#because the game uses “fly” metaphorically

[eriyu]

i am staring so suspiciously at this line in retrospect

[pokeballanon]

Pokeball ask game! :D

Poke Ball - What’s a thing that seemed normal to you until someone told you it wasn’t?

Great Ball - Do you think you’re a good person?

Ultra Ball - Post your favorite reaction image :0

Master Ball - If you could gain the abilities of any one legendary Pokemon + immortality, would you? If so, which one? (If you are a legendary, pick a different one! Mythicals don’t count because then everyone would be choosing Victini :D)

Safari Ball - Do you like to hike? If so, what’s your favorite place to hike? If not, just answer with whatever you think is the coolest :D

Fast Ball - Draw a random Pokemon in 30 seconds and see if people can guess what it is! If you don’t have access to drawing materials, describe it in 30 seconds instead!

Level Ball - Which gym leader that you haven’t already beaten do you think you could win a battle against?

Lure Ball - Do you like to read? What’s your favorite? (Intentionally leaving this open! Books, poems, fanfiction— anything!)

Heavy Ball - What’s your strategy in Pokemon battles?

Love Ball - Where are you the coziest?

Friend Ball - What’s the silliest thing that’s happened to you?

Moon Ball - Do you like to draw? What do you usually draw?

Sport Ball - Do you play any sports?

Net Ball - Have you consumed any water lately? Don’t forget to do that!

Dive Ball - Do you like to swim? Are you good at it?

Nest Ball - What flying type Pokemon do you think would make the best cookies?

Repeat Ball - Share a song you could listen to on repeat for hours without getting tired of it!

Timer Ball - How are you with doing things under pressure?

Luxury Ball - Thoughts on glitter? :D

Premier Ball - Odd numbers or even numbers?

Dusk Ball - What time of day do you feel the most awake at?

Heal Ball - How do you help someone when they’re sad?

Quick Ball - What’s an insult/compliment/phrase that you’ve had saved in your head, but haven’t gotten the chance to use yet?

Cherish Ball - What’s your greatest treasure? (Literally or metaphorically :D)

Park Ball - What would your ideal world be like?

Dream Ball - Share a dream that you remember! If you don’t remember your dreams, tell us about your favorite candy!

Beast Ball - What are your thoughts on legendary Pokémon?

[diamondwerewolf]

Tumblr essay nobody asked for

Geeta doesn’t dislike Larry, she’s just trying to curb his propensity to settle.

Some of this information I’m paraphrasing comes from the main Sar/Vi game, the DLC, and Pokemon Masters EX.

To start, a detail I don’t seen discussed is this:

Larry’s shoes and his briefcase are worn. See the scuffs and the rip. He uses the same items over again, probably until they can’t be used anymore. He prefers to use the same Pokémon type [normal] , and has noted himself that he seldom switches things up, and should probably keep up with talented people from time to time. Which implies he doesn’t believe himself to be talented, which I’ll get back to later.

Another note to make about Larry, is that he’s reasonably stubborn, which goes hand in hand with being ‘set in his ways’. He says in Masters that he enjoys being Average, and only searches for the extraordinary in foods, as long as the restaurant isn’t too busy. That’s another hint at his introversion, apart from not wanting to be highly recognizable, which I may discuss later. So in synopsis with some additional points Larry is:

-Resistant to change

-very independent

-quite firm in his opinions or beliefs

-somewhat introverted

-a workaholic despite his complaints

Let’s take a break and discuss Geeta.

[Here she is noticing that Larry is enjoying a change of scenery. ]

She initially comes across as overbearing as chairwoman of the Pokémon league, but her decisions come from a genuine place. She cares about -progression- , of not just Paldea, but of all of her employees. I think this is fair.

Geeta mentions in masters ex that she loves collecting rare gems, literally and metaphorically. She’s a recruiter but also a nurturer. I assume someone who works so closely with the school was probably a teacher at some point, too.

You’ll notice, primarily in masters and the PkmnSV DLC that Geeta gives Larry tasks that, I assume, are meant to rouse him out of his comfort zone. Why don’t you use flying instead of normal types all the time? Why don’t you go to this event and mingle? [ she’s the one who encouraged Larry to hang out with Kabu] Would you be willing to leave familiar territory, that well trodden path, if it was for your job??

She doesn’t have a close eye on Larry because she dislikes him. I actually think Geeta worries he doesn’t enjoy working for the league, or that he’s wasting some of his potential. Mind you, Larry was hand picked for his jobs. The elite 4 are her rare, sparkling gems. Pillars of strength for the region.

She’s attempting to nurture Larry, and like a scrunched shiba on a leash, he’s an older man who doesn’t want to budge. He’s a ‘free spirit’ in masters. There’s irony in him being very resistant to being told what to do. It’s funny. Of course he’s going to think she’s hawking on him. He’s that kind of guy. He wants to do what he wants, which may not always be the best.

I think out of all of her employees, Geeta may mention him the most across all materials. My shipping delusions aside, she does think he’s special. But she may not be fully aware of his introversion. Half of Larry’s resistance to striving is probably to avoid talking to more people than he needs to.

Classic case of miscommunication, because Larry doesn’t give her any direct feedback. I think he should. She would probably adjust her tasks for him.

Some last thoughts, cause I don’t know where to put this:

-Larry has excellent taste in food, while Geeta’s tastes are pretty bland [this is from masters] VERY FUNNY

-Larry thinks himself to be average, while being one of Pokémon’s more unusual characters. He’s perplexed if the player picks him as a favorite gym leader.

-Geeta often has to force larry to take breaks. I’m still wondering what else this may imply about him. He complains privately, but he does work hard

[starfallforest]

Stop putting 'Too Sweet' by Hozier in your Sylus playlists

I am sorry—this was clickbait. I don’t actually care what you do with your life. But I need you to hear me out for just a second, okay? I am extremely not neurotypical about two things: Love and Deepspace, and Andrew John Hozier-Byrne. And I have seen more than one person in the tags talk about "Too Sweet" by Hozier being a perfect song for Sylus and MC. My only discourse about this is that Too Sweet is a song about a man who makes continuous self-sabotaging life decisions being incompatible with a partner who has her life put together. In my humble opinion, both Sylus and MC are hot messes of people in completely different ways. Anyway, it’s a good song so I don’t blame you for putting it in every playlist ever. In fact, you should. But if you're into this song, I want to show you a couple more pls pls pls 🙏​

I might just be autistic, but both Hozier's music and Love and Deepspace have something extremely important in common… and that’s BEAUTIFUL MEN YEARNING!!!1 And that’s not even to mention the haunting, raw sexuality we can project onto the stories that each of these things feeds to us. That's why I needed to make this post on the 1% chance that someone might hop on this brainrot train with me. So let me present, for just a moment of your time (if you're willing): other Hozier songs that fit Sylus so well I want to combust about it.

De Selby (Parts 1 & 2):

“At last, when all of the world is asleep You take in the blackness of air The likes of a darkness so deep That God—at the start—couldn't bear.” [azlyrics] [gaelic translation]

Imagine just casually writing THE love song that so beautifully says, “Before you were in my life, I kinda understood how God felt before he created the universe.” Excuse me? Andrew just dropped this stanza on us without so much as a cw: fuck you. And if that sickening portrait of gnawing loneliness isn’t enough, we have all the Genesis God references. Since all the LIs in the game are at some point likened to gods or rivaling gods with their power, then add the reverberating instrumentals and chillingly slow vocals in this 2-minute killer, tell me how this song does not fit Sylus. Not only that, but we also have imagery of his lover descending upon him like the night (which is invoked during Part 1 in the Gaelic verse), and I know that’s on the nose for Sylus but come on. I need you guys writing smut to have an orgasm during De Selby (at least Part 2) because it might change ur brain chemistry I'm just saying.

“When you fall on me like night—I wanna kill the lights.” [azlyrics]

This song still rules irt its playing with darkness symbolism, but it also refers to the darkness in the singer’s lover—which in Sylus’ case is MC and we all were there when she shot the guy in the heart like his freaky eye was telling her: “And your heart, love, has such darkness—I feel it in the corners of the room…” my goddddddd stop right there I can’t handle the METAPHORrrr. You think Sylus gives a flying fuck about MC’s frivolous morality bullshit? No he wants her to embrace her own darkness, sit under the blankies with him and cuddle after doing crimes and a beat poetry session. This is some fucking Hannibal Lecter beyond-dark-romance shit. I’m not even trying to write a dissertation here (and yet…)

Talk (from Wasteland, Baby!):

“I'd be the sweet feeling of release mankind now dreams of, That's found in the last witness before the wave hits, marveling at God… Imagine being loved by me.” [azlyrics]

Not only does this song utilize insane Greek mythology metaphor and Biblical comparison but the overall meaning of it is, “I want you so bad, I need to speak poetically to hide how down bad I am for you.” That sounds kinda like Old World Sylus and all his pretty nicknames to me.

NFWMB:

“If I was born as a black thorn tree, I'd wanna be felled by you, held by you, Fuel the pyre of your enemies… Ain't it warming you, the world going up in flames?” [azlyrics]

This whole song just some hard, deep and steady yearning for 4 and a half minutes. Are you kidding? The acronym in the title stands for Nothing Fucks With My Baby, which is sung in the chorus like some quietly violent war chant—soft, dark, and powerful. Anyway don’t tell me Mr. Sylus “Give me a list and then go to bed. I’ll take care of it” Loveanddeepspace wouldn’t scorch the earth for the love of his life—or do one better and stand by her side while she scorches the earth herself; here’s the protective/supportive mans anthem you ordered babes.

It Will Come Back:

“I know who I am when I'm alone—I'm something else when I see you. You don't understand, you should never know How easy you are to need.” [azlyrics]

This song has repeated imagery that warns of the dangers of taking care of a feral animal, and then compares the feral animal to the singer as a lover. Like fuck off, that’s sexy and haunted. And we know that not only does Sylus love animals more than people, but he’s pretty animalistic himself if we are to believe that maybe he’s secretly a demon or something.

Arsonist’s Lullaby:

“Don't you ever tame your demons, but always keep them on a leash.” [azlyrics]

Remember in Lost Oasis when MC goes on some tangent wondering what Sylus' past was like? Well it was this song. It's about troubled youth and learning to grow in your darkness. Also how cool is that imagery of demons? Hey Sylus, what do you have to say about demons? I'll wait. In the meantime I'm tattooing this shit on my clavicle

BONUS ROUND Through Me:

“Everytime I’d burn through the world, I’d see that the world—it burns through me.”

We got a man and we got some fire allusions so there ya go.

Blood Upon the Snow:

“To all things housed in her silence, Nature offers a violence.”

Blood upon the snow—it's red and white! Red!! And white!!! Also kind of a Sylus x Zayne anthem lbr

Ok I hope you found another song that inspires you to make Sylus art or fanfic with!! And before you ask, yes I've already assigned Hozier songs to every other love interest in the game. Ok thanks for reading!!! 🏃‍♀️​💨​

[anameistoohard]

Oh boy, lets open that can of worms

There's a LOT of discourse with endo vs anti-endo stuff (endogenic system=plural system not formed by trauma if you don't know 🙂). Like, death threats coming from both sides kinda thing. We try to stay out of it. But it's easy to accidentally stumble into it if you're not familiar with some of the nuance. So we want to share some observations as like, a crash course. (And apparently we had a lot to say lol.)

This post isn't really to debate how plurality forms. Just to give some context as to why so much hate is flying between these two groups.

Basically, you have 2 extremes. (And everyone in between obviously)

On one side you have people making up extra rules on top of the diagnostic criteria to exclude and gatekeep anyone who doesn't meet "their level" of disordered. (I've literally heard people say "you can't be a system, you're not as traumatized as me"). A lot of accusations of faking come from this bunch. Too much internal communication? Faker. Too many non-human alters? Faker. Too many or not enough alters? Faker. You can't win with them even if you have a diagnosis.

We've noticed a lot of parallels between this group and transmeds. You need to have x level of dysphoria to ride this ride. You can't be trans if you don't want xyz treatment. You need to reach my arbitrary bar of "trans enough". Enbys and everyone else are fakers. That kind of bs.

But on this side you also have a lot of people who just want to be taken seriously. They want to be validated by their diagnosis and feel hurt when people say or do things that they think will compromise that validity. They, at least initially, come from a place of sincerity not malice. But they fall into the trap of trying to be "one of the good ones".

On the other extreme you have the wild west. Things people treat as fact aren't codified with the same scrutiny as the DSM-5 or ICD-11. This breeds its own confusion and misinformation. We've seen people conflate plurality with things like maladaptive day dreaming, lucid dreaming, adhd, and (applying it to other people with ferocity to the point of harassment) metaphors of all things.

They have a spaghetti at the wall approach that reminds me of a less extreme MOGII (an attempt to define just about every possible form of gender and sexuality). It's a messy patchwork of ideas. We've seen 8 different labels that all mean the same thing and are being used by exactly no one. Redundancy and hyperspcificity, that's the name of the game. But frankly we like this if for no other reason than we want to see what sticks, what becomes mainstream.

We've seen people from this group attack people as badly as the anti-endo group. Openly mocking people for having trauma or saying vile shit like "traumagenics kys". They feel threatened by the exclusionary nature of diagnoses. But instead of taking their frustration out on the systems of power they take them out on normal people. After all if you're diagnosed, you "represent the system"... I guess. Equally bull shit.

But this is also where the edge cases go, the exclusions, those that don't fit into a neat little box. The DSM excludes people whose plurality is accepted as part of their culture or religion. These people don't suddenly stop being systems just because they're accepted, but they're distinctly not disordered. They don't meet the clinical definition of DID or OSDD. Same goes for someone whose symptoms are mild enough to not cause "clinically significant distress". You also have people who don't want to be pathologized or have been failed by the medical system.

So lastly, a warning: When dealing with plural stuff, it's very easy to go stumbling into a mine field.

Tldr: I would always rather land on the side of letting too many people in than exclude people who needed the support. However, no matter your in-group, some people take things too far. Like, ffs don't attack people. 

-Taylor & Mark

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

the counterpart

chapter 8 — fly on the windscreen (final)

wc: 11k~ (a lengthy one, i know, but i spent two months on this for a reason).

more angst, chess metaphors and depeche mode references (sorry). but i promise i fixed it. and besides — who doesn’t love a good makeup sex scene? oh yes, i went all out with that one. you’re welcome.

—

In 1956, at the chaste age of thirteen, Bobby Fisher made history. 

Game of the Century — that’s what people dubbed it, and it sure did deserve the title: a teenage boy defeated an international master, and with precision so oddly fascinating, that it instantly put the whole chess-world in a strangling chokehold. You never paid that event much mind — young geniuses are not that rare of a thing in this pedantic industry. But Viktor claimed it impacted him — he, too, won his first significant tournament at thirteen, and therefore related to Fisher immensely. 

You remembered the day he told you this in explicit detail: it was the third evening of your affair — right before the mangled bouquet incident. He showed up a tad later than he usually did — and you smiled, realizing that such time-defining adverbs were now acceptable to use while referring to his treasured visits. He was wearing a plain, frayed shirt: a smear here, a patch there: had to help his professor in the lab with something awfully urgent. You rushed to get him out of that sordid thing. Helpful hands popped all buttons open and nudged him softly into the shower. You liked him to enter the filth of your bedroom clean, so the traces of it last longer afterwards. He always complied. 

By the time you set up the board and settled on the comforter, cross-legged, he was done bathing. His skin no longer smelled of dust and machinery, the slippery swiftness of it longing for your attention. He walked out bare — both due to the lack of spare clothes, and because you’d shed them off of him even if those happened to be thrown somewhere nearby. His chest swelled under your hand, flushed and wet.

You made love. It’s funny how fast you stopped calling it just ‘sex’ or ‘fucking’ — oh no, with him you suddenly saw the act of letting someone into your flesh gentle, and, accordingly so, couldn’t just abide by those two simple terms. Sometimes they failed to embrace the concept. 

He tastes of soap and salt when it’s over. Sweat politely intrudes the new, fresh smell of him, and you kiss its tiny drops off his clavicles — two beautiful dips, fragile masterpieces of skin and bones. He laughs and lets his eyes rest. You watch his pupils move under the veiny eyelids, and his lashes tickle your finger when you swipe it gently over those delicate things: to feel the soft movement underneath, to absorb every internal shift in him — his heartbeat, his wincing, the fall of his stomach when he exhales. You wonder if he does the same when you don’t notice. 

“Can I show you something?” It comes out of him strangely flimsy, in a much thicker, throatier timbre. You nod, and he reaches for the board. 

He shows you the Game of the Century. Has it memorized by heart: goes over each move with excited commentary, and his eyes beam almost as passionately beautiful as when he looks at you, dreamily mesmerized. 

“I don’t get it,” you murmur. Your head rests on his lean thigh, pieces a shaky, hlack-white horizontal blur. Scrawny fingers tangle little loops into your hair. “Why did Byrne never take Fisher’s queen? It was right there in front of him the whole time!” 

Viktor chuckles. Bends down to kiss you softly on the temple and smirks discreetly when your pulse touches his mouth, rapid and intense. Playing chess with him always gives you lovely headaches. 

“Because Fisher offered it to him on purpose. He wanted to perform a Smothered Mate.” 

“Oh.” You humm. 

Now you saw it. 

—

You roll over to intercept the little affection. Prop your back with both elbows. Let him comfortably straighten his spine. It’s sweet that he allows it to twinge for you, even if just for a moment, but you don’t appreciate such sacrifices.

Teeth hurt a bit from a sudden clash, but he soothes it when tongues twine, circling lazy patterns. It’s slobbery — a tad clumsy, even, but you like it that way: wet, raw, and terribly, sorely tender. 

He takes you again. Disperses a hundred breathy ‘laská’s all over your pliant skin — neck, and shoulders, and breasts, and thighs. They’re still there, even now that he’s gone — now that you made him go, but the traces of him are no longer sweet and darling. They’re bits of pleasure you were never worthy of, a constant reminder of how you treated that soft man. Not as boldly dark as they used to be: plum started to dissolve into faint, flimsy yellow. The plague of his lovebites, the lasting symptom of his fondness. 

You think of that evening again. 

“Thank you. For showing me this.” You nod to the board and hop on the windowsill to light a cigarette. His heart tries to find its way out of his sternum, muscles still twitch in the afterglow of his orgasm. Both a vision: him — a tired one, full of delicious soreness, you — candid and gorgeously smudgy. 

He rolls on his stomach and cocks a brow, meets your gaze with a warm half-smile. “And here I thought you weren’t interested in a tutor,” sasses delicately. You threaten to throw a lighter at him. You both laugh. And when the balmy sound dies down, his intricate eyes narrow cat-like. They cautiously slide over your form with a quizzical little flicker, and you know he’s contemplating something — it’s visible in his every motion, in the humm he makes before finally daring to be bold. 

“Could I request something… a little risqué?” he finally asks. 

That intrigues you. You take a hissy drag and lean on the glass behind you, wincing when smoke comes out of your nostrils. “I don’t know,” you muse tortuously, “could you?” 

“I would appreciate it if you dropped the obstinacy.” 

“Viktor. I’m probably giving a view of my naked ass to god knows how many people in the building in front of us. How much more risqué can it get?” 

“And yet, I prefer to be certain. Don’t taunt me here, milackú. Please.”

Please. You love it when he says that. There’s something so syrupy about getting this word out of him, and you’re not sure you ever wish to bid farewell with that little addiction. 

He crawls to you out of a damp mess of sheets, pale skin almost peachy where the evening sun embraces each bony slope of his. Thin arm reaches for something on your nightstand and snatches it. Has you smiling in curious bliss when he leans closer, almost falling off the edge of the mattress. Finds some leverage in your hanging off the windowsill legs and clumsily curls around them, pressing the gentlest of kisses to each knee. Now you rise above him, gorgeously drowned in a forthcoming sunset, and light peeks through your fingers when you spread them to catch a hold of your cigarette. 

Viktor hands you the ‘something’ he stole an instant earlier. It’s your seedy “Canon”, with  its murky lens looking up at you, reflecting the perplexed frown of your face. You run a finger over its cold, metallic frame. 

“Does this have any film in it?” Viktor asks. Places his chin on your thigh and stares, beautifully hopeful. You shrug.

“Most definitely. It might be expired, though. Why?” 

He gives it a thought. Leans into your touch and sighs gratefully when you cradle his cheek and stroke — a loving swipe of a trembling thumb over his hollow features. His kisses strike again — now to the inside of your palm, a whisper of a touch, warm and a little ticklish. 

“I want to take your picture,” he finally mumbles. 

You almost choke on the filter. Ashes fall on your skin and Viktor rushes to blow the damage away —soothes it gently before it burns through. 

“What? You mean… now?” Your voice is weak when you say this. Not due to shame or some other internal quandaries — you’re astonished, and it entertains him, makes him laugh again when you pull away to stare at him mid inhale, smoke a bitter halo around your disheveled hair. Yes, he wants to capture this. He absolutely has to. 

“I’d like to savor this,” Viktor explains. “In a more… tangible way. If only you’re willing to indulge me, of course.”

Of course. 

He says he doesn’t want you to pose. A rather hard request, considering the scenery: it simply calls for a pretty arch, for any method of glamorizing your crippling addiction and sheer immodesty. But you aim to please him. Your shoulders laze, narrowed eyes try to sneak a sly peek when he presses the shutter button. He tempts you to smile — the way he bites his tongue in an earnest search of a flattering angle. The flawless intimacy of taking a boudoir picture. You wonder how the local CVS workers handle those. Then chuckle, realizing they’ve probably seen much worse.  

Viktor clears his throat. 

“Can I… have it? After you develop those?” His plea is careful, hushed. Always so sickeningly polite.

“What for?” You torture him again, letting yet another stub rest in a porcelain grave of cigarette bums. Viktor shrugs. 

“Oh, I… I suppose I could keep it in my wallet. After I receive your permission to be that bold.” 

“In your wallet? How scandalous!” 

“Scandalous?”

“Exactly. I’m wearing nothing but thin air in there. Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No.” He shakes his head so innocently it makes him look grotesquely oblivious. “Should it bother me?” 

Your foot softly presses into his chest and pushes him back on the bed. He meets that fate with a dainty laugh, and it’s even lovelier when the rest of you follows along, mindful not to make him wheeze. A harmless vengeance, a tacit promise of what’s to come. And he welcomes it, each hand awfully tender in a cautious hold of your rear, curled in the most adoring of squeezes.

You hover above his face, smiling. “I doubt it came out beautifully.” 

He smiles back. “Of course it did. It has you in it.” 

And he’s almost right. Because it comes out perfect instead. 

—

Here you are, in the mighty fervor of your bareness, your cigarette a sparkly scepter between delicate fingers. It’s a little grainy, yet still lush with saturation — all yellows, pinks and reds, flowing prettily into terracotta precisely where sun wraps around the curve of each breast and dark nipples — those gorgeous lines of stilled tenderness. Head thrown back, mouth parted to let out a livid smoky mist — he must’ve caught you mid exhale: so conveniently brusque. Pure art in the obscene privacy of your bedroom. 

…But it’s been a torturous week of avoidant silence, and your bed, albeit filled with memories, feels terribly empty — wraps you in its reproachful mess and strangles relentlessly, and you have no desire to come back to it anymore; seven languid dawns met anywhere but in the sheets. 

All because comprehension is cruel, and it deprived you of resting, solace long gone alongside him — his tenderness, his touch, his patience. Oh how you longed for it, how agonizingly jealous you grew towards that proudly naked version of you from the picture: she was yet to find out how the lack of him really feels, how heartwrenching his resentment can get. It pierced through you — that all-consuming, frightening realization. And precisely when you first got your hands on developed film, too: Viktor will never have it. He doesn’t want it anymore.  

Heartbreaks always come with additional obstacles: finals week made college feel like a coffin, tight, and suffocating, and overwhelmingly grim. It reduced your days to a torturous routine of turning in essays and sneakily running around the campus in between exams: made you attend to every single precaution in the book to avoid bumping into him. 

You even stopped visiting the engineering department to catch Jayce for once obligatory debriefs by a cigarette — the risks weren’t worth exchanging even the messiest dirty rumors. Besides, what’s there to tell him? ‘I started fucking your ‘grandmaster’, developed a feeling I’m afraid to admit even to myself and screwed it all up by letting my wrathful tendencies take over’? Yeah. That’s not exactly an event one boasts about. 

So you found salvation in misery. Stuffed yourself full of its moping weight, wore it like a veil, showed it off whenever something called to leave your self-prescribed hermitage — an ostentatious ‘Look, I did this to myself!’ So craven. So pathetic.

And you couldn’t look at chess anymore. The image of his sinewy hand was now forever attached to the only board you owned, hovering above the pieces in its usual pensive manner. It wounded you. Filled you with some visceral, peculiar rage — and you couldn’t even tell towards who exactly. It’s like you were suddenly deprived of all the other feelings and now had to make do, seeking solutions in disposing of everything he ever touched in your room. But that would also include your skin, so you quickly abandoned the thought. If only the memories of that last draw were that easily escapable. You swallowed yet another frustrated swear. 

Something about it all seemed oddly… awry. Specifically his queen moves: Viktor was never the one to open harshly, he attacked much deeper into the game and preferred initiating trades — rude invasions were more your style, after all. But that day he developed your approach: you were certain of it, trembled whenever reminiscing hit you. 

And tonight it hits you right in the gut. 

—

You’re down to your last cigarette and it makes your throat wail — you’ve had more of those tonight than there are hours in a whole day. Lost count of desperate, big gulps of wine, too, and even considered asking the Lord himself to turn all the water in your apartment into more of that life-saving beverage. The irony hears your prayer, making you cackle, and ‘Sweetest Perfection’ slowly fades into the sexy guitar riff of ‘Personal Jesus’. But instead of reaching out to touch faith you touch the stop button. It’s hard to appreciate music when a headache is splitting your head in twain. 

An utter mess — that’s what you were, scrunched on the floor in your underpants, trembling fingers tracing chaotic circles over the surface of your favorite record, the tournament notes wounded with a wine stain. Your board laid tiles down, crushing the pieces, evidently knocked over in what looked like a livid splutter. 

Viktor could’ve won. He should’ve, actually — it came down on you when wrath died down just enough to finally set the pointless self-deprecating aside. Better late than never, and yet living in ignorance didn’t seem that agonizing now that you deigned to analyze his moves. 

He didn’t offer you a queen exchange. You were certain he chose to refrain from it on purpose: because that would’ve extended the match, allowing him to move his king someplace safe. And, concurrently, aim for a winning position. Viktor, of all people, wouldn’t miss it — which meant he showed you mercy. Always so goddamn caring — fuck, how blinded one must be to overlook something so gallant? 

He still cared about making you leave with a good rating, swallowed his pent-up pride to evolve all that into a draw. Played with his heart for once. A charity, of sorts, and normally you despised that — would tear him a new one for even assuming that you needed such leniency. But not this time. Not after he responded to your onslaught with chivalry. 

Your world is fuzzy when you reach for the door knob — all astigmatic spurts of light, drunkenly smeared and heavy. It’s a night of spontaneous decisions and you commit to it like a martyr: first deciding to indulge in game analysis, then drinking yourself to death over each new discovery.

And now you wince, slipping into your loafers, feeling their harsh press into those swollen spots under each buckle-bone. No socks. No pants, either. Just half-naked fervor and a long leather coat to loosely wrap around yourself — the only armor you need to run outside and head straight towards his dorm, shivering when chilly air softly creeps up your bare legs. 

It’s terrifying how fast decisions are made when you rely purely on liquor and shaky crumbles of messy sanity; with what menacing speed you rushed for him, breathless and murky-gazed. Fingers fumbled with the sharp edge of that erotic monstrosity you slipped into your pocket before running out the door: something kept restraining you from disposing of it, made your hands twitch whenever you held that picture above the weak fiery tongue of your lighter. Viktor deserved to take a glimpse at it. Even if he decides to burn it himself immediately after. 

You swiftly sneaked past the concierge in awkward, wasted excellency. Stumbled over a threshold with a sobby grunt. Almost expected someone to catch you, to enquire why could you possibly be headed to a young man’s room at two in the morning, with just a weary leather cover compensating for your lack of decency. 

But you’ve made it. Stood by his door before dazed mind even managed to realize just what you’re about to do, knees so pitifully shaky you might just be swept off your feet. Figuratively, first, when your white-knuckled fist dares to knock. Literally, when his footsteps shuffle in your direction. 

You know he’s not asleep. It’s almost like he never is — except for those sacred hours when you somehow manage to tire him out: a rare occasion, a calming little tribute. Your heart shrinks when his hand peeks out, tightly curled around the door knob. He’s tense: more so than ever, weariness prominent in a heavy lean on his cane, eyes dreary and red at the inner corners. They flicker in mistrust — stare through you in a way only he possesses, intricate enough to reach your very gut, chase down the drunken audacity and cut it abruptly at the base. You’re not sure if it can save you the embarrassment anymore. 

Viktor snaps out of it — blinks his momentary awe away and frowns, quizzically hostile. Pale wrist flicks in a sudden rush to fix his unbuttoned shirt: he doesn’t know you came to beg for a truce yet, thinks you might just go for his throat if he doesn’t put up a defense quick enough.

It pains you. Stabs your own neck and twists that thing a few torturous times before you finally remember how to breathe. A silly thing, a craving to lay your heart at his feet — to be bold, or desperate, or either of those at once. Easier said than done, because your courage is in shambles as soon as his lips twitch, and the crease of a pretty mouth you grew to adore suddenly feels like a vicious personal attack. And it only intensifies when he sighs, utterly forceless. 

A rocky start. Even rockier now that he huffs your name out like it’s a swear, and disbelief contorts him, deep and flush-cheeked. 

“Why are you indecent?” He all but hisses it, the perfect mad man — all awe-struck copper and audacious glimmer in the depths of his wide-snapped eyes. Has you hiding both quivering legs behind the leather closure of your coat, suddenly shamefully aware of your state of undress. Should’ve never let that impulse win, should’ve waited until morning, but how were you supposed to fight something so potent, so atrociously urgent? 

“I had to see you.” A whisper, a silly blunder. Like a pathetic attempt at getting out of a fork — a sacrifice of a piece to postpone a checkmate. 

Viktor blinks at you in bewilderment. His throat is dry — it’s prominent in an awkward cough he chokes on, in the way he averts his face. 

“That doesn’t explain much,” mumbles finally, staring into the floor. Bites his cheek to muffle an angry comment, watches you sullenly with repressed bitterness. “Why are you here?” 

It’s a simple question. A straight-to-the-point one, too — he doesn’t move an inch, pierces right through you with the pressure of his anguish. And it’s only fair, after all — you butchered his heart and vanished into a week of soul-crushing silence, only to return with no purpose, answers and pants. If anything, he’s being quite charitable by even letting you in. 

“I couldn’t sleep.” God, would you just tell him already? How much longer can you drag this madness out, how much more liquor do you have to consume until it finally drowns your sorrow? No, that won’t do. And Viktor thinks so too — scoffs with a rageful glare, grabbing a hold of the door knob again.

“Then I suggest you retreat to your room and take a melatonin. Good night.” 

“Viktor. Viktor, please—“ 

You cling onto that appeal with every ounce of your desperation, his name a harsh clash of consonants on your wagging tongue — a slurred and rhotic last resort, a hasty mess of shaky syllables. And, strangely enough, it works: urges him to recoil, to return the tremulous stir, to let you see that blend of hurt and confusion in the blown out voids of his pupils. It’s almost like you’re pushing him to the verge of his kindness, bearing witness to every inner change. Here he is, grim and distant — all clenched jaw and enraged inhales, softening into promising mercy. Through a condescending sigh, no less, but you’ll take it. Oh, you’ll take it alright — because this is not a negotiation. This is redemption at any cost. 

Viktor resigns. Whispers a tired “Come in” and points to his bed, watches you limp inside with a weak, disapproving head shake. It’s a walk of shame — grumpy sounds of skin as bare feet drag pitifully on the floor, shoes and coat shed off carelessly somewhere at the entry. 

An abrupt sound of him fumbling with the lock, then a few light thuds of his cane — you absorb it all, waiting for your execution, eyes nailed to the parquet, skittishly following little wooden patterns. You don’t know what to say to him, and it’s terrifying — sure, wine must’ve triggered the motive, but it can only get one so far. And now you crumble, shrinking when the mattress bends by your side, the cross of his lanky legs cloudy in your peripheral. He keeps his distance, seated at a good arm’s length: too close for a shot, too far for an embrace, just enough to add to your agony. Rubs his forehead with a somber wince, turns to look at you with a harried pout, so tragically handsome. A bunch of veins twined tensely on that pretty ivory neck. 

“Please, say something,” begs you hoarsely, setting his cane aside. “Don’t torture me with your silence. It depletes me. And, quite frankly, I’ve had enough of that.” 

You swallow thick, pushing that lump down your throat with immense effort, bitter sticky spit foaming at the tip of your tongue, threatening to come out if you don’t shove it down your stomach quick enough. Tastes of drunk, delirious promises. And you must spew them out before they drool out on their own.

“I’m sorry.” This comes out slurred too, but you don’t mind the stumbling as long as it gets the message across. Viktor scarcely cocks his head, all flushed ears. 

You proceed. 

“For the tournament. Well, for what I did to you before our game, I shouldn’t have— Fuck, how do I even put this? I shouldn’t have done it. All of it.”

Your tear is in your mouth before you know it, and you swipe your tongue over a chapped lip, rushing to get it out the way while he remains still, simply waiting for you to continue with a straight, cold face. Almost kills you with that indifference, or whatever it is he’s trying to sell for it, but you don’t even think of backing off. You have to look at him. You ought and want to.

“I was cruel,” you confess, gulping down a sob. “Extremely so. It’s the rage, you see. I’m a fucking slave to it. So afraid to be hurt that I rush to do the hurting myself. But you… You, with your good intent, and your endless kindness — you, of all people, shouldn’t suffer from that ugly flaw of mine. And I’m sorry for being so full of it. For making you a victim of my crudeness. And for disappearing to bask in it, ever so selfishly. I didn’t run away because I don’t care. I ran away because I’m a coward.” 

He simply nods. Tortures you with a few more seconds of painful silence, sitting up with a curious humm. Locks both trembling hands together and  lets his thumbs take turns, circling over each other. Wheezes out a careful ‘Are you, now?”

You huff. “Of course I am. It took me a week to say this to you.” 

“But you’ve made it after all.” Viktor shrugs. It’s hard to tell if he’s being genuine or sarcastic, especially when his gaze keeps crashing you with all its reticent spite.

“Yes, but this is not the way to approach this. It’s not like I didn’t consider crawling here earlier, though—“

“Crawling?” he interrupts. Treats you to a minute of quiet turmoil, waits for you to clarify with a sharp inhale. Props himself on a fist and scoots closer, hovering above your face to scrutinize it intricately. “Are you intoxicated?” finally guesses when the evidence hits him in the nostrils. 

You shrink away, blinking in confusion. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Yes,” you respond in a skittish whisper. “And I’m sorry for that too. I just… I couldn’t bring myself to come to you earlier, but then… That draw, you see. It didn’t sit right with me, and so I tended to some self analysis. I noticed what you’ve done. Noticed what you sacrificed to make me walk out of there with a decent rating. Even after the way I’ve treated you. It made me hate myself so bad I felt the need to flush it down right that instant. But it only got more unbearable to endure any longer. So I simply… Ran out the door to tell you this. I shouldn’t have. Well, now I know that I shouldn’t—“

You’re rambling, and it’s a lengthy, fidgety monologue. So utterly terrified that you can’t even keep track of those ugly cries anymore — they fly out in between words, cutting into a fusion of your candor and hysteria.

But Viktor doesn’t soften. If anything, he’s even sharper now, frowning deeper with every new sentence you throw at him. Cuts you off with a scoff, wagging his head in bewilderment — like he can’t stand to even look at you, let alone listen to any more of these heartful babbles. Curses in Czech under his rapid breath. 

“Unbelievable,” he blurts out, turning away. “So that’s how you view me? That’s how you view us? A meaningless, casual affair you can abandon whenever you please and then repair with a few desultory ‘sorry’s? Is that what I am to you? A foolish suitor undeserving of a proper, sober apology? Well, I’ll have you know that I’m not one of your pawns. And I won’t put up with it — not in a hundred years.” 

Your panic comes back, drawing a snappish bawl out of stinging lungs, and you sniff, trying to push those unsavory tears back where they belong. Unkempt nails bite into your palms, leaving a violent pattern of rouge, deep punishment. 

“You don’t have to put up with it,” you speak again, trying to redeem that heavy home truth. “I don’t want you to.”

“Stop mentioning that,” Viktor demands with a furious scowl, making you gobble up that stupid semantic. “I’m in no need of your elaboration.” 

“But I truly mean that!”

“Mean it all you want, but don’t expect my approval just because you finally deigned to throw a plea at me. I did nothing to merit that. Both the insults and this mess of a repentance.” 

That one does the job. Peels the scab off your wounds, urging each evil goosebump to rise — and thank god for the soft bed under your trembling form, because your knees feel like soaked cotton, unsturdy and doomed to fail.

But you force them to obey, springing up above him in a snappy jerk. It’s a classic, of sorts, like a denial of a King’s Gambit: he doesn’t take the piece you offer him, aiming for something else instead. Something more crucial, and so inherently fragile. Stares up at you with his head thrown back, threateningly beautiful in the sheer shadows that blinds cast on his face. Urges you to seek silly symbols in the way your lack of clothes contrasts his utter modesty. 

Here you are — raw and exposed. One step from shameful nakedness, standing trial in this state of non-sexual, sudden nudity. Here he is — armed with thick fabric, not a smidge of his usual emotive range prominent in both expression and attire. All edgy cheekbones and pure, unfiltered anger in the slight twitch of a bushy brow. So snarky when it arches, challenging you to keep going. To fight for forgiveness for once. 

“You’re right.” It’s a simple statement — a calm, casual acknowledgement. Still teary-eyed and puffy, but those are merely debris. You wipe them away, ready to strike again. “I am a mess. A mess like no other, that’s for sure. I don’t expect you to fix me. I simply paid you what’s due, and you’re allowed to send it back — I’m in no position to demand you forgive me. I never wanted to do that anyway. I’m simply sorry. For mistaking your help for malice, for letting the fear of losing my silly independence win, for prioritizing it over the bond we’ve built. And for not giving you the apology you deserve. Truly. That might just be my biggest regret so far.”

Viktor doesn’t respond. His chest feels heavy, swiftly falling after each deep breath. He’s taking you in — bare legs, bare soul, bare feelings. A sweet contradiction, a living oxymoron in the suspenseful darkness of his bedroom,  but he doesn’t know what to do with you, how to save either of you from the power you hold over each other. 

This calls for a solution. And you come up with one, attempting to step away, already eyeing the corner you’ve thrown your coat into. 

“I should go,” you propose, carefully inching towards the door. “That would be the wise thing to do.” 

But Viktor’s views on prudence evidently differ. Because his fingers gnaw at your wrist, startling with the tight strength of their gentleness. Such a warm handcuff — it reminds you of your starvation, of just what you’d cross to experience him like this again — insistently gracious, caring to his very core. Pulls you towards him, biting a cheek when you don’t slip away. Realizes the extent of your desperation and sighs, admitting that his own reaches the same depth. Wins a silent staring competition when you blink, completely dazed, finding your voice in a weak ruckle of his name. 

“No,” he drawls, squeezing firmer, “you’ve done enough ‘wise’ deeds tonight. I’m not sure I can endure one more.” 

“I know, Viktor. That’s why I need to go.” 

“You’re a fool if you think I’m letting you walk out of here in that state. You came to apologize, after all. It would be quite counterproductive of you to storm off sobbing instead of achieving your initial goal.”

Your lashes flutter again, flicking a tear. It crawls back into your eye, blurring the world around you, and you rush to rub it out of there, freeing your hand out of his insistent grasp. He lets go, surprisingly reluctant. 

“I thought we’ve already established that I’m in no state for this conversation.” 

“Indeed, we have. Which is exactly why you’re going to take a shower and go to sleep, so your wits are about you when we’re back at it in the morning.” He then clears his throat, fighting a sad, hopeless smile. Loses when the corners of his mouth inch up, adding a sarcastic “I would, actually, lend you a melatonin, if it weren’t for the consequences of mixing it with alcohol. But your loss, I suppose.” 

He’s quieter with that remark. Spares you a moment of familiar, light-hearted comfort — all hushed chuckles, lost, frustrated glances, and fidgety, lonely hands. 

The embodiment of confusion, of bitterness that still fights to linger around, but doesn’t stand a chance against longing. Reducing the smartest person you know to a love-struck man that has no idea how to save this, yet wants you to stay so badly. Even worse when you look him in the eye, shyly asking if there’s any hot water left for you to use. 

The world makes sense again. Or so it seems.

— 

Your dream is lucid — a blend of bizzare, threatening images stirring you awake every time the thing gets too real, forcing bloodshot eyes to snap open and search for him in the opaque darkness, pulse a racing, unpleasant thump in both sweaty temples. Only simmering down when you manage to make out the skews of his shoulders: distant, but so darling. So many torturous inches separating your back from his — it’s more gaunt than you remember, the lopsided arch of it suddenly more bitter than ever, and you quit stealing discreet peeks, nuzzling back into the clean, mint-scented comfort of his pillow. Drifting back to yet another frenetic vision, thinking about how strange it is to share a bed with Viktor without lying tucked under his sharp, bony chin. 

You wake up morbid and, expectedly, hungover. Still wearing both scandalous garments you barged in — numb fingers slide over an exposed thigh, then rub the bridge of your nose hard enough to snap the delicate cartilage. You watch the ceiling tarnish full of flimsy black holes, whimpering as it cleanses of them just as swiftly when your sight repairs itself after a long squint. Shaky arms rummage around, stilling mid slow caress over Viktor’s side — still warm and slightly bent inwards, that overwhelming evidence of his presence. He left you an aspirin and a silly note:

“I have a final to take. Will be back at 10. Don’t you dare run away. 

P.S.

Please, don’t drink coffee. Your head will kill you.“

Your finger stumbles, covering the sharp ‘V’ in the lower corner. An excessive little gesture — as if you wouldn’t guess the sender if he didn’t sign it. You put the sweet warning away and swallow the pill, wincing when it scrapes its way down your throat. 

The morning finally starts.

Sore for whatever reason legs still hang back, and you force them to oblige, scrunching over the sink when those bratty, boneless appendages finally get you to the bathroom. It’s a lifeless, automatic routine — except you have to smear the toothpaste all over your teeth with a trembling finger. You thought of buying a brush to keep next to his for the nights you’re over, but now it repulses you, urges to avert your tired eyes from the mirror: what if you fucked it up beyond return? What if there’s no ‘for when I’m over’ anymore, but only ‘for when I used to be’? 

You don’t embrace that revelation. It appalls you, makes you crave the tasteless comfort of a cigarette — but you ran out of them last night, and, concurrently, respected Viktor’s strong preferences for keeping your favorite vice at least out of his room. And it’s not like this horrific anticipation should last much longer — self-doubts were kind and time-consuming, carrying you through fifty five minutes of tedious, head-in-hands agony. And when the key finally clangs, albeit a quarter later than expected, you rise from the unkempt bed, untangling from the blankets. 

He looks collected: walks right past you, rushing to rid that lanky neck off the strangling tie. Softly hums an unbothered ‘Good morning’, sparing you nothing but a reserved nod, and you writhe upon that calm violence, watching him tend to yet another languid habit — as if both the tournament and last night never existed, as if him simply coming back from a tiring final is the only thing that’s happening in this room, and you’re going to watch him settle back into his domesticated, quiet life. 

But no, you’re convinced that it’s a vengeful punishment — a silent treatment to make up for the one you put him through during your endless days of lacking courage. And so you sit, mouth agape, while he fetches his notes out of a shabby bag, flipping through them with a casual yawn. Plugs the kettle into an outlet, running a hand through a short row of tea boxes on the desk (you only managed to notice that little collection now), then shrugs, picking out a random one with a casual finger-flick. Stills in a half-turn over an angular shoulder, cursory inquiring what flavor you prefer. Driving you deeper into tremendous confusion. 

“I.. Whichever you like,” you mumble from the bed, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Only stopping when it starts to slightly taste of iron. 

Viktor understands. Hands you a steaming mug and pulls out a chair to be seated right in front of you, and it all resembles a pitiful, canonical therapy session — even the way you stare at your tea (chamomile, so it seems), shamefully making out the floating, whimsical reflection of your face in the brownish liquid. Wondering if it’s hot enough to burn your tongue. Preferably, to a decent degree. 

Viktor coughs. Crosses his legs again — always chooses that pose for uncomfortable conversations, whereas you always shrink embryo-like — a disparity to his almost professional manner. Oh just how he sits, vestless and relaxed, taking a slow sip. Makes you wish you were the cup, so he could wrap his hand around you and squeeze — to death, or bliss, or revulsion. Anything, but apathy. Please, no more of that. Please please please. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks. Grabs the mug by its rim and holds it like one does a wine glass, lets you see the tension in each fingertip. You return to staring down, unsure how to approach the question. Really, though, how do you feel? Scared? Excited? Nauseated? Sorry? You’re sure he gets it by now. And, therefore, all this — is a penalty. It’s only right. It has to be. 

You shrug, letting a whiff of fear invade every sharpened sense. Chamomile joins in, too. This time, evidently. 

“Are you punishing me?” you finally croak. He frowns at that, treats it like the silliest nonsense to ever be said out loud. Rushes to shake his head, to deny and prove wrong. And it confuses you beyond belief, forces an exchange of wide-eyed, bewildered gazes. 

“No,” he insists. “Of course not. I’m asking because I want to be certain that you’re able to proceed with the colloquy. That wouldn’t be possible were you still under the influence of any… substances, would it, now?” He adds with a chuckle. Dry, and curt, and failing at easing anything at all, but you still believe him. You choose to, even if it’s hardly plausible. 

“Yes.” You offer him a lie. “I want to proceed.”

 It’s best he doesn’t know how not ready you really are. 

He gulps, then. Waits for your confession to unravel, plowing through you with the sheer power of patient madness, even if that doesn’t make much sense — how can someone stare with such urgency, yet remain so gentle with it? You know you’ll find him drawn to you if your own eyes dare to move from the slowly growing lukewarm tea. 

“Were you cordial with me last night?” He finds a way to pluck the answers out of you, appeals to something you’re convinced is always the case with your inept amends.

“Of course. I always am.” He arches a brow, causing you to reconsider. As if to cut you off with a silent, cheeky ‘Really, now?’. 

“I meant… I’m always sincere with my apologies,” you try to recover, setting your mug down on the floor before it slides out on its own and shatters into pieces. Can’t have it sharing the destiny of your stability. 

“I just… I’m really struggling to understand you here,” he spoke softly, putting his own tea away — and it’s left forgotten on his desk, like a non-verbal, inanimate testimony. “Why would you turn to anger in response to aid? I don’t think I’ll ever distinguish that, you’ll have to excuse me here.”

“No, that‘s a… really good question.” 

“Answer it, then.”

“I don’t know if I can.” 

“That won’t ease our quandary.”

“I’m aware, but… Just let me think a little. Please.” 

He lets you. Invites you to help yourself to all the time in the world, but you only take two minutes — it’s important not to squander his generosity. Especially when you don’t know exactly how much more he has to spare.

“It’s like… Caro-Kann, and I’m playing black,” you finally mumble, knowing he’ll ask to elaborate. 

“Caro-Kann?” Viktor muses, visibly besotted. As if he expected you to think anyhow but in chess.

“Mhm. Seems so safe and solid, and yet the development is so slow, and the board lacks space for me, and white can be so unpredictable with their responses—“

“Yes, I’m familiar with the disadvantages of this opening.” He raises a hand, stopping you from burrowing any further into tiring theory. “Please, get to your point.” 

Your pulse thumps a march so terrified it echoes in your throat, swells above your left breast into something unbearably massive — capable of breaking the ribcage and rolling out to his feet. It reverberates in your temples, too, and you squint, as if enduring a migraine. Eyes shimmy down to pathetically shaky knees. 

“When I play Caro-Kann, I prepare for an attack from white,” you continue carefully. Viktor looks at you, attentive to the bone. “But it doesn’t happen — and I panic. Like I’m all ready to be aggressive, to sting if you come any closer, and you just choose… not to. Here I am, with my developed bishop, threatening a check, but you ignore it and play something like… say, pawn h4. And I grow livid, and my pieces fly all around the board, but it all seems so useless, because you haven't taken anything from me yet. And I take first, and inevitably lose by taking more and more — because I was scared to let you do it to me first.”

“That’s just ridiculous,” he protests. Crosses both lanky arms on his chest, leaning into the chair. Rests his neck on the top back, glaring from beneath heavy lids. “You’re not supposed to play it like that.” 

“Exactly. That’s why I like gambits. You always know what to expect with a gambit. Even if your opponent declines it, you know it’ll hurt later. For both of you. It’s predictable, and beautifully violent. It’s what I’m used to. Not only in chess.” 

“As much as I’m infatuated with your skills at merging logic with poetics, metaphors are not my forte. I’d much rather you explain in layman’s terms.” 

Hearing Viktor call himself that sounds almost blasphemous. But you don’t argue with his wording. You fix your posture and recline, mirroring the angle he looks at you from — your one last death rattle before resignation. And he waits, fumbling with a rolled up sleeve. Getting more vulnerable, inviting you to follow suit. His eyes fill with contradictory, somber candidness. ‘Get right with me,’ they beg of you discreetly. 

But begging is hardly necessary. Not when he’s entitled to knowing the truth. 

“I see you as a threat to my independence. Not just you, I suppose — anyone who’s not responding in a way I know how to handle.” 

Viktor nods. “So you’re implying that you only know how to handle… mockery?” 

“Correct.” You stop to gasp for air, the sharp pang of its scarcity pinching at your lungs. “I’m sorry,” you add in a mumble, and he sees just how vehemently you mean it, pupils so wide they almost steal every bit of your beloved copper. 

A creak of a chair when he gets up, sighing harriedly. Has you stirring, utterly convinced that he’s about to fetch his cane out of its convenient spot against the desk — but he never reaches for it. Finds leverage in a sturdy hold of your knee instead, leans on it with a wistful smile and settles right into the notch of sheets next you. Not quite where he sat last night, but much closer — evidently so. And when he doesn’t move, letting your bare thigh freely rub against the thick fabric of his trousers, you know he accepts the truce, even with no verbal confirmation. Bless the mighty power of his languid body language. Careful, when he takes your hand in his, covering the tracery of palm lines in lovely strokes. So darling. So familiar. 

“You,” he emphasizes with sweet indignation, “are incredibly gentle. I don’t ever wish to hear that you’re incapable of handling kindness. You simply ought to learn not to bite at the hand that feeds you. And that requires playing more Caro-Kann. I’m willing to help with that. As long as you’re willing to learn.” 

His touch grows firmer, suddenly flowing into a squeeze, and you bate a breath, tongue a swirling little drill into the slopes of your palate. But Viktor goes on, keeping you close — practically face-to-face, and so very, very intimate. 

“And no more returning to stupid vices when you’re facing a nuisance,” he demands. Means it with every ounce of his being. The veins on his neck swell again, menacingly handsome. 

“Yes.” You gulp. The knot in your throat dissolves. “Of course.”

“I see it now. The reason why you think I’m encroaching on your autonomy, that is,” he muses, a bit sorrowful. “It must feel torturous — having to keep your guard up all the time. And I detest those who put you in such misery. However, I don’t like to be mistaken for such a man. I spoke up because I don’t tolerate disrespect. Not because I was trying to assert… ownership of you.” He trailed off, eyes filled with awkward sheen. “Although, I do admit that some possessiveness was involved.” 

Your chuckle turns into a sonorous laugh, but it’s hardly mocking. Insightful, more so.Like the one people emit after solving an equation with the most simple of formulas, like finding out that a confusing answer was sickeningly obvious all along. He allows you to touch him, stays still when you dare to entangle a hand in his hair, brushing through it with a little tug. Lets you know that he’s starving, too. For conversation, for skittishness, for what it augments into when the tension softens. 

Shivers run all the way up to tense shoulders when he wraps an arm around the arched curve of waist, pressing flush against his side to fetter into a desperate embrace. You giggle, dragging a fingertip over his flushed ear. Catch the shift in his breath, so abrupt and delectable.

“You know, I really did threaten to kick that prick in the crotch,” you murmur.

“Oh, I’m aware. Should I be concerned for my own, er… testicles?” 

“No. Well, not in a way that hurts. If you’ll have me.” 

A sheepish grin pulls at the corner of Viktor’s lip. “Now?” prods so huskily that it paints his motives unhallowed, and you hussle in his grasp, wondering if the implication is really there. Wondering if his hunger had suddenly merged with yours. 

And, well, that’s certainly a way to secure an amnesty. One you’re conveniently very eager for. 

So you decide to be bold. “Like I said.” You lean closer, tipping your head down. “If you’ll have me.” 

Viktor chortles. “Is that even a question?” 

Oh fuck.

The malt of his tongue sliding sloppily into your mouth — a kiss so lewd it has your world tumbling indistinct under fluttering eyelids, blurring completely when he steals your breath, ardent and tumultuous when your gasps turn into whines under that persistent, sweet pressure of his lips — starved enough to bruise, to bite a chunk out of you if only he tried hard enough. So wet it threatens to get into your throat, or drip down both of your chins in a glistening little trace — and you open up for him, always so incessant with that reciprocation: tongue, and teeth, and lips so pliant at his disposal. Doesn’t matter if you’re choking. You want to pass out under that gentle mouth, so warm, and inviting, and pressing into you in the most perfect of kisses. Even more strangling when his fingers dig into your hip, holding in place, eager enough to linger there for a few hours in speckled red, engraving his sheer desperation. You can hardly control your own, pulling at one messy chestnut strand. And it earns you a moan — gorgeously wheezy as he sucks at your bottom lip, teeth a sudden sunk into it when he senses the sharp affection and returns it right that instant. 

And you’re putty in those sinewy hands, arching backwards and falling senseless onto the sheets, tangling them with every new jerk of shaky legs. Spiraling into immaculate, tingly madness when Viktor exhales a chuckling breath somewhere above the collarbone, grabbing an overbearing hold of your chin. Coaxing your head to tip back and make some place for his teeth; thirty two little prickles plunging into your throat with pent-up vigor. Pulling at your skin in a not-so-gentle lovebite. More canines than anything, overwhelmingly so. 

But you let him, and meet it with a moan, needy, and high-pitched, and utterly unfeigned — an invitation to suckle more of you into his eager mouth. So he accepts it, freeing a soft breast out of the loose hold of a lacy shirt — and suddenly you’re grateful for that rushed choice of attire, so fitting for the way he squeezes, and twists, and selfishly laps up to tease a soft nipple to delicious stiffness. Watches the fleshy shade of it darken, growing hard under a playful lick. Smug, when he looks up, going in for another taste, pinch slow and torturous when he pulls at that tender nub, prideful for the way you keen, twitching with a fistful of his hair between lithe fingers. And so indecisive, too: does he want it nice and slow, or impatient, hasty and salacious? So many options to choose from. 

He’s leaning towards the latter, however. Lurches the shirt off your chest, tucking it to hastily ruffle around your waist — thank god for the lax straps, so helpfully hanging off both shoulders. Always teasing the lack of a bra. 

Warm palm lingers over the dip of your solar plexus, so gentle between the spread of breasts. And when it creeps higher, lingering over your chin, you force him to be even bolder. Stealing a sharp, dazed exhale when you capture his wrist, leveling those talented digits with your open mouth. Cheeky as you guide them inside, tongue a hot, wet fondle between ring and middle finger. And he shudders, enthralled by the sight, swallowing a whimper as you taunt him. Dragging out that debauched pop when you wrap your lips around them and suck hard, looking up with needy, impudent eyes. 

Such a filthy thing. Even dirtier now that you’re done with your little performance, head drooping to the side, adding to the complacent smirk. Viktor heaves out a laugh. 

“You’ll be the death of me,” whispers sweetly. Presses a peck to your shoulder, smiling when you trace the sharp line of his jaw. Tilts a hollow cheek into your touch, stilling above you. Steams pure admiration, pulling you closer. And you let him have that, so sickeningly starved for his love, grateful for the kiss he plants on the corner of your mouth, shivering when his caring hand — still a little spit-slick at the fingertips — brushes somewhere dangerously low, tickling at the pelvic bone. 

“Wouldn’t that be a good way to go?” you muse. The ever indefatigable tease, gorgeous, as you wrap both arms around his neck, noses pressing together for a split second. 

“I can think of a better one.” He shrugs. And when you humm, asking to elaborate, he simply clings to your thigh, thumb a fleeting brush over the damp edge of your underwear. “Crush me,” he pleads, “while I taste you.” 

“That’s hardly fair. I want to taste you too.” 

And he falters, coyly chewing on a thin lip.

“I think there’s a remedy for that.” 

Always a sight when he rises to undress, fumbling with the impressive amount of buttons. Makes it feel like a striptease, of sorts — an unintentional, lazy show. But this time he’s a little hasty. Almost tears that shirt apart, cocky when it gets to you, thin and immaculate — the pretty tautness of what little muscle he possesses, a shadowy slope of his navel and the curly black fluff running down right into his trousers. Besieging what you know must be really hard to keep in there when you look at him like this — so achingly desperate. Nimble, when you kindly help him with a belt, grinning vixen-like when the buckle budges. Normally, you’d palm him through all those layers, perhaps adhering to some languid torment. But today you’re undressing him rather crudely, eager to pull every cover down long legs and grab a hold of that lovely cock, fingers curling at the base to lay it flat against your restless tongue. 

But he stops you. Grabs a gentle squeeze of your hair somewhere at the nape, coaxing to meet the lustful scold of both glowing eyes. The slight twitch of a lopsided smile, weakly melting into an open-mouthed gasp. 

“Not yet,” begs of you so softly you can’t help but comply. With a reluctant whine, no less. And Viktor dismisses it, crawling back in between parted legs, fingers the sweetest of hooks into your underwear, then an eager drag of it all the way down and off the ankles. Dazed, when he notices a slick little stripe precisely on the pliant inner thigh. Cheeky, when he nudges legs apart again, and nuzzles into the delicate wetness, tongue darting out to lick the trace away — a tad sour, but he adores it, wants to bury his face in that divine flavor, to drench his fingers full of it. 

“Tease,” you accuse. His chin rests in that sweet spot between your thumb and index when he leans in for a kiss, grinning almost ear to ear. Can’t taste yourself on his tongue yet, but that’s a question of lust and a few more minutes of fervent devouring. It’s manageable. Exciting. 

“Bold of you to assume I can last through all your tortures,” Viktor murmurs, a little strangled. Falls supinely on his back, staring lazily from under dark lashes. “Although, I’m flattered. You give my stamina much more credit than it deserves.” 

“Oh please,” you scoff, turning around. Gasping, when long fingers curl into your waist, each thumb a press into your back dimples. And he pulls you onto him, nudges to throw a quivering leg over his neck and drift higher – until your knees press into the matress, and you’re hovering above him in a clumsy squat. And he’s gorgeous beneath you — hair sprawled out on the pillow into a myriad chestnut strays, eyes instantly meeting yours when you throw him a lustful look over your shoulder. 

“Sit.” His breath is syrupy against you, making the slick of folds feel somewhat cold when he exhales into that darling flesh. 

“On your face?” You want to be sure, to coax the obvious answer out of him. It’s a delicious offer, and you wonder if it still stands — as if Viktor’s hands digging into your sides with such firmness is not enough of a confirmation. 

“Precisely,” he rasps. Strokes each haunch in admiration, slowly making his tender way to your ass, spread slow and gentle, yet so achingly lewd it has your face blushing a pretty coral. Twitching, when he smooths a palm over one soft curve and fights the urge to leave a pink trace of a loving slap. And he smiles when you leak at the touch, tongue peeking out to deliver a shuddering lick, to circle the lovely orifice loose, sucking gently on your swollen clit. And you arch backwards again, mouth agape and stuffed full of your own fingers — to muffle that loud whine of a plea, preventing a noise complaint. And Viktor stirs your heat awake again, kisses coyly at the entrance before his index effortlessly slips inside — pumping, and curling, and making a nice, wet sound. “You’re so beautiful,” he praises. “Please, don’t crouch. Sit. I beg of you. You don’t know what it does to me.” 

And he’s right. You don’t know, yet his cock teased full of blood gives you a decent idea on that. So you melt, sighing when your clit lands exactly where you prefer it: on Viktor’s precious tongue, always so eager to please, to whisper filthy words or confession-like Czech nothings. And it’s a pleasant fusion: you know his eyes snap wide open when you reach to push him into your mouth, licking off the musky bead at the reddened tip and humming at the familiar, salty taste. He follows suit, meeting every bob of your head with the loveliest of little wet thrusts — tongue and fingers working together to earn yet another clench, while you tense up, gagging when he tickles the back of your throat. And you’re struggling to take him full, yet yearn for it with such genuine madness: so determined to please and be pleased, merciless with each persistent grind on the seediness of his tongue, grateful for the white-knuckled grip sturdily keeping one hip in place. And it consumes you, that earnest  chase of dizzying undoing, the need to memorize the patterns of the throbbing veins on his cock, each slippery, muffled gulp as you swallow around him, keen on having him paint your throat in warm, slightly bitter spurts. 

But you could also have him find that release inside you. How precious that must be — the tempting stretch of him, gorgeously raunchy, the sounds of skin slamming against Viktor’s narrow hips so utterly debauched. How good he’d feel, pulling you apart, coated in sweat, and slick and your greedy kisses. How breathy you’d plead him to fuck you stupid, moaning things so obscene your ears might still burn hours later. Yes, you’d rather finish him off like this. And you almost feel sorry for that impulse, yanking your mouth off his cock. Deft, when you slip from his grasp, turning to find him flushed and almost drunk on sensations. Oh, he was so, so close. How cruel of you to dispose him of that bliss. 

But you’re about to offer him so much more. So darling when you roll onto your back, open legs a lewd, tantalizing invitation. Beckoning to slide back in — deeper, heavier, closer. And he whimpers at the loss of you, hands immediately aching to gnaw at whatever they can reach. 

“Didn’t want you to cum yet,” you murmur. “Not until you’re inside me.”

That breaks him. Urges to accept the endeavor, rolling swiftly atop your sprawled out form and into the tender twine of limbs. “Milackú,” he keens through a shaky sigh. Pointy lips tremble against your neck. “Oh, milackú. What am I supposed to do with you?” 

“I can think of a certain verb. Four letters. Short and sweet.”  

And Viktor’s eyes lance your very heart when he whispers “I can think of two.” 

“Mmm, I’m not sure I want you to ruin me. ‘Fuck’ will have to suffice.”

“Not the word I was referring to.”

He’s gentle when he pushes in, hooking one thigh over his hip, thrust slow and deliciously torturous — more so to savor, to feel every crevice of yours wrap around him tightly. 

“Viktor,” you plead, wheezy and breathless, but he cradles your face and tips it towards him, aching to have you crumbling under his foggy gaze, drawling a high-pitched whine as he slides in hilt-deep, leaning in to lick a slippery kiss to the side of your neck.

“I want to love you,” he pants. “Four letters. Short and sweet.”

It courses through you, that tender revelation. And he means it, stroking a thumb over your bottom lip, gently nudging your mouth open for another heartful collision. Pours his whole being into that tangle of tongues, glides two shaky fingers over the swell of your clit and presses, stealing moans, twitches and incoherent mumbles.

You want to let him love you, to emit something that isn’t a muffled cry of his name, needier with every motion. And it’s so inherently filthy. The arc of your back over the damp sheets, the debauched stumble of your words as you whisper that confession back, nails a deathgrip into his shoulder when he thrusts again, gently working you through a release. Always so keen on making you cum first, on hearing more of those lewd squelches. And when the stretch stings you for the umpteenth sweet time, it takes him only a few more flickers over the sloppy mess of your clit to coax the final plea out of your sore throat, uttering a praise so dirty it has your toes curling tight enough to spread the tension all the way up to calves. Makes you feel the delicious pain of an orgasm spasm in all its candid beauty — perfect, loud, and hard, swathing around his cock in the loveliest of squeezes. And Viktor claims it like his greatest achievement, moaning into your ear as he finally allows himself to follow suit, lean body a tired collapse on your chest when it waves through him, sticky and so, so warm. Must be the result of a week’s long obstinacy or the plain desperation he nourishes when it comes to you, but you know you just have to make him cum like this again — unarterlably inside you, with every twitch of him so clearly palpable against slippery walls. 

And you’re full of him, overflowing, pulsating and suffocating, the ripples on the ceiling indistinct when you rest your slightly teary eyes. Viktor slides out, stealing a glance at a white little trail running down your thigh in a way so salacious he almost bites his tongue. Breathes so heavily you can feel every shift of his lungs under a flushed cheek. And you notice just how he holds you, basking in the weary afterglow, his chest a heaving pillow for you to nuzzle into. There they come — the loving trades of glossy glances, the smiles when you notice a bold scratch on his scrawny shoulder: he’s going to wear you for days, grinning whenever he passes a mirror naked.

Naked. It strikes you, the little thing you still have to do. It’s right there, in the pocket of your leather coat, probably a little crumpled. But you rush to fetch it nonetheless, ignoring Viktor’s confused humm of a protest. Laughing when he tries to stop you from making your way to the peg, so nimble even with your wobbly, fucked out walk. 

“You wanted to have it.” You grin, handing him the picture. So excited for the gasp when he reaches for it, weary eyes still adorably puzzled as you slip back in bed and under his gentle arm. Giggling when he unfolds the thing and utters an insightful ‘oh’.

He remembers now. Holds it with a knowing smile, amber eyes gliding over each divine line of you, eyeing first your version from the windowsill, then looking back at the real thing with even more striking appreciation. Like he couldn’t believe that a gorgeous creature from the photo is actually sprawled out in his bed; that he’d touched her, pleasured her, been inside her. 

“Thank you. It’s breathtaking.” His forehead presses against yours, and you flick a few wet hairs off its salty, sticky skin. You both need a shower, terribly so. 

“Do you really want to carry it in your wallet?”

“Oh, I intend to. If you approve of it, of course.” 

You chuckle, rolling your eyes at him in a theatrically mocking way. “Mmm, I don’t know about that. Normally, I wouldn’t allow it, but I suppose I could make an exception for the man I love.” 

His laugh wraps around you, warm and dear, muffling against your mouth when you lean to kiss him again — to ensure he doesn’t doubt you, to show him that you’re certain. Sighing when mouths part, but he’s quick to offer you his hand instead, and fingers carefully coil together, tender and still shaky. And Viktor bows his head, settling a soft peck against your knuckles. 

“Go take a shower. I’ll get the board. We’re playing a lot of Caro-Kann today.” 

—

i want to thank every single one of you. this fic has been A JOURNEY. it gave me a better vocabulary (because writing viktor requires research, especially when english is not your first language), a chess addiction and a stronger nicotine one (you don’t want to know how many cigarettes i’ve smoked during those long writing sessions, and neither do i — i’ve stopped counting for a reason). i don’t know if i’m pleased with how this fic turned out. it’s my first multichapter, so of course it’s not exactly perfect, but it was a fine ride nonetheless and i’m glad so many of you loved it. so excited for season 2!!!! so excited to write more for my favorite boy!!! but as of now, i’m taking a small break from writing.

oh, and i wanted to do something special once i’m done with this au. so here’s a spotify playlist dedicated to this fic: the c(o)unterpart

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @thehistoriangirl @queen-of-elves @vyshnevska

[dust-and-grave]

hng, i am so frustrated by this whole watcher tv situation. i've been chewing on it ever since i watched their announcement video yesterday + i've been looking around online at other fan reactions. i'm having a lot of thoughts so i guess i want to throw my two cents in + hope it'll make me feel better to talk about it a little.

i think we all agree that creators should be paid fairly for their work; however, not all work is created equal, right? if i commission an experienced (and thus high-demand) artist to do an oil painting of my cat, they might quote me $500+ to do that + it would be fair. if an artist with substantially less experience (and thus in lower demand) spends 30 seconds on a crayon rendition of my cat, should they also received $500+ for their work? i think most people would agree that would be ridiculous.

in some ways, this is what it feels like the watcher team is doing to us right now, imo. we know that shows like ghost files or puppet history are expensive to make because travel costs (in the case of ghost files) + production costs, but we can see the effort put into the work. we feel that what we give for the show, whether that's turning off ad blocker while watching or buying show merch or supporting via patreon, is going toward making the product that we are asking for. these shows are the oil painting in the metaphor.

i don't agree with how mean + rude some people are being about steven lim rn, but frankly, his shows are the 30 second crayon drawing of the watcher channel. anyone can look at the view count on their channel + see that his shows consistently have performed worse than shane + ryan's shows. additionally, we can see that he blows huge amounts of money on his shows ("$913 seafood tower", "$1027 fried chicken") that may leave a lot of viewers feeling as if they're aren't getting as much bang for their buck.

frankly, i think people are valid for being upset that they're expected to directly foot the bill for steven's "i fly all over the world + eat expensive food while you watch" project. while youtube has a shit ton of problems (like, say, not paying their creators enough), one of the cool things about it is that you can gauge directly the amount of the interest in a project (and how many resources you should dedicate to said project) by how many eyes are on it. unfortunately for him (i guess), steven's shows just don't garner enough attention to justify the expense of making them.

which is why i see this shift to watcher tv as such a problem. this feels very much like using shane + ryan's success on the channel to force fans to fuel steven's pursuit of his glory days on worth it. it feels even more strange when they say that they're making the switch because the company isn't currently sustainable, but steven has just hired his friends from buzzfeed + continues to push his series that just don't seem to be making back the cost of production.

to be totally fair, shane + ryan don't get out of this clean either. some of their shows don't deserve to be behind a paywall either. too many spirits is filmed in ryan's parent's backyard with content submitted by their viewers. are you scared is just ryan reading creepypastas/fan submitted content on a minimal set. survival mode is just them playing games like any other streamer or gaming youtuber does. i love all of these shows, but are they on par with puppet history or ghost files? absolutely not.

this is where i think the disconnect is coming from. they're taking everything including the lower production shows to a streaming service where you have to fund them directly (rather than indirectly through ad revenue). they're forcing funding into steven's projects despite them just not doing well enough to justify the cost. they're coming across as disingenuous with their reasoning because their stated reasons for doing this don't align with their actions rn.

i feel like it would've made so much more sense to crowdfund new seasons of shows (which gives them feedback from the fans about what they want too) or put higher cost shows like ghost files or puppet history on patreon or channel membership. i would gladly fund mystery files, weird wonderful world, ghost files, puppet history, etc. with my own money, but i'm one of the ones who isn't really interested in funding steven's quest to eat all of the gold-plated kobe beef when i'll never be able to afford to eat at a restaurant that even serves it.

[nebmia]

Reviewing every rpg book on my shelf: 5, Flying Circus

Flying Circus is a a game by Erika Chappell where you fly planes, have messy dramatic relationships, and find out who you are. Sometimes all at the same time. More specifically you fly *rickety planes from the dawn of aviation* and have messy, dramatic relationships, and find out who you are *in an essentially queer way*.

The first thing I love about Flying Circus is it's sheer audacity in taking pbta (usually deployed for low crunch storygame-y titles) and twisting it into a highly detailed and technical system for running dogfights. I think its really clever how Erika has taken the idea of a detailed combat system are re-appraised it from the ground up in the context of dogfighting.

There is no grid based movement here, it simply is not useful in the three dimensional world that planes inhabit. Instead your positioning is modelled through altitude and air speed, with each being tradeable for the other and spend able to perform maneuvers.

Honestly the whole system is rather intimidating (a fact the book freely admits). Each plane requires a little personal instrument panel sheet (and a few extra side sheets) that resemble somthing you would expect in a euro-game boardgame more than an rpg. The system goes as far as modelling how your plane performs as you use up your modelling fuel and with varying altitude. There are also a lot of fairly involved moves that it feels would be a little tricky to keep aware of while running a dogfight. However, from what I hear, the system works well and, once you understand it, isn't /that/ tricky to run. I think this isn't actually that crunchy when compared to your standard tactical battlers, it's just completely new (and working in a zone most people have less of an intuitive understanding of [although its worth noting that most peoples intuitive understanding of medieval style combat is dead wrong]) so we are unably to draw upon our preexisting assumptions.

You will notice I have to fall back on reports and intiitions here because I am yet to be able to play the game, which is honestly my biggest problem with it: it carves such a specific niche that I think I will really struggle to ever bring it to the table. Anyone I have talked to about the game has always responded to the effect of 'I don't think I'm into planes enough for this'.

I am also not half as into planes specifically as Erika Chappell is. But what I am into is getting deep into things in general, and this whole system excels at letting you get incredibly technical and nerdy about your plane (as far as things like exactly what radiator fluid it has, if you use the advanced rules) and making those choices actually matter in play.

ok, that's probably enough about planes (a phrase I anticipate has never once been uttered by the author of this book), what are you doing when you get out of the planes?

The game follows a cycle of mission and downtime, which you spend relieving stress (in healthy or unhealthy ways) and running upkeep on your company. This is where you do a lot of the character work and bring into focus the 'coming of age' narrative that the game intends.

Which seems a good lead in to talking about the playbooks. Each playbook is focused around a particular thematic idea or experience, which is helpfully spelled out directly in a 'themes' section for each one. This isn't a game where you play as a fighter because you want to solve problems by hitting them but rather one where you play as a Fisher because you want to engage with "a queer reclamation of the monstous", or a scion because you want to engage with "privilege and power, and what obligations come with it", or a believer because you want to engage with "a mindset that thrives on radicalism", or a survivor because you want to engage with "a metaphor for what it feels like to be a transgender person escaping an unwelcome or abusive situation".

Obviously, alongside themes you do also get a load of cool abilities to use.

Of the many games that claim to be ghibli-esque but I think Flying Circus hews closest on account of two things: understanding miyazaki's perspective on war and also due to being absolutely unhinged about planes.

[otakween]

Digimon Frontier: Island of Lost Digimon

This was actually pretty fun! It wasn't the strongest Digimon movie by a long shot, but it was good as a Frontier side story. It was nice to see them revisit the whole "beast digimon vs. human digimon" conflict that they didn't do much with in the show. Also, I got to see my Digimon World 3 friends again! They were super cute.

Notes:

I enjoyed Izumi humming Funiculi Funicula in the intro to the movie. For a split second I thought it was Bolero and was about to throw hands lol.

What the HECK were they riding on in the opening? It wasn't really a Trailmon it was more like a Mike Wazowski themed rail cart. They, of course, never explained.

This movie's aesthetic was really weird. I don't know if it was necessarily higher quality animation. It kinda looked like they took the usual level of quality and put a "cinema" filter over it or something. Also some of the "shots" were weirdly cropped and almost blurry. IDK if that's just because there isn't a clean copy on the internet or if it was a stylistic choice. At least the characters are super on model, which is more than I can say for the show!

Speaking of animation quality, they were a little too obsessed with using CGI in this movie. It looked really bad and added nothing lol. Also, what was with the neon disco rave tanks? They felt extremely out of place.

Once again we get a lot of unnecessary focus on Izumi's butt...

So many new (or new-ish) background digimon! I kept being like "ooh, who's that?" I really liked the bunny-with-razors-for-ears design. It's funny how they debut new digimon in the movies and games, it almost feels like they're testing them out.

The original title is more like "The Revival of the Ancient Digimon." I can see why they would change that cuz it sort of feels like a big spoiler.

Kotemon and Bearmon were super cute. It was exciting to see their anime forms. They had really nice voices as well (in Japanese and English). Kinda wish I had watched this before DW3 instead of the other way around, whoops!

They used the exact same plot of "evil character encourages war to resurrect evil monster via the sacrifice of many" in the isekai series I'm Standing on a MIllion Lives. Makes me wonder how many fantasy series have used that. It must be a more common trope than I thought.

Why does this one digimon look like Impmon and My Melody had a baby?

The whole "beast vs. human" thing still feels silly when half of the "human" side doesn't actually look that human. I could totally see Dinohumon be considered a "beast" in a different series. (Maybe it's a metaphor for how racism is dumb and makes no logical sense).

The visual of digieggs flying and baby digimon being all over the place due to the ongoing war was interesting. I guess they couldn't go to the Village of Beginnings because the island is blocked off from the rest of the digital world?

One CGI scene literally looked like the 3D maze screensaver from Windows 98 lol

Kinda rolled my eyes when Bokomon said that Murmukusmon (what a mouthful) could turn into any digimon. What OP power will they think of next? Also, we only saw him digivolve into two digimon, so I'm not that impressed.

That final battle was pure chaos and I had a lot of trouble following wth was going on. I didn't know why AncientGreymon/AncientGarurumon were suddenly there so I googled it. Apparently it was due to "the power of Kotemon's sacrifice and Bearmon's tears"...riiiight. Shounen movie logic.

AncientGreymon looks amazing and AncientGarurumon looks..aight lol. I'm totally biased to prefer beast-like digimon

Kinda anticlimactic to have two "spirits" do the dirty work instead of our heroes, not gonna lie. Maybe if we had met AncientGreymon and AncientGarurumon before and had some level of emotional attachment to them it would have been more impactful.

The new mural with the Frontier MCs and Bearmon/Kotemon at the end was cute

[firstknightvulion]

Now, there is some discourse regarding Minthara and her romance. Specifically, that it feels out of character for her to romance a Masculine presenting Tav. I respectfully disagree.

Minthara is all about power. Ya gotta prove yourself to her. Be vicious and direct. She don’t give a hoot about your gender identity, she’s looking at your kill streak.

But it did give me an idea. Minthara has spoken about going back to Menzoberranzan and burning that fucker to the ground to spite Lolth (paraphrasing). My Seladrine Drow Tav (half Drow/half moon elf) would join her because he’s got a hate boner for the religion of Lolth that’s been turgent since his family and friends were killed by a Lolth Warband’s attack on his Eilistraeen compound.

Now, I imagine her first target would be her house. Minthara would want to twist the knife. Make them suffer.

Minthara’s Mother stands in the great hall of her house. Two of her daughters stand by her side. They are the last of their house. Hours before a shadow descended into their home and started systematically killing every living thing inside.

The great doors to the hall fly open with an explosion. Shrapnel and smoke fill the space. A heart beat later, two arrows fly through the air with deadly intent. They find their marks in the two daughters. One is hit through the eye, she drops instantly. The other is struck in the throat. She does not die quickly. She gurgles and grasps at her throat, feebly trying to stop the escaping blood. Her hands fall limp as the sound of deliberate footsteps fill the hall.

Minthara’s Mother looks away from her daughters’ corpses and up at the dark figure walking towards her. It is dressed in Drow leathers, a hood and mask covering the face. Two green eyes stare at her from shadow of the hood.

Minthara’s Mother: What pit spawned you!?

A chuckle is heard from behind the figure, a deep and dangerous sound. Minthara walks in, blood and a wicked smile painting her face.

Minthara: Hello, mother.

MM: Minthara?! You heretical traitor! Why haven’t you had the decency to die?!

Minthara: The Spider Bitch’s webs will burn, mother. The house Baenre will be the first of the kindling.

MM: You would have us become ash for the sake of such blasphemy?! Deeper and deeper you fall into a pit of shame!

Minthara: To feel shame, I would need to feel remorse. I assure you, mother, I feel only joy. The fact that you were cast down by one so low shall keep warm and smiling for many decades to come.

Minthara pulls back the figures hood. The scared face of Drow male greets her. His eyes a green and while sporting the dark skin of a Drow, it is very pale, almost ashen.

Minthara: This male is of the traitors that stole away to the surface to follow Eilistraee!

MM: How?! How were we defeated by such an inferior being?!

Minthara: Stealth is very broken in this game, mother.

Tav: Minthara! The fourth wall!

Minthara: He was conceived by a loving union that bridged the gap between Drow and our surface kin! In the missionary position!

MM: *gasps*

Tav: *giving Minthara a very confused look*

Minthara: He is not only a third son, he is a sixth son! You were beaten by a third son times two!

MM: *clutches her metaphorically pearls*

Tav: *is an only child but knows enough of Menzoberranzan culture to be slightly offended*

Minthara: He is my romantic partner! I treat him as an equal!

Tav, somehow, feels the sensation of someone vomiting in his thoughts.

MM: You disgust the Spider Queen! Next you’ll tell me you don’t even peg him!

Tav: No, she does.

Minthara: Mother, please. I’m a genocidal conqueror, I’m not debased.

Suddenly, Minthara pulls the sword out of the scabbard hanging from Tav’s back. Within a blink of an eye, it is driven through her mother’s chest. Minthara leaves it embedded in her mother’s body half the blade sticking out of her back. With a gasp, she falls over.

Minthara: *kneeling down to whisper in her mother’s ear* The blade is of Eilistraee. Fitting, don’t you think, mother?

Minthara stands, throwing her head back and raising her arms, as if soaking up sunlight. She begins to laugh.

Minthara: The first conquest is done.

She walks over to the Matriarch’s throne and sits down.

Minthara: Come, fuck me.

Tav: Now?

Minthara: What better time and place than this? My former house is ended, my mother dead-

Tav: She’s not dead.

Minthara: What?

Tav: Still gurgling.

Minthara: Oh, for the love of-she can’t be long for this world.

Tav: Do you want to wait? I don’t want to pull out the blade in case that kills her. I’ll be hearing about taking the honor of killing the mother for years after.

Minthara: No, I don’t want to wait!

Minthara quickly jogs over and pulls the sword out of her mother’s chest. She plunges it in again, hitting the ground underneath. With pure malice in her eyes, her mother reaches up to clutch Minthara’s leg.

Tav: Wow, she is resilient.

Minthara: Enough of this!

Ripping the sword out of her mother’s chest, Minthara makes a wild swing and cut the Drow’s head clean off. The pair watch it roll down the length of the hall. Before another snarky comment can leave his lips, Minthara’s mouth collides with his. They stand, kissing, amongst the skeleton of Minthara’s old home for several moments.

Minthara: Come, there is a duty to which you must attend.

Tav: You have a thing for thrones, don’t you?

Honestly, I should get an Ao3 account cause my posts are looking like fanfiction chapters.

This post was all to get to that line Minthara says about the sixth son. That and the 4th wall break.

[bestworstcase]

Notion: the Ever After *is* the Crown of Choice, and Team RWBY (but especially Ruby) used its power in choosing themselves while they were there.

Maybe CC was some kind of corruption of the relic's avatar?

the crown's vault is hidden here:

ozpin and his obsession with symbols gives the game away from the beginning; beacon's initiation is an allegorical re-enactment of ozma's mandate:

"it is in your best interest to be paired with someone with whom you can work well"—but partnership is based on "the first person you make eye contact with after landing." that imitates ozma's form of reincarnation. (he isn't able to talk to oscar until oscar makes eye contact with his own reflection, and he doesn't get to choose "the souls with which he [is] paired.")

"you will meet opposition along the way; do not hesitate to destroy everything in your path, or you will die." the grimm in these woods are a stand-in for salem. why would ozpin warn the kids not to hesitate to destroy grimm? because he's remembering how he hesitated regarding salem.

"you will be monitored and graded through the duration of your initiation, but our instructors will not intervene." like the god of light watches humankind without intervention while ozma tries to fulfill his task.

the abandoned temple is a metaphor for remnant itself—a godless world abandoned by its divine creators because humanity rejected the gods.

in the abandoned temple are "several relics," and each pair is to "choose one and return to the top of the cliff," where they will be judged—"we will regard that item, and your standing, and grade you appropriately."

<- i wonder where he hid the relic of choice!

moreover, the sheer number of grimm in the forest is alarming—and unusual. there's several ursai, a huge pack of beowolves, a king taijitu, a deathstalker, and a nevermore; in after the fall CFVY get driven to the ruins and then surrounded by large numbers of grimm. contrast RNJR's trek across anima (qrow picking off grimm one or two at a time, long stretches of narrative in between serious encounters) or the uneventful journey from brunswick farm to argus, or the menagerie arc and its complete lack of grimm. or even forever fall forest, with its lone ursa.

the emerald forest is comparable to mountain glenn in terms of grimm density, without the wyvern or the criminal enterprise to draw them to the area. why are there so many grimm in the forest?

the grimm are drawn to the relics. surrounded by population centers, that attraction might be lost in the noise, but if ozpin planted a relic in a vault in the wilderness…? :)

as to the ever after, the cat's domain is knowledge and i'd argue that it's jabber who's associated with choice: he symbolizes the discovery of free will as much as he does the creation of death, in that the brothers made him to fulfill a specific purpose and he became something they did not expect or approve and could not get back under control, and it was at this point that the brothers split between choice-as-duty vs choice-as-freedom which is the foundation of their ideological disagreement.

my wildest and most tenuous guess (i wouldn't even call it a theory because it's largely just vibes-based) is that the spirit in the crown is. prometheus. to wrap everything with salem and cinder and the divine rebellion theme up in a tidy "stole-fire-from-gods" bow

my more grounded theory is that the crown's true power is something akin to the ozian golden cap, which 1. would explain why ozpin is so particularly afraid of salem getting THAT one, and 2. dovetails neatly with the god of light's understanding of choice as a dichotomy between obedience or defiance. the flying monkeys are enslaved by the golden cap and bound to obey any command given by the cap's wearer, up to three times. the relic of choice is a crown, an object that connotes absolute authority. if jinn can answer any question and ambrosius can create anything given the instructions for how to do so, then what is the spirit in the crown bound to do?

[randomthefox]

I think that how Sonic got his super speed is sort of meant to be a joke. It makes no sense and is never explained because doing so would detract from how super speed isn’t just a super power Sonic has, Sonic is speed. His speed represents freedom. If it had some kind of logical explanation, people would (as they often do) get lost in the world building instead of recognizing its purpose as a narrative device. Sonic’s speed represents freedom. So, maybe the reason no one is as fast as Sonic is because nobody is as free as Sonic. Everyone in the Sonic universe except Sonic is held back by something that’s stopping them from self actualizing and being truly free.

I think it’s a neat idea that the day that the day that Tails is finally able to be his own source of confidence is the day that he becomes as fast as Sonic.

I think Shadow being reliant on his air shoes to go fast and can’t go as fast on his own could be some kind of metaphor about how the trauma of his past will always hold him back. But that doesn’t make him weak in the same way using his air shoes don’t make him weak. Sometimes we’re incapable of reaching our full potential on our own and need outside assistance, and that’s okay. I think that him recognizing that and living his life without shame is what makes him as self actualized as Sonic and is why he can go as fast as him.

But that’s just my take. It’s possible I’m being a hypocrite and looking too much into it.

No notes, I 100% agree with everything you said. My only contribution is

>If it had some kind of logical explanation, people would (as they often do) get lost in the world building instead of recognizing its purpose as a narrative device.

This is ABSOLUTELY a massive problem with media analysis nowadays, and authors trying to account for it is a huge contributing factor to why a lot of modern written stories suck ass. Pedantic wiki guzzlers think that having trivia bullet points to fill out a facts page is more important than what the story is SAYING. They care more about stupid details that don't matter rather than dissecting what something MEANS for what the story is trying to convey.

People going on about what "the ultimate life form" means is a perfect example. People take Shadow saying "Sonic YOU'RE the REAL ultimate life form" and fly off with the most idiotic shit you've ever heard in your life. Trying to construct this insane theory about Sonic being the real creation that Gerald Robotnik created or that he's an alien or whatever. When all Shadow calling Sonic the ultimate life form was was Shadow saying he thinks Sonic is better than him. The only thing "ultimate life form" MEANS when Shadow says it is "the coolest cool guy." When Shadow says Sonic is the real ultimate life form, all he's saying is "Sonic you're the coolest cool guy." Because that's the culmination of their relationship of conflict throughout the game.

It's like missing the forest for the trees, but even worse somehow. David Lynch actually made fun of exactly this kind of thing with the Twin Peaks movie.

[tanoraqui]

You said nhs is a pantser not a planner. As in 'flying by the seat of'? Or is there another meaning?

That's it exactly! The 'planner vs pantser' dichotomy is a common idea in writer circles. Quoth Publishers Weekly:

Novelists tend to fall into two categories: “planners,” who develop outlines before they begin writing, and those who don’t, often referred to in self-publishing circles as “pantsers.” The term, which comes from the phrase “by the seat of your pants,” refers to novelists who work without any kind of synopsis, outline, or character development work done before they begin writing.

To literally copy the text of a post I made 3+ years ago:

hot take: Nie Huaisang is not actually good at Xanatos Gambits - elaborate planning, setting up dominoes or chess games or whatever metaphor you want and letting it all fall into place, every option a win. Nie Huaisang is very, very good at:

appearing nonthreatening

manipulating a scene, mostly via use of feigned helplessness and redirection

gathering information

throwing rocks at a hornet’s nests and then reacting very quickly to stay just slightly in control of the consequences, mostly using the tools above

That’s his modus operandi over and over. Getting Wei Wuxian resurrected - the biggest rock-to-a-hornet’s-nest of all. Sending Jin Guangyao a letter revealing Qin Su’s parentage, basically saying his days were numbered - yup. Getting Nie Mingjue’s body all together to storm off to the temple - yep. But I refuse to believe that he predicted the results of any of this well enough to plan - oh, the general scope, sure. WWX would go haring off to solve the mystery, almost certainly picking up LWJ because, you know, true love and righteousness. JGY would do something to overreach; that was clearly the goal of the letter. And NMJ would have the chance to get his own vengeance. But Nie Huaisang clearly made sure he was on the scene to manage the consequences of all of these - that’s not the actions of a man with masterful, predictive plans. That’s a very clever man with, like, alright plans, a decent sense of timing on when to land a political killing blow, who’s really good at winging it.

[saynomorefic]

20 Questions For Fic Writers

thank you @darktwistedgenderplural <3 so sweet of you to tag me hehe

How many works do you have on Ao3?

15 - 5 YR and 10 one direction that I wrote like 10 years ago lol

What's your total Ao3 word count?

81,454 :0

What fandoms do you write for?

Young Royals, that's it <3

Top five fics by kudos: (I'm doing my top 3 young royals fics because I reaally don't want people re-reading my old 1d fic lol)(It is in the [public] archives)

Falling for you

All the rules to this game I bend

You Kill Me & Like birds do, I need to fly south (tied)

Do you respond to comments?

YES always!! I tend to have pretty long responses bc I love learning what people like and having a conversation <3

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I'd say I won't treat you like you're oh so typical. However, this is a WIP and so I'm just going off of where I left things.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Hmm most of them have happy endings! My fluffiest fic is Like birds do, beginning to end.

Do you get hate on fics?

No

Do you write smut?

Yes I do! Not all my fics have smut though. I will say I prefer writing my characters talk about sex, and exploring their sexuality as a major theme, to writing actual smut, not because I don't enjoy it but because it's hard!! I sometimes struggle to be creative.

Craziest crossover:

None

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No!

Have you ever had a fic translated?

No although I'd love to

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I've gifted works, but never co-written anything. That would be so fun!

All time favourite ship?

Wilmon ofc <3

What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

That one's hard. I hesitate to say because sometimes I get inspired by old ideas. I had one that is Wille as a new cat dad with a rascal of a cat who keeps breaking things, and Simon is called as a cat whisperer. The catch: Simon's methods are unique and involve him spending three days 24/7 at Wille's apartment. I just am not capable of this level of fluff lol

What are your writing strengths?

I think I develop really elaborate ideas and worlds in my head, and I do try to make them as convincing as possible. I only write AUs, so I think this is a big part of that. I like writing descriptively bc of my liberal arts degree, and I also try to work in as many life experiences and make things feel relevant to the world around us, aka writing from a critical perspective even if it's fictional. I hope I'm achieving this even slightly!

What are your writing weaknesses?

Oh god lol. I get writing exhaustion pretty hard because of idea overload, and I look back at the page and feel like I've lost my voice or style completely. I think I struggle with varying the sentence structure so things feel natural. I'm also working on incorporating metaphors and symbolism effectively - I've been writing papers for so long in college that metaphors don't come as easily anymore.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

I think it's great, although sometimes I won't do it because google translate is unreliable and I don't have a beta reader currently. However, I like throwing in phrases here and there we see on YR a lot :-)

First fandom you wrote in?

One direction

Favourite fic you've written?

It would have to be You Kill Me, although it's not done. I put so much into their world and have so much more to show!! I'm proud of directly tackling a lot of the power dynamics and their intimate effects (on Simon especially) that I feel weren't addressed fully in the show, albeit in another universe. (Also yay for Felice and Simon's friendship and talking about racial issues together <3) The recent love for it has been so amazing and inspired me to keep going.

I tag: @nothingadoaboutnothing @youngroyalsforeversposts <3

thank you so much! <3

[sciencestyled]

Galactic Guesswork: The Bizarre Hunt for Dark Matter and Dark Energy

Welcome, intrepid explorers of the cosmic carnival, to the most mind-bending show on this side of the Milky Way: the enigma of dark matter and dark energy! Imagine, if you will, that our universe is like a ginormous cosmic burrito, and we’re only tasting the spicy salsa without even realizing there’s a whole fiesta of flavors hiding underneath. Yep, that's right – about 85% of the universe is this mysterious stuff called dark matter and dark energy, and we’re still figuring out what on Earth (or in space) it all means!

Now, grab your metaphorical popcorn, because this rollercoaster starts with the mystery of the universe's missing mass. Picture the early astronomers like Galileo and Newton as the original Ghostbusters, looking for all the visible stuff in the cosmos. Fast forward to the 1930s, when Fritz Zwicky, with a name that sounds like a retro comic book hero, noticed that the galaxies in the Coma Cluster were moving around like kids hopped up on sugar. He figured out there must be something invisible giving them a gravitational push. Voilà, dark matter was born – the invisible hand in the cosmic cookie jar!

Enter Vera Rubin in the 1970s, the real MVP who confirmed that galaxies spin way faster than they should if only visible matter was in play. It’s like if you saw a frisbee flying through the air and realized it’s being propelled by an invisible jetpack. Thanks to her, we know dark matter exists, even if it’s as elusive as that one sock you always lose in the laundry.

But wait, the universe had more tricks up its sleeve. Enter stage left: dark energy, the Beyoncé of cosmic phenomena – fabulous, mysterious, and always in the spotlight. In the 1990s, astronomers noticed that the universe isn’t just expanding, it’s doing so at an accelerating rate, like a YouTube video buffering at hyperspeed. This was thanks to observations of distant supernovae, which, much like surprise guest stars on a TV show, gave us unexpected clues about the universe's plot twists. And thus, dark energy was thrust into the limelight, making us question everything we thought we knew about the universe.

Now, let’s get to the juicy part: what exactly is this dark stuff made of? Scientists have thrown around more theories than Marvel has superheroes. Dark matter might be composed of WIMPs (Weakly Interacting Massive Particles) or MACHOs (Massive Astrophysical Compact Halo Objects). And if those acronyms sound like characters from a sci-fi buddy cop movie, you’re not far off. These particles are like the undercover agents of the universe, working behind the scenes to keep galaxies spinning and the cosmos in order.

Dark energy, on the other hand, might be the universe’s version of anti-gravity – a force that’s pushing everything apart. Think of it as the cosmic equivalent of your favorite cartoon character running off a cliff and somehow staying afloat. Scientists have cooked up theories involving quantum fields and vacuum energy, but pinning down dark energy is like trying to nail jelly to a wall.

To hunt down these elusive entities, scientists have rolled out the big guns – and by guns, I mean colossal detectors and telescopes. The Large Hadron Collider (LHC) is like the universe’s ultimate science fair project, smashing particles together at ludicrous speeds to see what secrets pop out. Space telescopes like the Hubble and the upcoming James Webb are the cosmic paparazzi, snapping pics of the universe's red carpet events to catch dark matter and dark energy in action.

But even with all this high-tech wizardry, detecting dark matter and dark energy is trickier than convincing your parents that video games are educational. We’re talking about stuff that doesn’t interact with light, making it essentially invisible. It’s like trying to catch a ninja who’s also a ghost. Yet, with every experiment and observation, we get a smidge closer to understanding these cosmic ninjas.

Now, what does all this mean for science education and our understanding of the universe? Buckle up, because this is where it gets wild. Dark matter and dark energy aren’t just footnotes in the cosmic story; they’re the plot twists that change everything. They shape the structure of the universe, influencing galaxy formation, cosmic microwave background radiation, and even the ultimate fate of everything we know. It’s like discovering that the secret ingredient in grandma’s famous pie recipe is something you’ve never even heard of – it changes your whole perspective.

The implications are profound. If we crack the dark matter and dark energy codes, we could revolutionize our understanding of physics, potentially leading to new technologies that make today’s sci-fi look like child’s play. Imagine harnessing dark energy to power spaceships or using dark matter as the ultimate stealth tech. The future could be stranger and more fantastic than any blockbuster movie.

In conclusion, the quest to unravel the mysteries of dark matter and dark energy is the ultimate scientific odyssey – an adventure filled with intrigue, discovery, and mind-boggling revelations. As we continue to probe the cosmic shadows, each piece of evidence brings us closer to the truth, turning science education into a thrilling narrative that rivals the best Hollywood thrillers. So, stay curious, my fellow cosmic detectives, because the universe has many more secrets to spill, and we’re just getting started on this wild ride through the dark!

[iamluzgar]

I finally finished FFXIV Dawntrail and I have many many thoughts about it. So, spoilers, and bare with me.

I had a lot of troubles to get into it at first, but I always feel that way for much of the extension I've played so it didn't change much. I pushed through, and I'm glad I did. I loved the theme of discovering new people and cultures to get to know them, and to like them. Which was an ongoing thing.

I liked Wuk Lamat a lot as a character. She's a bit immature, but she has a lot of potential, as you say to Gulool Ja. Loved having Thancred and Urianger against me for a change, especially in that dungeon. I got into it more and more, wanting Wuk Lamat to succeed because there were many hints showing she would do well (like for example with the bandits, I saw another post on tumblr mentioning it, but she directly thought about a system failiure problem, rather than thinking the people were bad). She adapted herself to the best of her ability to the culture she met with an open mind, even when she was afraid, unsure or disagreed with it. The VA did a fantastic job imo for her voice.

Of course the rest of the gang was here too and it was incredible. I loved how Erenville finally got the spotlight he so deserved. I wasn't a fan of Krile, but now I do like her and that's the power of FFXIV imo.

Anyway, the first part was great, and it was an important part because the WoL can finally indulge in some "selfish" actions like battling big dudes, deities, eating stuff, traveling, meeting people, doing the good old Azem and I think they'd be proud. The game keeps pushing you Emet, from what he said to you on the last expansion, and I liked that, it keeps him alive. I obviously missed Venat, Hythlodaeus, Elidibus and Emet a lot from this expansion, so it was nice to have some mentions of them. However, especially with the second part of the game, you realize how the shadow of the Ascien still fly above us and all of the reflections. Because I am persuaded they had a hand in the creation of electrope and the key.

The second part was even greater. It started weak with the Western like stuff (I'm not a fan of that and it felt like post-MSQ quests), but then it really starts: not only it brings back stakes (because... Well, I laughed when people made Valigarmanda a "big threat", considering we killed Despair a few months ago in the game), but it also is a pay off from the first part. You grew attached to Wuk Lamat, to Tuliyollal and its people. And now they're in danger.

Which brings us to New Alexandria, with its strange culture of pushing away death. The whole part with Alexandria felt like a metaphore from our own real world. We too, tend to push death away, put people dying away from society and from our eyes, forget them. It really resonated with my experience, especially considering I've been a volunteer in palliative care for a year. The whole thing of accepting death is a main topic in this second part of the game.

We brushed a bit too fast over the identity issues Zoraal Ja felt, I feel, sadly. I wish we could have had a bit more to humanize him.

Then the last zone... It truly touched my soul. We do the exact opposite thing that we did in Endwalker. In Endwalker, we started from nothing, we added music, colors, we reanimated species from death. In Dawntrail, we "turned off" people, we removed the colors and the songs from the places we were visiting. It was powerful to observe it, doing a different kind of walk, maybe even a harder one. Idk for WoL, but it was harder for me. Because we were still "killing" people, and we can only sympathize with Sphene's desires to let her people live more, whatever the cost of it. We hope and pray there might be another way for everybody to be happy.

It brings me back to palliative care in the real world. This world Sphene created, was a metaphor for therapeutic obstinacy and the artificial prolongation of life. At some point, there is nothing you can do, and you have to "pull the plug". You have to say good bye. To your own family, to your friends, to people you knew more or less. What's left of them then? All the memories you had with them, and that's it, and as the Yok Huy's philosophy, they kinda live through you that way.

Contrary to Meteion, our action of killing the people in that zone was not born of desperation of not being able to save them, but from an acknowledgement that this artificial prolongation of life is no longer sustainable, it will give more pain and will sacrifice ressources that could be given to people who still have a chance to continue living. At some point, when there is no chance to sustain a life, we need to make peace with the fact that it's over. That death is a part of life, and might always be. The next day always happen, with a beautiful sunset, new lives, new hopes, new stories, and new adventures, with new people. It's an end, but it's not the end.

As someone who lost my mom when I was a teenager, it was comforting to see those moms having so much hope, love and pride for their children. I could hear my own mom through them. We see a lot of moms, and we have to say good bye to a lot of them, and that was difficult. I both hate and like the fact that FFXIV has a tendency to kill moms or otherwise important female caretaking figures. :( They displayed a lot of different relationships between family members regarding their future death, and that was also interesting. Family, in the large sense of it, was a very big topic of this expansion.

On a gameplay part, I loved almost everything. They upped up the difficulty a notch, and it was perfect. I love how they made new ways of seeing AoE while also still making it clear it's an AoE. Very good ideas there. Loved the last two dungeons.

I was not a fan of the music this extension, but well nothing is perfect. I'm not a fan of FFIX and obviously a lot was taken from it.

Hope that didn't bore you out!

TL;DR Incredible writing as usual.