters can do better?

This Levitican dickhead (who was on my Facebook friends list until then) made an effort to let me know what a hopeless transphobe he is by posting this string of abusive comments on a share of LGBT Heroes in Galaxii & Quantum – the “G” in LGBT. Yes, I write about LGBT characters in some of my books – and I’m open about being transgender and lesbian myself – so if you’re a homophobe or transphobe, why send me friend requests to begin with? #gallery-0-7 { margin: auto; } #gallery-0-7 .gallery-item { float: left; margin-top: 10px; text-align: center; width: 33%; } #gallery-0-7 img { border: 2px solid #cfcfcf; } #gallery-0-7 .gallery-caption { margin-left: 0; } /* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */

This next ignoramus stepped up to demonstrate what happens when you’re a hate-filled sack of shit and you miss your turn to use the family brain cell – when you open your piehole, you sound like a TERF. #gallery-0-8 { margin: auto; } #gallery-0-8 .gallery-item { float: left; margin-top: 10px; text-align: center; width: 33%; } #gallery-0-8 img { border: 2px solid #cfcfcf; } #gallery-0-8 .gallery-caption { margin-left: 0; } /* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */

I’m rather proud of my hate mail, and you can review my collection here – but be forewarned, don’t do it while eating or drinking, or you might choke while laughing!

Interviews

I have nothing new to show you here this month.

All my interviews are linked to from this page. If you would like to do an interview with me about my work, please do get in touch!

In Closing

Well, that’s all for this time, folks! 🙂

Thanks again for all your support, friendship and interaction!

Until next time, keep reading!

Cheers! 🙂

If you would like to know more about Christina Engela and her writing, please feel free to browse her website.

If you’d like to send Christina Engela a question about her life as a writer or transactivist, please send an email to christinaengela@gmail.com or use the Contact form.

Show your appreciation for Christina’s work!

All material copyright © Christina Engela, 2019.

Another Round At The Crow Bar #34 October 2019 Hello friends and fans! Welcome to my 34th newsletter - and this time, I think you'll notice right away that there's something different about it!

[thewrittenpost]

Possible Death’s Eyes Scene

Here’s a bit I wrote up today on my tablet, and if I don’t get it up somewhere, it’ll disappear somewhere in my files and never see the light of day again, so here it is! I might keep things, might take them out, may scrap the whole scene, but hey! At least I got some work done! Read More to keep things small, and all of that!

Acheflow had fully expected to be returned to the cell she’d escaped from, but Xavier’s guards had instead escorted her to what must have been a tower. In the house.

Thankfully that gave her something to work with; the manor outside of town had appeared to have towers, from the quick look she’d taken before tracking down the inn. She couldn’t be that far from town, and that meant Lou would be able to find her more easily.

If they’re still alive.

Acheflow took a deep breath, forcing herself not to panic. Of course Lou was fine; Xavier had brushed her questions about them off. Acheflow figured that he would have gloated if he’d caught Lou, or worse… just one more thing to use against her, and there was no point in withholding that information.

Now she just had to escape, find Lou -in whatever process they were in- and they’d both be on their merry way. Acheflow would process the irony of finding Tobias’ necromancer after they’d parted ways later.

The door was locked… as expected, but worth a try. The rest of the room didn’t offer much in the way of escape: comfortable enough, with a thick rug, plenty of candles, an actual bed… someone wanted their prisoner comfortable before whatever they had planned.

Xavier had also left a pile of books on the bed, knowing Acheflow well enough to guess that she’d be tempted to bury herself in them.

It was annoying to realize she was so predictable.

Growling, Acheflow poked her head out the small window, examining the walls of the tower. No footholds, no real way to get down safely… a tumble to the rocks below was not the desired outcome. The blankets she had in the room wouldn’t even get her halfway down the tower, and she’d just be stranded.

A damsel-in-distress, locked in a tower. Doesn’t this sound familiar?

“Just like a story, isn’t it?”

Acheflow whirled around at the strangely familiar voice, her eyes widening at what was in front of her. The woman had made it into the locked room silently, hands folded in front of her, completely pale… almost transparent. Her smile grew, amusement making her seem more solid. Acheflow stared as the figure floated towards the bed, throwing themselves down and bouncing in an attempted imitation of weight.

“Mother?” The word came out as a whisper. Acheflow felt her nails digging into her hands, nearly toppling over when she leaned against the wall in shock. “But you’re…”

“Dead. Yes.” For a moment, her face darkened, making the air in the room feel heavily. “He brought me back to talk to you.”

“To convince me to help him. I won’t.” The declaration came out stronger, although too quiet. Acheflow forced herself to stand straight, pulling her hair mercilessly out of her face. “And calling you back here instead of letting you rest isn’t going to change anything.”

“Of course not.” Her mother laughed, making Acheflow feel like a child again. How long had it been since she last heard her mother laugh so easily, without the constant exhaustion hiding behind it? “I told him that when he ordered me to do it. I don’t think he appreciated my attitude.”

“Where did he think I got it?” Acheflow couldn’t hold back the chuckle. Rubbing at her face with her hands, Acheflow shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Neither can I. I don’t think I like it.” She didn’t sound as irritated as someone pulled from the dead should be, but amused instead. “I was having a very nice heart to heart with your father, and then I get-“

“My father?”

“-Pulled back to this world, and ordered to convince you to do what that man wants. No introduction; he’s quite rude, you realize this?”

“I realize that, and neither of us would be here if I had my way. You were with my father?” Acheflow absently reached for the pocket with her glasses in it, rubbing at the glass. “You found him?”

“Well, we’re both dead. And he was waiting when I passed on. Apparently he convinced Thearial to let him wait until we could go together.” The words were accompanied with a happy sigh, the ghostly figure leaning back into the bed. “He was very romantic.”

“And probably convinced Arione to get Thearial to give him what he wanted,” Acheflow muttered, giving into the temptation to sit under the window, her back against the wall. “Is Xavier listening to all of this?”

“So what if he is? We’re just having a mother-daughter talk, and I am reconnecting with my daughter. In hopes to convince her to help him, which is what I was ordered to do. Rude man; I much prefer the other one you were with.”

“Tobias?” Acheflow raised her eyebrows, slipping into old conversation routines they’d had. “Now, how would you know about him?”

“Well, of course I’m always watching over you. And your father has been too. He’s quite disappointed you didn’t go to one of Imrasil’s temples, but he is very impressed with your collection. He did mention once that you were on the right track, compiling information on some hidden library, now that I think about it.”

“I was? I had hit a dead end; nobody had new or relevant- Wait, that’s not the point. Tobias?” Acheflow waved a hand in the air, a ‘hurry up’ gesture that was ignored. “Ma, how long have you been watching?”

“Well, since you moved to that ridiculous mountain you call home. Now that’s not important. How are you planning to get out of here? Waiting for rescue isn’t like you.” The ghost was faster than expected, plopping on the floor in front of her living daughter.

“Ma… this is going to sound horrible, but… I’m not sure I should tell you anything. Because... you know. The whole ‘under necromancer control’ concept.” Acheflow bit her lip, attempting a sheepish smile that came out as a grimace. “I can tell you that the window isn’t an option, unless our family has a hidden ability to fly.”

“No, unfortunately not.” The ghost leaned forward, a mischievous grin growing on her face. “But I think I have something better. Our nasty friend downstairs forgot something. Thearial always finds his souls, sooner or later.”

Acheflow narrowed her eyes, opened her mouth to ask what her mother was talking about… and then a large black shadow jumped through the open window over her head. Covering her mouth didn’t stop all of the shriek from escaping, and from the look on her mother’s face, she was never going to hear the end of this.

“That’s… Collector… but how did it find you so fast?” Acheflow stared at what appeared to be the biggest, fluffiest dog she had ever seen. “And if it could, why didn’t Thearial find this place earlier?”

“My guess? His hero is nearby and it’s easier to move. Who knows how gods work?” Her mother shrugged, patting the dog happily. “Oh, I always wanted to get you a dog, but I got too sick, too fast. And then you got a cat.”

“I didn’t get a cat, the cat got me.” Acheflow forced the deep breath out slowly, shaking her head. “But how does this help me?”

“Climb on with me, and we hop out the window, and boom! You’re out, I’m out, your hero friend gets rid of the necromancer, and we all live happily ever after!”

“Sounds nice… but I’m still alive, and as friendly as this thing is-“ Acheflow leaned away to avoid the affections of the soul-seeking dog, wiping at her cheek. “I don’t think it’ll let me on.”

“Really? It seems like it likes you.”

“Mm-hmm… maybe it smells that time I was dead on me.”

“The time you were what?”

“Oh, I thought you knew, since you were watching. Sorry.” Acheflow patted the dog’s head carefully, barely touching it. “Yeah, long story. Tell you all about it sometime… when I’m permanently dead. And not held prisoner by someone who wants me to help him avoid death. Alright, let’s try this… nice dog, don’t throw me off please.”

Gingerly, Acheflow climbed onto the dog who was still trying to lick her face, gripping the fur so her knuckles were white. Her mother climbed on behind her, leaving no sign of her presence, although the dog started moving. Feeling a sudden pit in her stomach, Acheflow squeezed her eyes tight so she wouldn’t see what was about to happen.

She could hear the door crashing open behind them, feel the drop towards the earth… and buried her face into the dog’s fur. The less she saw of the actual fall, the better.

Acheflow felt the collision of the dog’s paws hitting the ground, heard a voice in her mind that had her looking back as they ran away.

I love you so much. Be safe.

Acheflow turned to get one last glance at her mother, standing at the window of the tower, before she completely faded away… leaving Xavier in her place, watching as his prisoner escaped with the help of the god he was trying to destroy.

[mattzerella-sticks]

Sharing a Lullaby (a Nate/John fic, post 4x06 “Tender is the Nate”)

Ao3

One of the Legends takes Nate up on his offer to visit, except it's one member he wasn't expecting. Still, he keeps to his word. Although he ends up having a better time than he thought he would. Sometimes it's the things you never expect that have the best way of surprising you.

           Nate finished his reports a half-hour ago, only staying later to organize them alongside other files that piled up on his desk throughout the day. It wasn’t the most glamorous of tasks within the Time Bureau, but he’s still riding the high from Paris. So he goes about his work, humming James Taylor under his breath.

           “Quite a catchy song, that is,” a rough voice says from behind, “Can’t seem to get it out of my head, either.” Nate turns, finding John Constantine leaning up against his doorjamb.

           He frowns, looking past him. “I’m pretty sure everyone’s gone for the day, Gary left with Mona…”

           John rolls his eyes, advancing. “I’m not here for Gary, Nate. I’m dropping in.”

           “You’re… what now?”

           The magician smirks at him, picking up a small globe that was on Nate’s desk and playing with it. Spinning the Earth in large, clumsy strokes. “Dropping in, or have you forgotten already? The little offer you made?”

           Nate remembers. It was said in good spirits, filled with friendship and the smell of pizza. Although he never thought anyone would take him up on it – except that’s a lie. He meant it for Ray and Sara, and Zari as well. Even Mick if he didn’t cause too much of a problem. Nate never thought John was willing to step inside the Time Bureau, especially for him. Wasn’t quite sure if he wanted him to, either.

           “Oh, uh – no, I… I haven’t forgotten.” He closes the folder he was reading rather harshly, slapping it down on top of a pile of similar folders. “I… wasn’t sure anyone would be by so soon or – or late?”

           “Well I run by me own clock now don’t I?” John says, now lounging on Nate’s desk, “Besides, would you rather I stop by when this whole factory is in a flurry of bureaucracy?”

           “You… have a point.”

           “Always do, luv,” he winks, setting the globe down. “So, what d’you say you and me get a pint down at the nearest pub?” His hand is still on the knick-knack, a finger stuck somewhere in lower Asia, pushing the globe back and forth. Nate gawks at the motion, the comment affecting him strangely. He clings to the more familiar feeling of confusion, and runs with that.

           “I’m sorry,” he squeaks out, “could you repeat that?”

           John huffs out a laugh. “Why don’t I put it in words you can understand…” He clears his throat, drawing Nate’s eyes back up to his face. Putting his fists on his hips, he adopts an American accent. “Hey, pal, let’s go get a brewski at the bar! Maybe watch some American football – which is definitely not soccer!”

           His exaggerated acting brings a smile to Nate’s face, and he chuckles into his hand. “Pretty good. How long have you been working on that?”

           “I had a few-night stands with a speech pathologist,” John tells him, “not only was the bloke a good lay – but he taught me a few things. Anything to help with deception.”

           “Must be good for D and D?”

           “When I’m dungeon master,” John shrugs, “but honestly that’s few and far between. I love playing the game rather than creating a story.”

           Nate agrees. “Besides,” he says, “Ray rarely ever gives it up.”

           “I’ll say – the Boy Scout has a stranglehold on the job. Runs a good game but a mighty big nag when it comes to the rules.”

           He feels somewhat bad at the laugh he shares with John, hoping Ray can forgive him. Nate takes a sweeping glance across his desk, biting at his lip. ‘I can finish this tomorrow…’ He looks up at John, who watches him with a strange gleam in his eye. ‘Must be a magic thing…’

           “So… up for a little hair of the dog?”

           He rolls his eyes, standing. “Not that… but I can go for a beer or two.”

           John’s face brightens immensely, clapping Nate on the back as he leads them out of the office. “Trust me, Nate,” he says, “it won’t be just two.”

           Nate isn’t sure whether that’s a good or bad thing.

           They find a bar a few blocks between the Time Bureau and the apartment Nate rented out. It’s a little hole-in-the-wall, barely filled with people. And those that are there don’t look like they’ve come from a regular nine-to-five. Nate snags a booth with barely any holes in the vinyl while John brought over two bottles. They drank them and a few more, and swapped tales all the while. It’s John’s turn again, and Nate listens, rapt by the other man’s smoke-tinged voice.

           “…and I was carried away by these little buggers, like tiny paramedics, all the way back to the camp! Let’s just say I was glad someone paid attention when ol’ Camp Counselor Ray was speaking!” Nate snorts into his drink, trying not to choke on his laughter. He’s not sure whether John’s actually told a funny story or if it was the fourth beer helping, but he enjoys his time with the Waverider’s resident magician. And if he finds himself staring a bit too long at John from time to time, he doesn’t put much thought into that, either.

           “I wish I could have been there,” Nate says, “I always wanted to go to a summer camp.”

           “You’ve never been?”

           “Until I was a teenager I couldn’t even leave my house,” he tells him, “Was barely allowed to do other things like a normal boy, so of course summer camp was out of the question. It wouldn’t have been fun, either, with my folks. Mom would have probably called every other day to make sure I didn’t get a splinter and bleed out across the campgrounds.”

           “Did she think all summer camps were like that Friday the 13th crap?”

           “What? No – did… you didn’t know I was hemophiliac?”

           “You were?”

           Nate nods. “Until I started hanging out with the Legends and could, y’know, turn into steel. Good thing, too. If I still had my little problem I’d have bit it a long time ago.”

           “That’d be a shame,” John says, “Then we never would have met… this whole night would be a wash.” He casually tosses out another wink, playing with the neck of his bottle, dragging his forefinger and thumb up and down slowly.

           Nate drags his gaze away, meeting John’s raised brow and smirk. He shifts in his seat, searching for a verbal life preserver. He doesn’t much care for what he throws out. “What about you?”

           “What about me?”

           “Did you go to camp?”

           “Not in the usual sense…”

           This piques Nate’s curiosity. He tilts his drink at John. “What do you mean?”

           “My old pa never sent me off to the country side or what not,” he explained, “but some nights I did have to camp outside when he locked me out.”

           Nate winces. “Ouch. Sorry I – I didn’t mean to bring up old memories –“

           “You did nothing of the sort,” John waves him off, “Wound’s healed up. Besides, not like I didn’t get my revenge when I could. Having it now I suppose… breathing, drinking,” he glances up at Nate from between his lashes, “with a pretty lad no less.”

           He actually chokes on his drink this time. Nate coughs up the beer that slipped down the wrong pipe. When he finally rights his breathing, John looks at him with amusement. Nate knows he’s sinking, but he isn’t sure what to do about it. “He wasn’t a fan of you with…” He doesn’t say it, but the very pointed nod of his head and tap of the bottle’s neck is as good as words.

           “Wasn’t very much a fan of anything I did, really” John shrugs, sipping at his beer, “but no, that bit of news was a sore subject for that drunken lump of a man. What about your dad?”

           “What about Hank?”

           “Does he care if you…” Now he taps at his bottle’s neck, smirking.

           Nate flushes a bright red. He fumbles, “Hank doesn’t – he doesn’t think that matters. Barely bat an eye when Ava mentioned she had a girlfriend, although if he heard it was Sara he might be more concerned about favoritism. And I – I don’t know about me if I – if I were to bring… I’ve never, I mean – the only guy I hooked up with wasn’t looking for anything more…” He takes a deep breath. “He’d be okay with it… I think?”

           He scoffs. “You’re very certain on the matter.”

           “You met the man.”

           “That I did,” John nods, “And you could be right. He might be a bit of a stiff one but there are some surprises in him. Like his song; didn’t expect him to know how to play the guitar.”

           Nate smiles, the chords starting up again in his mind, easing him back from the ledge. “Yeah, back when I was younger sometimes he’d… he’d sing me to sleep. If I was having a bad day or feeling lonely…” He sighs, “Before we started butting heads.”

           John holds his bottle aloft, angled towards Nate. “Parents,” he says, “they think they always know what’s best.” Nate clinks their drinks together sadly. “For what it’s worth though, luv,” he continues, “I’m pretty glad you’re not some carbon copy of your old man. I mean… it was pretty sexy how you knew that myth about Daedalus and the lyre.”

           “Oh, that was… nothing, really,” Nate rubs at his neck, “When you came to us about magic and mythical creatures I had Gideon stock the library and just… read. Before the powers, that’s what I was good at. Spent most of my childhood behind books.”

           “Books are good, I’ll agree with you on that,” John tells him, “Especially your library’s collection. I’ve become comfortable in there, as I’m sure you’re very aware.”

           An image of a naked John springs to mind, and Nate barely clamps down on the gasp clawing in his throat. ‘Can he have a conversation without bringing it back to sex for five seconds?’

           “I… am.” He cringes, readying to pour more beer down his throat. His plan doesn’t work, foiled by the empty bottle. Nate pouts at it.

           John gestures to his finished drink. “Looks like we’re out.”

           “Seems like it.” Nate sighs, standing, “Probably for the best. I have to get up early for work.”

           “Work,” John shudders, all the disgust he could force out of his mouth with that one word surprising Nate. “Bloody awful and boring is what that is.”

           Nate’s lips twitch. “Then what do you call what you do?”

           “A hobby, sometimes. Lifestyle when I feel like it.” He stands as well, “Come on, let’s get you home.”

           “You don’t have to –“

           “Nonsense,” John winds an arm around Nate’s waist, guiding him out of the bar and into the night, “I was the one who talked you into this nightcap. Might as well make sure you get home safely.”

           “I’m not drunk, not even the littlest bit tipsy,” he tells him, letting the other man take lead, “I can’t – take a left right here – I can’t get drunk anymore after the serum.”

           “Then maybe I just want to see where you live, then – another block or do I make a right now?”

           “Another block.” He still hasn’t pulled away, and neither has John. His hand sits heavy on his waist, like a hot coal. Except it’s a soothing burn, like all his worries are melting out of him. Nate glimpses John’s profile, taking it in.

           The other man had a ruggedness he appreciated. A similar look to the war-weary soldier Nate saw in picture after picture on battlefields during his studies. The same pictures he’d study over and over that made him realize guys could make his heart stir in the same way as girls did. His eyes were the color of whiskey, and Nate could picture himself getting wasted on them. Even his perpetual five-o’clock shadow temps him, begging Nate to drag his own face across it, see what it feels like.

           “This the place?” John startles him back to the present. He eyes Nate, as if he could tell what was just on his mind. Nate finally pulls away, a rush of cold meeting the line of warmth that the British magician pressed into him.

           “Yeah,” he mumbles, digging for his keys. Nate misses the keyhole a few times, but gets it eventually, turning the lock and entering. John follows right behind him, spreading the earlier heat from one side across his entire back.

           Nate could turn him away then. Tell him he can climb the three flights alone and have them part ways now. But he can’t. They journey together towards his door, keys shaking in his hands. When they get there, he pauses, one hand on the doorknob, the other hovering by the keyhole.

           John whispers, “What seems to be the problem?”

           “If I open this door, then this is really happening,” Nate says, “I’m just… nervous, is all.”

           “You know, we don’t have to do anything. This has been good enough for me. I’ve kicked the ball onto your side of the field.”

           Nate can’t help the laugh that stutters out of him, knocking his head against his door. “Soccer metaphor, really?”

           “Call it bloody football or there definitely won’t be anything happening tonight.”

           He has to ask. “What about Gary?”

           “Gary and I had our fun,” John tells him, “we can, too. Or are you still hung up on the whole… Amaya/Charlie thing?”

           “There’s always going to be a part of me that will be,” Nate says, “So… you’re not looking for anything else?”

           John scoffs. “I could probably stay and cuddle for an extra fifteen minutes, luv but that’s all you’re getting from me. I’m not the type you want haunting your doorstep night after night. Magic and romance don’t go hand in hand.”

           “Then why ask me out tonight?”

           “You intrigued me,” he says, “In that suit, with your… confidence. Standing up for yourself to your father, asserting yourself… even with that bloody lyre… I mentioned already how sexy you were. Adulthood is a good look on you, Nate. Made me want to know more of you in… any way I could.”

           The steel rushes over him then, covering every inch of skin. John steps back, and Nate turns, chasing him. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, powering down, “I got a… a little too excited. That… that tends to happen when I… when I…”

           John closes the distance once more, faces mere inches apart. He brushes his thumb against Nate’s cheek, and he gasps at the contact. “Well, here’s hoping I can make you do that again.”

           He kisses him, and it feels like fire. Like a powerful inferno engulfing him, and not even his powers could protect him. He’d either melt or burn, and neither option worried him. He gladly stayed in the heart of the fire, clutching at the lapels of John’s trench coat, dragging him closer.

           “Eager, aren’t ya?” John pants, nipping at Nate’s lip.

           He pulls back, staring at the wide and blown-out pupils in the other man’s eyes; probably as large as his own. “Bed. We should… not out here.”

           John chuckles. “I’d be happy to, luv, you only need open the door first.”

           Nate glances down at his hand, where his keys lay bent. “I – uh… my spare set is inside. Do you think you could?” John sighs, but kneels down with his palms out. He waves them around his lock, whispering Latin, the tips of his fingers crackling a bright orange. It’s over as soon as it starts. He stands, opening the door with ease.

           “You’re better than any locksmith.”

           “And easier to please,” he nods inside, “Should we get back to it, then?”

           Nate’s kiss is answer enough. He drives them through the threshold, their hands tangling into each other’s clothes, trying to latch onto something. Nate grabs fistfuls of John’s coat once more before tugging at it, trying to tear it away. “Cheeky, aren’t ya?” John says, smiling into another kiss. He flips them around, ripping Nate’s shirt open while he kicks the door shut.

           They step apart once more, gasping for breath. John asks, “Bed, luv?”

           “This way.” They’re stripping the entire way there, flinging clothes like breadcrumbs from the living room over to the door to the right of the kitchen. Nate thanks his morning self for the intrusive thought to make his bed that morning, usually uncaring as to how it looks most of the time. John’s slipping his belt off of him as he turns down the covers. Once he steps out of his pants, he turns to look at the other man in a similar state of undress.

           “What are you feeling like doing, Nate?”

           “Nothing too big,” he tells him, “haven’t… haven’t done anything like that in years. Keep it slow like…”

           “Like two cocks sliding up against each other?”

           Nate laughs. “Yeah, that I can work with.”

           John hops into bed, rolling over, glancing at the empty space. “Well, are you going to get in?”

           He does, but not before bringing out his lube from its place in his nightstand. Tossing it on the bed before jumping in as well, drawing the covers up and over them both. Nate giggles, the amazement of the night bubbling forth now that he’s safely cocooned with the other man.

           “I haven’t done anything yet, luv.” John looks at him tenderly, rubbing calloused hands up and down Nate’s chest.

           “I know I know I’m just… this feels good.”

           “I’d hope so,” John says, leaning in close, brushing his lips up against Nate’s, “make it good for both of us.” They continue kissing, John jerking Nate’s hips closer to his, rubbing their crotches together. Nate slips his hands up into the other man’s blond locks, threading his fingers through them as he gasps and pants into his mouth. “Just like that, luv. God, is your cock made of steel, too?”

           “I – I can make it,” Nate tells him, stuttering as John trails open-mouthed kisses down his neck, “It won’t – won’t feel as good as this. No friction. No heat.”

           “Good to know.” John gropes behind him for the lube, a successful mission if his keening is anything to go by. “Knickers off.” Nate shimmies out of his boxers, then helps John with his own. Their cocks brush up against each other, and it makes Nate’s even harder, a little precome leaking out. He moves back up, where they can easily gaze into each other’s eyes. Nate’s face hurts from smiling, and John’s might as well. “Hey.”

           He snorts. “Hey yourself.”

           “You ready?”

           “As I’ll ever be.”

           John brushes his knuckles down Nate’s chest, all the while whispering soft encouragements. His fingers take their cocks together, and the cold lotion hits against his flushed cock, and Nate hisses at the wondrous feeling. “Haven’t even got to the best part,” John tells him, his other hand playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

           Nate nods, leaning in closer to John, head bowed. John kisses the crown of his head before he starts pumping, their cocks bobbing together in passionate synchronicity. Like pistons in a steam engine they move up and down simultaneously, rubbing against one another. The heat spreads all the way up Nate’s body, from a bit of sweat on his brow to the curl of his toes.

           He feels the pitch of his stomach, his cock slick with lube and come, both his and John’s. The other man whines low in the back of his throat, a deep rumble that rolls over Nate like a crushing wave. He finally uses his own hands, instead of leaving them to twitch at his sides. Nate reaches for John’s neck and yanks him in for a kiss. He happily succumbs to his pulling, and their lips meet in searing joy. It’s the final push that helps Nate blow his load all over he and John. He moans into John’s mouth, biting down on the other man’s lower lip.

           “Bloody hell,” John breathes, coming right alongside Nate. They lie like that, on their sides, blinking at each other while a pool of their come dries quickly between them on their bodies and Nate’s sheets. The thought has him laughing, and John pouts. “I thought I did a great job…”

           “No it’s – you were great,” Nate says, “I just realized I’m going to need to change my sheets and – and I don’t have any extra sheets. Some adult I am…”

           John smirks, laying a sticky hand against Nate’s stomach. His eyes glow amber, muttering in Latin again. He feels their come disappear, almost as if nothing happened, as John’s hand burns hot against his skin. “Whoa…”

           “Really great trick,” John tells him, “Like my own Unseen Servant.”

           “D and D in the bedroom? Really?”

           “Nerd like you, I figured that might be a turn on.”

           “I think it’s a little late for that.”

           “I don’t know. I’m always ready for a second round.”

           Nate shoves at John jokingly, both men laughing at each other. They kiss again, with less intensity than all the other times but still brimming with passion. John reaches around and brings their chests together, Nate smiling into the embrace. He pulls back. “Thank you.”

           John raises a brow. “Not sure what you’re thanking me for? Kinda a two person job, innit?”

           “Yeah but I… I never would have thought –“

           “Give yourself more credit luv,” John tells him, “you managed to get a girl like Amaya to fancy you. Now I’m prettier, of course, but with lower standards. This was bound to happen at some point.”

           Nate scoffs, knocking his head against John’s. “Some point…” He lets himself succumb to the post-orgasm haze; his body pliant under the other man’s wandering hands, kneading at his back. ‘Maybe he’s wrong… magic and romance can go together.’

           “What’s going on in that head of yours, luv?”

           “Just thinking…”

           “I thought I took care of that? Or have I lost my touch already…”

           Nate cracks open an eye, a sex-ruffled and giddy John staring back at him. “You’re touch is amazing… I really like it.” At that, the other man stills, the smile slipping from his face.

           “Trust me,” he says, expression darkening, “you wouldn’t.”

           “I think that’s for me to decide.”

           “Spend enough time around me, and you’d be singing a different tune.”

           Nate yawns, too tired to deal with John’s cryptic nature. “Just stop talking and hold me. You said fifteen minutes… and I’m holding you to it.” He burrows in closer to John, wrapping his arms around John’s waist.

           John tightens his grip. “Alright luv… fifteen minutes, then.”

           Nate slips into sleep not soon after, John’s face burrowed into his hair. The magician hums a familiar tune, one that makes his passage into unconsciousness even faster. ‘James Taylor…’

           The morning rush of the Time Bureau only worsens Nate’s mood. He woke up late to an empty bed and a dirty sink. John stuck to his word, not being there in the morning. But he didn’t have to leave such a mess. The dishes he cleaned and the clothes he picked up off the floor threw off his pre-work routine. It wasn’t all that bad, however. In the other man’s rush to leave, he forgot his tie. The red silk was hidden by Nate’s suit jacket, and still smelled of John’s smoke and cologne.

           Wearing it to work might have been risky, but it was the only good part of his day so far. Especially since Ava greets him with a stern frown. “You’re late.”

           “Sorry,” he tells her, trailing his boss as she walks further into the Bureau, “I had a few things I needed to take care of before…”

           “I can clearly see that,” she says, glancing at his neck, “If you want I have some foundation you can – uh… use?”

           Nate brushes his knuckles up against his skin, remembering how closely John showered him in affection, especially one particular area. “Well – uh, that wasn’t what – I – I…”

           “I don’t need to know, Nate,” she says, stopping in front of his office, “Not while we’re on the clock. We can talk about her later, if you want.”

           He blanches, looking away as Ava’s impish grin unfurls. “Maybe…” she pats him on the shoulder as a goodbye, leaving just as Gary starts to pass.

           Gary stops, scanning the room, his nose twitching. “Something wrong Gary?” Nate asks.

           “It’s weird,” he tells Nate, “I thought I smelt something familiar, like… no, it can’t be.” Gary glances at his tie. “Great color, it looks nice with the blue suit.”

           “Thanks…” Finally alone, Nate shuffles back over to his desk, tackling the work he left for himself. But not before taking one last whiff of John’s tie. Smiling, he gets back to it.

[g4yr4t]

@jade-curtiss I wrote a thing for youuuuuuuu :)

“But Jaaaaaaaaaaaaade!” whined Saphir, standing on his tiptoes and reaching for the book in the taller boy's hand. “That's my diary! It's private!” With a cold smile on his face, Jade continued to dangle the tattered diary over Saphir's head.

“A diary is a place to keep secrets,” said Jade, voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “And friends don't keep secrets, now do they?”

“No,” said Saphir slowly, knowing that he was trapped. “But… there aren't any secrets, it's not even worth--”

“Then why shouldn't I read it?” asked Jade. His wicked smile widened. “Give me one good reason.” Saphir spluttered, unable to come up with anything. Then, much to his chagrin, his eyes began to water, which always meant that…

“Your nose is running,” said Jade, wrinkling his own nose in distaste. Saphir sniffed loudly and wiped his eyes with a hand.

“No it's not,” he said. He reached again for the diary – a tattered book with a worn leather cover and wrinkled pages – but Jade yanked it higher. Try as he might, Saphir couldn't help from gasping out a pathetic sob. Jade's smile morphed into a disdainful frown. He dropped the book on the ground as though it were covered in Saphir's snot. Like a starving urchin scrambling for discarded scraps of food, Saphir dropped to his knees in the Keterburg snow and grabbed the diary, clutching it to his chest.

“Disgusting,” said Jade. The smile quickly returned to his face, and he shrugged. “No major loss. If you hide it as terribly as you did the last time, I'll just find it again.” Saphir was too busy wiping at his eyes and nose and white-knuckling his diary to watch Jade turn on his heel and leave. That was much too close a call. One thing was certain: Jade Curtiss would never find his diary again.

Jade would have said that he couldn't believe that Dist had actually spent all that time waiting in the freezing cold of Keterburg square, just for him, but that wouldn't have been true. Ever since they were children, Dist had been unwavering in his idiocy when it came to Jade. This was exactly in character for him. And he would have said that he couldn't believe that his own sister would put Dist up in a luxury hotel instead of having him arrested, but hat wouldn't have been true, either; Nephry had always had a soft spot for the sniveling fool. Nevertheless, this whole ridiculous situation worked in his favor. Jade was sure he could find some way of extracting information about Mt. Roneal from Dist, especially if Dist was in a weakened state.

When the party entered the hotel room, Dist was sleeping soundly on top of the bed covers, muttering something about Jade while he dreamed.

“That's so sweet!” said Anise. “Jade, he's dreaming about you!” Jade was about to give a witty retort when he saw something poking out from the edge of Dist's pocket. The corner of a small book, with leather binding and gold clasps, slightly worn and scuffed. Why would Dist carry a book around in his coat? Unless…

“Why don't the six of you step out for a moment,” suggested Jade. “I'd like to ask him a few questions about Mt. Roneal. In private.” The younger party members shared a look, all of them feeling somehow uneasy about Jade's tone. They did as he said, though, filing out through the door without complaint.

Ever so gently, so as not to wake the sleeping man, Jade coaxed the diary out of Dist's inner coat pocket. There was no lock on the book, so Jade simply opened it up and began flipping through the pages. There were a lot of sketches – rough outlines of different robots Dist was designing. Jade even saw one of the robots he and the rest of the “Jade gang” (as Dist called them) had fought recently. Several entries complaining about his unrecognized genius, a few griping about Van. A surprising number detailing what he had eaten on any given day. None mentioned Mt. Roneal. Jade almost threw the book at Dist's head to wake him up, when he noticed an entry with his name in it.

Well. He had to read that.

Dear Diary, the entry read. I had another dream about Jade last night. Oh, how he vexes my mind! That irksome, smiling bastard won't leave my thoughts alone. And he'll barely even look at me in the waking world. He's been nothing but cruel ever since childhood--

That stung a little for reasons Jade couldn't quite understand. After all, it was fairly accurate, although he liked to think of himself as significantly less cruel than he had been as a child. He started skimming the entry, curious about this dream but unwilling to see himself slandered in this way. The complaining went along for a while, and then…

In my dream, Jade approaches me in the empty lab of our Academy days. Without saying a word, he brushes my hair back behind my ear. He's never been so gentle with me, not in real life. He leans in and kisses me. I kiss back with gusto, needy and wanting. I'd like to think that I wouldn't be so desperate were this to actually happen, but I shouldn't kid myself. Then, the gentleness ends. His tongue invades my mouth, he presses his body against mine, pushes me against the wall. He reaches under my shirt and I moan into his mouth. Before I know it, I'm--

“Jade?” mumbled a foggy voice from the bed. Jade looked down at Dist, whose eyes were beginning to flutter open. In that moment, Jade couldn't help but notice how long Dist's pale pink lashes were. He also couldn't help but notice the heat that had risen to his own face. Dist blinked a few times, eyes coming into focus. “You're here?”

Before Jade could say anything in response, Dist's gaze landed on the open diary in Jade's hands. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in bed, hands shooting out to reach for the book. Through his fading blush, Jade smirked. Just like when they were children.

“Jaaaaaaaaade!” whined Dist. “You can't read that! It's my diary!”

“You're a wanted criminal,” said Jade. “I've seized this as evidence.” He willed the redness in his face to go down, willed Dist not to notice. The latter was entirely possible, since Dist seemed singularly focused on retrieving his diary.

“B-b-but,” he sputtered. “You can't.”

“Are you going to cry about it?” asked Jade. “Dist the Runny?” With that, Dist lunged at Jade, hands grabbing in a desperate attempt to reclaim his diary. Luckily, even at full health, Dist had never been the strongest or most gifted at combat. Jade was easily able to push him back down onto the bed, dropping the diary to hold Dist by both shoulders. For just a moment, there was an almost unbearable tension between the two men, faces red, breathing heavily. If this had been another time or place, that moment might have resolved something like it had in Dist's dream. Instead, Jade pushed himself away and snatched the diary off the floor before Dist could make a move towards it. He smiled.

“I'll be taking this,” he said.

“Jade,” said Dist. “Jade, no.” Jade, unmoved by his pleas, headed for the hotel room door. “Jade, wait! There has to be a reason you came here, I, I'll tell you anything you want to know.” Right. Jade had almost forgotten about that. He turned back around, a glint in his red eyes.

“What do you know about Mt. Roneal?”

“There, there are earthquakes causing frequent avalanches,” said Dist, calming down as he spoke. “And there's a very powerful monster living there. That's all I know.” He offered a trembling smile. “Now please. My diary?”

“Hmmm,” Jade hummed. “No, I don't think I'll be giving it back.”

“But we made a deal!” complained Dist.

“I made no such deal,” said Jade. “You said you would tell me anything I wanted. I offered nothing in return. You told me about Mt. Roneal out of the kindness of your heart.” Once again, he turned and made his way to the door.

“Jade!” yelled Dist again. “JAAAAAAAAAAAADE! MY DIARY!” Jade left the room and shut the door behind him, ignoring Dist's shrieks. Outside, the children stared in absolute horror at the man before them, seemingly calm and collected as Dist continued to yell through the door.

“Is,” started Tear. “Is he okay?”

“Did he say something about a diary?” asked Luke, looking at the book in Jade's gloved hand. Quickly, Jade pocketed it.

“Nothing to preoccupy yourself with,” said Jade simply. “I got what I came for. Anything aside from that is none of your concern.” Behind the door, Dist's cries had turned into a pathetic moaning sound. The other six members of the party looked at each other uncomfortably, but said nothing.

“Alright then,” said Jade. “Let's get going. I'll tell you about Mt. Roneal along the way.”

“O-okay,” said Luke. Smiling, Jade tucked the diary into one of his inner pockets. It might make for some good reading later.

a/n: thank you for getting me to write something! I tried to go with the prompt you gave me. it’s no my best work, but it’s definitely not my worst. I hope you like it!

[auskultu]

Recordings: The Beach Boys Sing a Rock Prayer

Richard Goldstein, The New York Times, 29 October 1967

“I'm writing a teen-age symphony to God,” Brian Wilson announced to a magazine writer some months ago. At the time, an album lay half-completed on spools of black acetate. The rest existed only in spurts of rhythm and harmony in Brian Wilson’s head.

As producer, writer, maestro, and magician for a group of sturdy California pop-gods called the Beach Boys, he had chosen to fill the tracks of their next album with authentic rock-hymns. Through "vibrations,” or musical intimations, he was attempting to create a pantheistic prayer to the divine presence in ordinary objects and relationships. His litany would transcend the structural shackles of pop music by using some of the most fragile melodies ever heard in rock. Falsetto voices set in filigree would chant the simple text while a cathedral organ boomed in the background. Listeners would find themselves kneeling, not in a pew, but on a cloud.

• • •

It was a task worthy of any "serious” composer, but when Brian Wilson suggested it as a goal for the Beach Boys, skepticism rebounded like too much echo. His ideas were widely condemned as a put-on, or a grandstand play for hippy allegiance. At most, critics grudgingly classified Wilson’s rock mysticism as an acid-vision and filed it away under "groovy insanity." Their doubt was understandable. At 25, Brian Wilson had made his fortune on the surf sound, a hard, white rock filled with ecstatic worship of chrome, tickytack, and the great air-conditioned outdoors. Could the possessor of the cleanest, leanest falsetto in all pop music, hope to probe the mysteries of nature, chanting prayers that make a listener weep with their frail, hip beauty?

On tour, in candy-stripe shirts and pressed wheat jeans, the Beach Boys looked like anything but a choir. Brian himself—steeped in the neon spires of Los Angeles-seemed as esthetically pure as Grauman’s Chinese Theater. But, with its love of motion and its ethic of instant enlightenment, L.A. was actually the perfect birthplace for Brian Wilson’s sunshine litany. And when his downy melodies and harmonies first appeared in late 1966 on an album called Pet Sounds (Capitol—T 2458), the effect was trend-shattering.

Suddenly, the Beach Boys possessed something they have never worried much about: reputation. In England, their popularity topped even the Beatles. Wilson the producer became far more important than Brian the Beach Boy; he emerged as one of the most important studio innovators in rock. The other members of the group became his willing orchestra.

• • •

Meanwhile, Wilson was developing an idea he had introduced peripherally in Pet Sounds—the song fragment, or movement. He calls these melody clusters "scenes or sections, a mood moment.” In late 1966, the Beach Boys released “Good Vibrations”, a truly contemporary art song. Most of what has happened in Los Angeles music since that time can be traced to innovations in this song.

Wilson had smashed the verse-and-chorus mold which always dominated rock. He substituted a multi-rhythmic composition with organic themes and codes which swirled around his lyrics like rising smoke. An organ, breathing heavily over voices hushed with wonder, created the elusive sound that has been associated with the Beach Boys ever since.

“Good Vibrations” became a hymn for the flower children. With an expanded audience clamoring for a followup, Brian Wilson lifted his robes and retired to the studio. There he spent almost a year collecting pretty pebbles of sound and cementing them into a wall of tone. He edited and re-edited, sometimes dropping whole pieces because their “vibrations” were inappropriate. Studio fees soared ("Heroes And Villains," the much abbreviated single, cost $40,000). Finally a lawsuit in which the group won the right to their own subsidiary label, Brother Records, kept the finished album out of circulation. Now it has been released. Smiley Smile (Brother — ST 9001) is a dazzling, confusing work, unlike any other rock album. Though it lists 11 different songs, it is really a casual grouping of many more musical themettes. The harmonies that Wilson used as brilliant accessories in his earlier work are now major motifs. They break loose from their moorings and float from song fo song. The organ bounces like a helium balloon. And the text is sung only a touch above a whis-per.

One soon stops listening for liturgy. For although God is mentioned occasionally in this album, the Beach Boys seem far more willing to accept Him as love than as ritual. They express their reverence accordingly.

For the most part, Smiley Smile is filled with homilies — odes to wives, families, and possessions joyously embraced. They boast softly:

“My children were raised You know they suddenly rise They started slow long ago Head to toe Healthy, wealthy and wise."

Smiley Smile hardly reads like a rock cantata. But there are moments in songs such as "With Me Tonight” and "Wonderful" that soar like sacred music. Even the songs that seem irrelevant to a rock-hymn are infused with stained-glass melodies. Wilson is a sound sculptor and his songs are all harmonious litanies to the gentle holiness of love — post-Christian, perhaps but still believing.

"Wind Chimes,” the most important piece on the album, is a fine example of Brian Wilson’s organic pop structure. It contains three movements. First, Wilson sets a lyric and melodic mood (“In the late afternoon, you’re hung up on wind chimes”). Then he introduces a totally different scene, utilizing passages of pure, wordless harmony. His two-and-a-half minute hymn ends with a third movement in which the voices join together in an exquisite round, singing the words, "Whisperin’ winds set my wind chimes a-tinklin’.” The voices fade out slowly, like the bittersweet afternoon in question. *

The technique of montage is an important aspect of Wilson’s rock cantata, since the entire album tends to flow as a single composition. Songs like “Heroes and Villains,” are fragmented by speeding up or slowing down their verses and refrains. The effect is like viewing the song through a spinning prism. Sometimes, as in “Fall Breaks and Back to Winter” (subtitled “W. Woodpecker Symphony”), the music is tiered into contrapuntal variations on a sliver of melody. The listener is thrown into a vast musical machine of countless working gears, each spinning in its own orbit.

Listeners may dissect Smiley Smile like a laboratory frog. But dissection if a parochial game to play i# the name of criticism. Thera are weak songs on Smiley Smile which are structurally brilliant. In “Gettin’ Hungry,” two enchanting melodies are so dissimilar that the song jerks like a car trying unsuccessfully to change gears. "She’s Going Home,” with four complex moments, utilizes vocal distortion, recitative and hilarious parody of rock cliches. 

Smiley Smile walks a thin line between the delicate and the precious. Harmonic effects seem to attract Brian Wilson like molasses. Sometimes the sounds he creates are sticky-sweet enough to be a Disney vision of the psychedelic. But the album remains memorable, if disjointed experience, and a truly religious one as well. One must decide for oneself the sermon is worth listening for.

[nlc-nessa]

Sungei Api Api

“If you go there, then you jolly well don’t come back!”            Sungei Api Api was notorious for its ghost stories. Josh never spotted a real spirit roaming the area, but his mother warned that they preferred to appear in other forms.

“And if you ever see a chicken, don’t make eye contact!”

Josh’s mother was a devout Buddhist, and she believed in every superstition surrounding the neighbourhood river. When Josh was six, his neighbour took him for an evening stroll along the mangroves while his mother was at work. She tasked the old man to look after her son, but she did not specify what kind of activities were out of bounds.            “Remember when that crazy Uncle Hock brought you there? You came home with one hundred spirits following you!”            They only found this out after their house plants started wilting for no reason, so she immediately dragged Josh to the fortune teller with her. The medium informed her that her son had just returned from a “dirty” place and urgently needed to be cleansed. Apparently, the medium could see the souls of one hundred people standing behind Josh, all in a single file and following his every move. The fortune teller proceeded to sell eighty-five dollars’ worth of talismans and herbs to Josh’s mother, which meant less pocket money for him to buy his favourite Cheese Rings from the minimart downstairs. When his mother found out that Uncle Hock was the one who brought the unfortune onto them, she cut all ties with him. She never trusted any of her neighbours since then. 

 “Do you really need to walk through there?” Josh’s mother had asked before he left the house one morning.

           “It’s the quickest route to their place,” Josh replied. “Besides, it’s still so early. Where got ghost?” 

           Josh had informed his mother about his new job as a private tutor, and she would have been happier for him if it did not take place at one of the landed properties along Pasir Ris Beach. The park connector that ran alongside Sungei Api Api was the quickest shortcut there by foot. If Josh were to walk by the main road, it would take him thirty minutes longer.  His mother desperately suggested for him to learn how to cycle, but the trauma from losing his father prevented Josh from ever wanting to plant his two feet on the pedals.

“Remember what happened to Pa when he rode his bicycle?” Josh snapped at his mother. They stared at each other in silence, recalling the time when two police officers knocked on their door one night to deliver news of their father’s accident. Allegedly, his father had been cycling along the river when he abruptly swerved and dove off course. Thrown off the bike and towards the mangroves, he hit his head on a sharp rock and rolled downwards into the river where he drowned. They had found white feathers stuck in the spokes of his wheel and a dead hen on the road, laying in its own blood. 

“It wasn’t the bicycle, you know. The chickens killed him,” Josh’s mother said. Josh was getting late for his lesson and he knew that arguing with his mother had no end. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t believe in ghosts, and he didn’t care if another hundred spirits hitched a ride on his shoulders on the way home. There was no use in her praying at the altar for hours on end or forcing him to drink those dark, herbal concoctions if Josh’s luck in job hunting was still at an all-time low. But now that he had secured a job, he didn’t have time to entertain his mother’s superstitions. 

“I know, I know,” said Josh before hauling his backpack over his shoulders. A rich little nine-year-old kid in desperate need of Math tuition was waiting for him, and he could not afford to be late. 

“I’ll be careful, Ma,” Josh said before heading out and locking the gate behind him.

From the tenth floor, Sungei Api Api was just a harmless, pandan-green river that snaked through Pasir Ris, flowing past new condominiums, alongside the old HDB flats, and onwards towards the sea where the wealthy lived in three-storey houses by the beach. However, being on the ground floor where he was close enough to hear the waves and smell the rotting fruit in the soil, Josh had to admit that it was a little too close for comfort. He walked on anyway, thinking about the luxurious house he would be sitting in fifteen minutes away from there. 

Josh made sure to avoid stepping on any fallen leaves that had collected rainwater. What if he slipped and fell and hit his head? He also kept his phone in his pocket and made sure to stay on high alert in case any chicken, lizard, or cat decided to dash out from the bushes. There were not many cyclists or joggers at that time as the sun was slowly climbing above Josh, beaming a painful ray of heat through the sparse trees. Walking along the river, it was only Josh, the mosquitoes buzzing round his ears, and the Asian koels hidden among the branches. No clucking yet, Josh noted. 

As Josh approached a musty underpass, he noticed that the ground changed from tarmac to concrete. It was cracked all over, as if someone had just rampaged through the area with a sludge-hammer. Although an obvious tripping hazard, the green metal railings on the side of the path prevented anyone from plummeting down towards the river. If you cracked your skull open here, at least you wouldn’t drown. 

As Josh emerged through the other end, he caught sight of an old man sitting on a wooden bench. Between the old man’s legs nestled an absolute hulk of a rooster, resting its chin on the man’s thigh. Unlike the wild chickens Josh was used to seeing, this rooster was the complete opposite of a scrawny kampong chicken. Its crimson red comb was high enough to tower over his owner’s knees, and its legs were as thick as chicken drumsticks.

“Want to pet him?” the old man asked. Josh hadn’t realised that he was staring. He smiled and waved his hand to refuse, and kept on walking. 

 Josh’s tutoring session with the child went smoother than he expected. The father had shaken his hand, invited him to the living room where a makeshift plastic table was set up for his son, and gave him a packet of ice lemon tea from the fridge. Ninety minutes passed by in an instant for Josh. 

“You live nearby, right?” The child’s father asked Josh as he was leaving. 

“Yeah, within walking distance,” Josh replied. 

“Oh,” said the father. He looked at Josh’s shoes and noticed the grains of soil glued to the sides. “You walked by the river?”

Josh looked up at him and said, “Yeah, why?” 

“You’re not scared of the...” The man finished his sentence by bending his arms and flapping them up and down like a pair of wings.

“No,” said Josh. He studied the growing frown in the father’s face and realised how serious he looked. Coming from someone else other than his mother, he wondered if he really should be afraid. “Should I be scared?” 

“Hmm, just be careful,” the man said. “Someone died there, you know?”

Josh’s fingers went cold as he struggled to secure the rest of his shoelaces. Desperate to avoid further small talk, he tucked the excess string into his shoe and turned to leave. 

“See you next week,” Josh said. The man nodded and opened the gate for him, and Josh headed back to the park connector with his hands clenched within both pockets, thinking about what other stories these people living by the river knew. 

 Walking back down the path and avoiding the same slippery leaves, Josh began to wonder when these ghost stories first came about. He could not recall if his father had ever mentioned these things, or was it purely his mother speculating these reasons to justify her husband’s freak accident? 

“Ah boy!” A voice called out to Josh. He turned around and saw the old man with the giant rooster again, except this time they were taking a stroll and the old man had a cigarette pinched between his lips. The monstrous bird was disciplined to only walk beside its owner, stepping in sync with the old man. As if dressed in matching colours, the old man wore a red baseball cap, a porous white singlet and khaki cargo shorts. His grey rubber slippers were covered in mud, and Josh wondered if there was a farm nearby he had never heard of. 

“Ah boy, your shoelace!” The man called out again. As Josh whiffed the approaching cloud of tobacco, he looked down and saw that his shoelaces had come untucked and were now hanging outside of his sneakers. He squat down to tie it with more diligence, in case any other stranger decides to yell at him like a little boy again.

“Must be careful you know, wait you fall down how?” The man and his rooster were now approaching Josh, and by the time he fastened a double-knot on his second shoe, the rooster was within pecking distance of Josh’s face. The massive creature looked even more threatening up close, making Josh stumble and fall backwards. His palms scraped against the road and loose pieces of gravel pressed into his flesh. 

“Aiyoh, don’t need to be scared,” said the old man. “My Benny here is very well-behaved.” 

“Benny?” said Josh. He pushed himself off the ground and stood up, striking his hands against his jeans to lose the dirt. The rooster flinched at Josh’s movements and he felt sorry for flinging the soil into its eyes.

“Yah, this is Benny. Handsome, right?” The old man bent forwards and gave his rooster a thump on the back. He then proceeded to stroke its feathers from head to tail. Benny the rooster leaned into the old man like a puppy would to its new master. 

“Why is he so big?” Josh asked.

“He only eats premium food,” said the old man. “His favourite is Hokkaido sweet corn and Russian kale.” 

“Such a good life, huh?” replied Josh. They were now walking towards Josh’s block, but it was clear that the old man had some knee problems and could only take the tiniest steps forward. 

“I found him on the grass around here four years ago,” said the old man. “Poor thing couldn’t walk so I brought him home.”

As if joining in the conversation, Benny let out a squawk and scratched the ground with his thick claw. Josh laughed at the bird’s sudden reaction, but the old man thought otherwise. Squatting down and pulling Benny into a bear hug, the old man said, “Shh, chicken crossing the road.” 

As if on cue, a brown hen the size of a soccer ball emerged from the mangroves and made its way across the path. Its neck bobbed back and forth as it walked towards the opposing grass patch, looking for food. Benny was getting agitated, but the old man shushed him with more calming strokes and a series of soft coos into its ears. 

“What’s wrong with the chickens here?” Josh asked, lowering his voice.

“Boy, you stay here and you don’t know?” 

“My mother only says not to disturb them,” Josh replied. 

“Good,” said the old man. “Listen to your mother.” 

“But why?” 

Benny and the old man were now inching towards another wooden bench, not far from Josh’s block. The old man sat down with a grunt and spread his legs, allowing Benny to huddle in between them. 

“Maybe it’s better if you don’t know,” the old man said, pulling out a zip-lock bag of uncooked rice from his back pocket. “Unless you have a big boy like Benny to protect you!” He held the rice in front of Benny’s face, allowing the bird to peck at it directly from the bag. Studying the short grains, Josh guessed that it was probably some sort of imported Japanese rice. 

“Okay Uncle,” Josh said. The old man didn’t seem willing to reveal any more about the chickens, so he thought it wiser to just leave things there. “Take care.”

 “Why so late then come home?!” Josh’s mother yelled the moment he stepped through the front door. 

“Ma, it’s only two o’clock.” Josh sat on the sofa as he struggled to untie his shoelaces. His mother scanned him from head to toe with a feather duster in her hands. 

“You walk home by the dirty river, is it?!” His mother said, pointing at his sandy shoes. Josh made a mental note never to wear those white sneakers again. 

“There’s no ghost at this timing lah, Ma.” 

“How you know? You can see them meh? Should I bring you to my fortune teller again?” 

Josh threw his shoes onto the rack and headed for his bedroom. 

“I’m gonna take a nap, don’t disturb me.”

Before his mother got another word out, Josh slammed the door and locked it. He threw his backpack into the corner of the room and plunged into bed, covering his eyes with his forearm. He was sick of his mother telling him what to do and shoving her silly beliefs down his throat. He was already twenty-five but still felt like a little kid at times, not having the freedom to walk where he wanted and whenever he wanted. He wondered what life would be like if that stupid chicken hadn’t run in front of his father’s bicycle. The smell of burning incense wafted in through the gaps of his door, and Josh was lulled to sleep. 

 White wings, sharp claws, and a dangling red flap beneath his chin. Josh was a chicken, and he was running through the darkness. He didn’t know what from, but he was scrambling along the river, hopping over mangrove roots and digging his claws into the soft mud. Find the light, a voice told him. Run. An orange glow beamed from beyond the mangrove and Josh hurled himself towards it, tucking his wings tighter against his body. Mud soon turned to grass, and grass then turned to pavement. The screeching of brakes filled his ears before he was knocked in his side by a tire, and was forced to watch his father roll off his bicycle and down towards the murky waters. Josh tried calling out for him, but nothing escaped his throat except a spurt of warm blood.

 Josh woke up to the sound of chiming bells, yet another one of his mother’s daily rituals to cleanse their home. Combined with an even heavier scent of incense now, it drove Josh mad. He needed to prove to his mother that there was no such thing as haunted chickens, that the accident was just a coincidence, and that he didn’t deserve to be subjected to a life of unnecessary spiritual cleansing. He grabbed his keys and left his room. 

“Where are you going? It’s so late already!” 

“Going to buy dinner,” said Josh. He slipped on a pair of flip-flops and rushed to unlock the gate. 

“But I already cooked for you!” 

Josh closed the door on his mother and slammed the gate shut. He couldn’t stand to listen to her shrieking any longer. He needed some answers, and perhaps breathing in the river’s scent could help him. His side was still aching from his nap, and he couldn’t stop thinking of his broken wings and the man he hit and left to drown.

Josh glanced at his watch and then the route ahead, wondering how it was already that dark at seven thirty. Dim orange lamp posts sparsely lined the trail ahead, leaving large black gaps in between. The darkness matched what he saw in his dream, except for the mangroves that now looked even thicker from the outside. The tangled trees and protruding roots made it dense and unexplorable, and Josh could barely see the water on the other side. But the occasional splash and the smell of mud reminded him that the river was still there, ready to swallow anyone who took a wrong step. Josh stared ahead and walked, accompanied by the ballooning sounds of the mangrove forest. The calls of crickets, frogs, and birds were all mushed together in a constant ring. It was hard to distinguish the noises around him, but Josh was certain that none of the sounds belonged to a chicken. He wondered if he should start cooing like the old man in order to lure them out. 

When Josh reached the end of the underpass with the cracked cement flooring, he noticed a giant wooden signboard right beside the exit. It had the words “Sungei Api Api” painted faintly in white on its planks, and it was nailed against two sturdy logs that were hammered deep into the soil. The entire wooden structure was scratched up, and one of the posts had a deep “18+ only” carved in its side. 

Past the signboard, Josh spotted a figure ahead of him. It looked tiny in the distance, but Josh could tell that he was no jogger or night stroller. He had on a light blue shirt with rolled up sleeves, long pants, and a laptop bag slung over his shoulder. Perhaps he lived in one of the beach houses up ahead, but Josh found it odd that he was walking instead of driving.

Josh tried catching up to him to ask if he knew about the chickens, but the man had made a sudden right turn towards the river, trudging through the grass with his black dress shoes. Josh watched the man march forward until the faint shine of his shoes disappeared completely into the mangroves. 

 Josh jogged to the spot where the man had left the path and peered into the trees. He squinted as hard as he could, but the faint orange lights from the path could not penetrate the dense forest. Although he could not see the man, Josh managed to spot a glowing white orb scampering through the roots of the mangroves. Finally, a chicken!

Josh stepped off the path and ventured towards the wall of trees. The grass pricked his toes with every step, and the closer he got to the trees, the stronger the scent of fresh flowers, like the pink ones his mother would buy from the market every Sunday morning. He then recalled her advice to keep his mouth shut if he ever encountered such a sweet smell in a strange place. It meant there was a spirit nearby, and he had to protect himself from swallowing one.

Josh pulled out his miniature torchlight attached to his keyring and shone the light into the trees, scanning the area. There really was nothing to see except fallen leaves, roots, and the occasional litter of plastic bags and cans. He inched closer and closer till he heard footsteps come from within. Josh stopped moving and listened. There was a sudden girlish giggle that made his hair stand, and he would have backed away instantly if it wasn’t for the deep cough that came right after. All thoughts of the supernatural aside, Josh assumed it to be the man he had seen earlier on.

Just then, two people emerged from the shrubs and Josh pointed the light at their faces. Just a stone’s throw away from him, Josh could tell that it was that same man, still in his office wear but with mud smudged around his ankles. The man was probably in his late forties. He had well-groomed silver hair and a dark blue tie, half loosened around his neck. Hooked around his arm was a fair and plump woman. The man was clearly shocked by Josh’s presence, but the lady seemed disinterested and almost annoyed. She had on the brightest red lipstick Josh had ever seen, and her skin was ghostly pale. Silky black hair framed her face and hung down to her waist. Josh had a million thoughts running through his mind, but the couple took off before he could say anything. The man had grabbed the lady’s wrist and dragged her downstream towards the beach. Her flowy white dress swept the floor beneath her and Josh realised that she was barefoot. He couldn’t stop staring at her feet. They were incredibly clean, unlike the man’s own mud-covered shoes. 

“Hi sir, looking for someone?” A voice sang behind Josh. He turned around and there stood another young lady in a white dress. She had the same shade of red on her lips, but her skin was tanner and glowed orange under the lamp posts. Her black hair rested neatly on her shoulders. 

“Uhm, I’m just taking a stroll,” Josh said. He didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of the pretty lady by telling her about his hunt for chickens. His torch dangled downwards, shining its white light towards her toes. They were barefoot and clean.

“Would you like me to accompany you?” she said. Josh was once again hit by the intense smell of flowers, this time with a hint of rotting fruit.  

“No thanks,” Josh mumbled through his teeth. He didn’t dare open his mouth. He started to walk away but the lady did not leave his side. 

“Why are you here then?” she asked, bursting into a slight jog to keep up with Josh’s strides. Maybe if he made himself sound like a mad man, she would leave him alone. 

“I’m looking for some chickens,” Josh replied. “I’m going to bring them home and feed them with premium Japanese rice and sweet corn.” 

The lady’s neck straightened up and she smiled. She jumped in front of Josh and stopped him in his tracks. Her eyes looked strangely yellow, and Josh could not turn away. She wrapped her bony fingers around his wrist and tugged him towards her.

“I’ll bring you to them.”

Josh couldn’t refuse her offer. Something about her grip made him submit to her every move and follow her around. She walked further down the path as her nails dug into Josh’s skin, dragging him along. Perhaps, out of all the people living there, this lady would have the answers Josh was looking for.  

“Come sir,” she said, and just like the man from before, she stepped off the path and turned towards the trees by the river.

“Where are we going?” Josh asked.

“You want to see the chickens, right?”

As they reached the edge of the mangrove trees, she let go of Josh and used both hands to push her way through the dense branches. It looked impenetrable from the outside, but giving them a slight shove made it easier to walk through. The ground beneath them got softer and muddier the further they walked in. Josh clenched his toes around his flip-flops, hoping they wouldn’t fall off and get lost in the mud.

 “Are the chickens sleeping?” Josh asked.

“No,” the lady said, chuckling again. “They’re waiting.”

The lady picked up her pace as her excitement grew. The river was getting closer and Josh could see the moonlight bouncing off the surface. He followed the white dress in front of him and wondered how she learnt to see so well in the dark.

“Look what I brought for you girls!” the lady squealed into the darkness. They had reached a clearing large enough for Josh to stretch his arms out. There was an open space around him and Josh could breathe slightly better, although the cold air continued to sting the back of his throat. Josh turned his torchlight back on and looked around. Small cardboard boxes were laid out in a semi-circle in front of him, and in each box nestled a chicken. The moment they saw Josh they rushed out of their boxes and gathered at his feet. He counted four of them.

“Oh, cute,” he said, amused at how friendly they were. 

“Pick one, sir,” said the lady.

“What?”

 “Pick one that you like.”

Josh panicked and thought that he had somehow gotten involved with some illegal animal trading. He started to back away from the lady and her wares.

“Wait, I’m not here to buy a chicken,” Josh told her.

“But you came all the way here!”

“I was looking for something else!”

“You said you were looking for a chicken,” she replied, gripping Josh’s wrist again. “So, pick a chicken.”

“Okay, okay,” Josh replied. He was afraid to anger her further. Besides, the lady had the upper hand of navigating the area better and potentially murdering him right then and there. The sleek mud would make it even easier for her to drag his body towards the river and leave him to drown like his father. 

Josh looked down at the chickens and pointed at the biggest one. It had light brown feathers and a little black tail. It beat its wings so vigorously that Josh could feel the wind cooling the back of his ears. 

“I’ll take her,” Josh said, mumbling once again. He found it difficult to hear his own voice over the chirping crickets who were getting louder, as if cheering Josh on for making his selection.

 “Great,” said the lady. She smiled again and Josh felt somewhat relieved. She huddled the other chickens back into their boxes.    

“Have fun and come back before sunrise.”

“What?”

The brown chicken Josh picked began to cluck as it morphed. He shone his torch on its distorting body as its stubby neck stretched upwards and its breasts grew outwards. Its skinny chicken legs plumped up into fleshy calves, and wrinkled claws grew into two smooth feet, barefoot and clean. Her brown dress flowed loosely around her thighs as she took her first steps towards Josh. 

“Shall we?” she asked. Josh stared at the fully-grown woman in front of him. Her curly black hair covered her eyes, and her red lips made it look like she had just dipped her mouth in a bucket of fresh blood. Even with no shoes on, she towered over Josh. He could not move.

“Are you okay?” she asked Josh again. He wanted to scream, but his throat made no sound. He felt like he was dreaming again, except this time, it was harder to run with two aching knees and no wings to help him take flight. 

“I’m sorry,” was all Josh could master after snapping out of his daze. He tried to run but the tall lady grabbed his shoulders and spun him around.

“You can’t leave,” she said. Her sharp nails dug into Josh’s flesh and the pain made him drop his torchlight. “You picked me.”

The lady moved her face closer to Josh and prodded his cheek with her parrot-beaked nose. Her eyes were like two glowing yolks, making Josh feel like vomiting. He dove to her left and tried to take off, but he tripped over a snaking tree root and fell with a resounding crunch onto one of their boxes.

“My eggs!” screamed the lady. Josh pushed himself off the ground and looked beneath him. A gooey liquid seeped through the box and had smeared all over his shirt. Everything went quiet. No crickets, no frogs, no birds. Just his heavy breathing and the drumming of his heartbeat in his ears. Everyone had stopped moving. Find the light. Josh spotted a faint orange glow leaking through the opening they had come from earlier. Run. He locked his eyes on the clearing, took a deep breath and leaped towards it. Wet leaves slapped against his face as he bulldozed through the shrubs. Screw the slippers, Josh thought. His toes no longer had a grip on them, so he burst out of the mangroves barefoot and ran back towards the underpass. 

 Grotesque clucking followed him as he ran, piercing the air with what sounded like a massacre of screaming children. Josh was hit with a sudden headache, but the pain was nothing compared to the guilt he felt for not listening to his mother. Josh’s muscles contracted with every step and he could feel himself sinking lower and lower to the ground. Josh ran so fast he felt like he could fly. He finally reached the wooden signboard but it looked much bigger than before, and Josh wondered if he had gone the right way. He pushed forward anyway, desperate to get out of that place and return to the main road, far away from the dirty mangroves. Josh didn’t want to die that night. He didn’t want to vanish like his father. 

The ground beneath him felt like broken glass, and the sand under Josh’s toes dug deeper into his skin with every step. The crumbling cement of the underpass didn’t slow him down though. Josh was already halfway through, but the end seemed to stretch further and further away the more he ran towards it. It didn’t help that the walls around him started spinning and that his head was bobbing back and forth. Josh’s vision grew blurry and he felt like throwing up again.

“There’s nowhere for you to go!” sang one of the deranged women. Her chilling voice gave Josh an adrenaline boost and he scampered on till he heard the sound of speeding cars ahead of him. Josh gave an aggressive lunge forward and pushed himself off the ground, spreading his wings and flapping as hard as he could, hoping to land back within civilization.

 “Mummy, look!” A boy shouted. Josh whipped his neck towards the voice and felt a jerking weight beneath his chin. He tried grabbing it but his arms could not reach his face. Josh didn’t even have arms anymore. Just two feathery wings that beat furiously up and down. His vision started stabilizing, but the lights were overwhelming, and the scene was a strange mix of purple, green, and a whole spectrum of colours Josh had never seen before. He stood there and watched as the cars drove by and the pedestrians walked around him. The little boy continued to stare as his mother dragged him away.

“Don’t disturb them,” she said to her son. “The chickens are dangerous.” 

Josh thought about his own mother and how much he wanted to go home. He tried to cry but no tears came out. Josh could only hear himself croaking. He struck his claws against the concrete and spun round a few times deciding on a direction to head towards, but it didn’t matter which way he went. Someone had already picked him up and cradled him like a baby. 

“Ah boy, I told you to be careful,” said the old man. Josh recognised the scent of tobacco on his fingertips, followed by the smell of sweet corn. The old man was now carrying Josh and walking back towards the darkness. A second voice grunted beneath Josh, saying, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.” 

As Josh, Benny, and the old man walked back towards the river’s edge, Josh thought about his mother and how she would cope with his disappearance. Perhaps his bedroom will now be filled with more statues of deities and a pot of incense that will never burn out. He wondered how much money the fortune teller could now exhort from his mother too, when he tells her that her son has been turned into a chicken.   

[bonnie-barstow-of-flag]

The Not So Lonesome Knight part 10

  Parts 1 X, 2 X , 3 X , 4 X, 5 X , 6 X , 7 X, 8 X, 9 X

Every step he that carried him further away from Bonnie to the comfort of Kitt’s cabin felt wrong. She abhorred violence of any kind and wasn’t as accomplished of a fighter as Rc3 was which, regretfully left her Mrs. Stevens vulnerable. Bonnie hadn’t grown up on the mean streets of Chicago like Rc3 so he supposed she had little need to know how to throw punches or fire a gun. Maybe, when this case was over, he would insist upon her taking self-defense classes or at the very least, having her learn how to accurately handle a gun or two. He’d gladly teach her himself.

If Devon had not required Reginald’s help, Michael would have seen to it that Bonnie had the pleasure of the self-proclaimed ‘Street Avenger’s’ company in his absence. He has to remind himself several times that she didn’t need Rc3 to hover over her. She’d be fine. The only true solace he found himself clutching is that most smart felons, if there were any in this case, rarely returned to the scene of a crime.

Kitt’s engine revs to life. “Where would you like to start, Michael?” He prods, having been paying attention to the whole conversation. There were some fantastic threads that Grace had left dangling and he was anxious to explore them all.

“While we’re headed to the lodge of the local Freemasons, why don’t you take a peek at the Stevens’s bank-account. You see anythin’ unusual? Larger than typical withdrawals for things other than payin’ the bills?” His eyes scan the road, every now and then departing to check Kitt’s console. He could just opt to have Kitt take the wheel but he doesn’t. Driving enables him to think, to maul over all the new information.

The swooshing of his scanners provided appreciated background noise as Kitt delved into the bank’s files. “The only thing that raises some concern is a recent five-hundred-dollar deposit.” He finally remarks.

“Can you trace where it came from? Who issued the check? Or where it was deposited?” Michael questions. Interest consuming his vision.

“Sorry, Michael. That isn’t possible.”

“Isn’t possible? Come on, Kitt. You are aware that there is a little number at the bottom of the checks...”

“That’s the problem,” Kitt regretfully states.

“Oh? How so?” The curly-haired agent challenges.

“It wasn’t deposited in the form of a check. It was paid in cash,” he bluntly informs.

“Five-hundred-dollars cash? Hmm.” Michael parrots, eyes narrowing with skepticism. His fingers tighten their grips around the steering yoke as he considers a list of potential explanations. It could have been an innocent gift, he could have won it gambling, or it could be a bribe, or a small down payment for some kind of activity criminal or otherwise. It wasn’t an awfully large sum but it wasn’t nothing either. So which of the aforementioned was it? If Kent’s wife didn’t know where the money came from, there had to be a reason why he didn’t tell her. What was he trying to hide? Was he hiding anything at all? The former police detective suddenly feels very much like a hamster caught in a wheel going around and around and getting nowhere fast. “Does that account include credit card statements?”

“No. It doesn’t. But when we get back to Graces maybe she’ll let you have a look,” the AI wisely offers.

Michael gives a hesitant sigh.“It’s worth a shot.” He isn’t entirely certain what discrepancies he expects to find. But a part of him expects there to be one.

And with the temporary conclusion of that conversation, Kitt seizes the open door. “Have you told Bonnie how you feel about her?” He may not be able to compute such things the way humans do but he could tell. The man was oft caught in the habit of sneaking glances at Bonnie when her back was turned. Having been tasked with the care of Michael, he familiarized himself with every nuance. His usual heart-rate, the chord of his voice, the shift in his positions and their meanings, and how to read sarcasm from genuine cruelty. In this studious pursuit, he had taken notice that Michael’s heart rate seemed to soar when she was around. Even more noticeable was that Michael, who never seemed to really be at a loss for words, stumbled over them like poorly discarded bricks in the road, when he spoke with her about anything not pertaining to work.

Michael sits upright so hard that he accidentally jerks the steering wheel causing them to swerve. That inquiry was loaded. The words set off a slowly ticking explosive he didn’t know was rooted inside of him and he panics as though, he doesn’t know what wires to sever and which ones to avoid all-together. Azure orbs flash towards the console rife with consternation. “No.” His reply is curt. “No, I haven’t. And I’d like you to keep your trap shut about it.” The last thing he needed or wanted was for Kitt to start blabbing to his favorite mechanic about the things he tried so diligently to conceal in the shadows.

“Why not?” Kitt’s voice is entwined with nothing but curiosity. He is doing what he is good at, pushing the envelope. Well, more like nudging it. Michael was usually so debonair and suave with women and yet, his behavior around Bonnie often felt cringe-worthy even to a vehicle like him. He deduces this peculiarity from the ways in which Devon Miles, Rc3, and Bonnie all respond.

“Because.” That one word should suffice for an answer. Shouldn’t it? Guilt prompts him to depart with more. “Because it’s complicated.” The sentence is punctuated with a loud unbridled sigh. He knows its a cheap copout and his shoulders give a shrug, knowing this excuse is flimsy.

Kitt lets his words absorb deep into his chips and wires before speaking again. “Complicated?” He murmurs, not having thought about that. It seemed clear-cut and certain to him. Michael had informed Stevie and a couple of other women when he developed feelings for them and he didn’t work with them every day. So why not do the same with Bonnie? It was obvious she liked him. Kitt noticed the day-dreamy quality that appears in her eyes when she is watching Michael not to mention how upset she gets when something happens to them. Even more so, how distraught she becomes when something has happened to Michael.

“Yes! Complicated.” He insists, sounding frazzled. Just where was that exit sign on the highway that he needed? Internally, he mused he could use one from this conversation. “Alright! Alright. You wanna know the truth?!”

Kitt’s scanner slid more slowly, left to right to left again. “I was expecting honesty in the first place.” The tender admonishment drifts over the sound waves.

Gritting his teeth Knight reluctantly confides.“I think I love her, Kitt, and it frightens me half to death.” That was bound to sound rich coming from a guy who stared down the barrel of guns and narrowly cheated death on a nearly daily basis.

If cars could smile, Kitt would. He managed to pry out of him the reason behind the weirdness between them. “Don’t be so over-dramatic, Michael. What is the worst that could happen if you told her?”

“Awe. Forget it. You wouldn’t understand, Kitt.” Michael remarks, shaking his head from side to side. Thunder erupts in the drumming of his hands against the steering yoke. He continues, “she’s too good for me and she deserves far better than I could ever give her. I couldn’t protect Stevie from my enemies. What if I can’t protect her?“ With that, his gaze droops downwards. “‘Sides, we...” He cuts off amending his reply, “I almost lost her once already. I’m not doin’ that again.” He was so used to saying that when Bonnie went to the University it had been the Foundation’s collective loss but that wasn’t entirely true. He had felt her absence deeper than everyone else. Well, any save for Kitt, or so, he lets himself believe. Bonnie’s departure left a void so wide that even April’s sunny presence couldn’t bridge. It had thrown him into a horrible tailspin for months until Devon had dragged him out of it by forcing him to take on cases. That moment he saw her in the University’s lab, his heart almost burst through his chest with joy. She, of course, resisted and rebuffed his every plea to return to work at first. But his persistence had paid off. He wasn’t sure that the same tactic would ever work to win her over again. He’s hell-bent on not risking it.

“So, promise me ya won’t go sayin’ nothin’ behind my back or anythin’. Okay, pal?” Michael entreats.

“I still think you should tell her,” Kitt stubbornly insists, “but if it makes you more comfortable I won’t say anything.”

Michael demands, “You promise, pal? Cross your heart and hope to fry?”

Kitt didn’t see the usefulness in making vows. Didn’t Michael know that things like ‘cross my heart and hope to die’ didn’t work for something that had motherboards and chips in the place of a heart? Although, frying was definitely possible. But Kitt opted to ignore that threat. Still, he replied, “if it makes you feel better, I promise.”

“It does. Boy, it does.” Michael slinks back in the seat. A flood of relief almost overwhelms him when he arrives at the lodge. It meant he wouldn’t have to duck any further questions from the left-field, at least, not from Kitt.

The conversations inside the lodge gave him little to go on save for the fact that Kent Stevens was working on several projects including prison ministries and homeless placements. Could Kent Stevens have met one of the Foundation’s enemies from either one? It’s a question that follows him back into Kitt’s cabin. Because of privacy concerns, the Lodge wouldn’t relinquish a list of criminals Stevens had been working to assist. He’d have to do some more digging to figure out if that had anything to do with their current case.

“Why don’t ya give Bonnie a call and let ‘er know we’re comin’?” Michael suggests eager to discuss what he had learned with her.

[drscotcheggmann]

What is a Classic? And Does Classic Always Mean Keeper? Part 2 of 2

So, it's a classic - by way of the game meeting your own standards, thanks to the game's huge commercial success, its mass appeal or dedicated but relatively small scale fan following. Some or all of the above. But does this mean that it's a keeper? A game that they will have to pry from your cold dead fingers for you to ever to consider letting go? I have always been a bit of a hoarder, keeping everything from cinema ticket stubs to beer mats. I've started collections in earnest but have then lost interest and been left with something no one could truly call a collection. I've been swept along by the latest fad, only to jump ship and onto the crest of the next big craze which has ultimately petered into nothing. Video games have been no different, except they are not a fad or craze; they have been and continue to be a huge part of my life. In the same way developers don't set out to make classics, I never set out to collect video games. In the early years my collection was much more a product of my pride at having beaten a game, conquered its world and then have the game sit proudly on my shelf as a trophy to my achievements. I may very well never have played that game again but I was ok with that. I also wasn't as discerning then as I am now about which games I do or don't keep - I didn't just covet classics. For years I refused to part with a PS2 copy of Lord of the Rings: the Two Towers, simply because it was my first PS2 game that came bundled with the console which I received as a Christmas gift. Hardly a classic. But as time has gone on, such feelings of sentimentality towards my gaming library have slowly begun to evaporate. Not because I've fallen out of love with video games but because something huge has happened: life. Having quite recently become a father for the first time I have been faced with a significant and inevitable shift in where my priorities lie. I now spend more time pressing coloured panels on interactive books and toddler toys than I do bashing buttons on a controller or working an analog stick. Not only do I have less time to play games but also less disposable income. You can't wipe a baby's bum with a copy of Battlefield 1 but £44.99 could buy you a hell of a lot of baby wipes! As a consequence, when I do buy a game these days, it really has to be worth my time and money which often means that it has to tick all of the right boxes that confer masterpiece or near masterpiece status. I wouldn't say I have become a gaming snob. A gaming snob is someone who consciously chooses not to play games which fall below a certain standard, even though that person may have unlimited (or at least less limited) resources to do so. That's not me. I just need to be more careful in order to maximise the enjoyment I get from the limited gaming time I do have, as well as make sure I have money to spend on my family. And I'm ok with this, I really am. But it has also backed me into a few corners that I am less comfortable with. As I like to know if a game is worth my time and money before handing over my hard earned pennies, I've become more and more reliant on the opinion of others, namely in the form of reviews. I do like reading critical opinion but I'm also sad that I don't feel brave enough to give a game a chance and form my own opinions first. Although I don’t necessarily always agree with pigeonholing that results from the use of numerical review scores, my cut off these days is usually an 8/10 - that's not necessarily classic or masterpiece territory you may say but anything lower and the likelihood is that there'll be something else coming out in the next few months which is better and in which I would rather invest my limited money and time. And I know that's not the way it should be and I wish it wasn't. I do wish I could jump into a game for the simple reason that I just really want to play it, regardless of review scores and certainly not because it absolutely must be a near masterpiece. But time and money are precious in a young family, the latter especially so, since the day one RRP of games is not insubstantial and new games generally don't hold their value for long. I know that a £44.99 day one purchase could come down as low as £20 within a few months. Which begs a bigger question which I'm not going to attempt to answer here: should we buy games on day one? My head says no, my heart says Nioh. A big fat day one purchase which I had been looking forward to since playing the demo, despite my New Year's Resolution not to give into day one pressure. I lasted until February. But to be completely honest with you and myself, I'm resigned to the fact that Nioh, coming in at around 70 hours to complete supposedly, will likely join the vast pile of games already in my backlog of unfinished and, I'm ashamed to admit, unplayed games (Until Dawn has never even been in the machine!). I'll get to them one day, I tell myself. One day this year, next year, in 10 years. Until Dawn will be 2 years old in August..... So my backlog grows larger as my gaming time grows shorter and the new releases keep on coming. This cycle of events and the changes in my lifestyle have forced my hand a bit in the last while to the extent where I've changed how I view the games I absolutely must and must not keep. Games which I would've once kept for the sake of keeping, now make it onto the top of the trade in pile, some of them widely regarded as classics or masterpieces, even if it means I only get a few quid back. This trading in for pittance may seem callous, opportunistic, a product of relentless consumerism and the need to always have money in your pocket for something else to come along but I have to admit, I don't miss these games. Not a bit. This begs yet another question: does every game we every play need to be kept, masterpiece or not? Are memories of our escapades in these virtual worlds not enough? I have fond memories of cruising around the streets of Rockstar’s version of Miami, pumping REO Speedwagon from the speakers in my top down convertible station wagon with hydraulic suspension, but I don't feel the need to own Grand Theft Auto Vice City anymore to back that up. I remember staying up way past my bedtime, watching my Dad beat Misrabelle, the final boss of Mickey's Castle of Illusion on the Megadrive, in the days before memory cards and save files. If you died and were out of lives, it was right back to the start! This is perhaps my earliest gaming memory but I don't need to own a copy of Castle of Illusion to keep that memory alive. And now that my own son is tottering about the place I've sometimes thought to myself, I should keep these games because maybe he'll want to play them when he's older. He might. But an equal part of me thinks, who am I kidding? It'll be next gen times two by the time that rolls around. But then the other part of me is also happy knowing that I'll be content just to tell him about them, about what I remember and relive what they were like through memory alone. The feeling of hitting a spike at high speed and losing 100+ rings in Sonic 2. The jangling sound that denotes failure. Or finding out that the trick to beating Psycho Mantis in Metal Gear Solid was to switch controller ports mid fight so that he couldn't read your mind. This was mind blowing back then and I'm hoping, if my son is remotely interested in games, he'll find it just as mind blowing without needing to get the PlayStation out of the attic. Memories aside, I'm also at a stage in life now where I don't need to keep everything I've ever played, completed or not touched, as the case may be. And I admit, not only do I not miss these game I've let go of, I feel better for having done it. I know that if I ever want to play them again, they're not gone forever. Thanks to how interconnected the world is these days, I know I could likely pick these titles up again either in a 2nd hand video games store or on e bay. And in some ways this is more exciting than having a game gather dust on a shelf for years and potentially never be played again; knowing that it's not out of arms reach, even though it would involve buying the game again, a game that I probably paid top dollar for when it was first released. For the ones I've traded in but never begun or completed, having to part with cash for them again may actually be the kick I need to get the job done the second time around. Maybe one day. This year, next year, in 10 years.... But while I've been keen to let go of a good chunk of my gaming library, there are some games that I will never get rid of. These are for me my true classics, games I would be upset about if I ever had to part with them. There aren't many and I'm not going to gush and spout odes of devotion to them all here but my all time favourite game cannot go without mention: Dark Souls. This game is my masterpiece but I know for others it's a disasterpiece, a game which provokes feelings of love and hatred in equal measure. I’m aware that some feel the game is desperately overrated and I know that not everyone reading this will be a Dark Souls fan so I will spare the details; suffice to say that the world building, combat, stat and weapon upgrade systems, vaguely hinted at lore and steep but rewarding difficulty are all things that make Dark Souls a game that has created many memorable moments for me. I’ve completed the game once and so the memories should be enough, right? Well, I'm not quite done making memories with Dark Souls. Despite my lament about limited time and an ever expanding backlog, I've just recently begun my 2nd playthrough of Dark Souls. And I'm loving it. Yes, I've seen it all before and the sheen that coated my first time isn't glistening nearly so brightly this time around but I still feel the adrenaline when facing a boss I know I've beaten before, I still care enough to explore everything I can see on the horizon. I know I will never part with it. So worried was I recently that I had permanently lost my copy during our last house move that I went out and bought another copy second hand, despite also having a digital copy on my Xbox360. You never know when the thing might go kaputt, you see, so a back up physical copy was a no brainer. This might seem a bit daft and it probably is to be honest, but I felt strangely good about buying that 2nd copy, as if I was liberating it from the shop because it didn’t deserve to be among the second hand trade-in titles. I mean, who in their right mind would trade in Dark Souls? Maybe someone who has their own little cabinet of classics at home but Dark Souls isn't one of them. Or maybe someone who has reached a stage in their life like me where they don't need to keep absolutely everything. And that's fine. The fact that it was traded in meant I bought it and I'm glad to say that since it hasn't been wasting away on a shelf like so many others before it. I've since found my original copy and have leant my 2nd copy to a friend, a Dark Souls noob. You never know, in time Dark Souls might just become my friend's very own masterpiece. If there is one message to come from all of this it's this: a classic is only as classic as the connection you, the player forge with that particular game. Although we hear the words classic and masterpiece thrown around a lot these days, forget review scores, fan following and commercial success. These are only indicators. Fundamentally a game that you consider to be a classic has to mean something to you, whether that's thematically, mechanically or just because you walked its world and reveled in its brilliance at a particular moment in time. It's a deeply personal thing. And that alone makes any classic worth keeping.