#if it sounds familiar that's because I reused some old pieces

[brainlessrot]

i lost the ask but anon asked me to make the "grabbing them by their tie" but for heartslabyul, so, here you go anon!!!

Heartslabyul — Grabbing them by their tie

Contents ;; Fluff, can be seen as platonic or romantic, GN! reader

Characters ;; heartslabyul dorm members

Riddle ;;

Ace and Deuce had told you to pass through their dorm to pick up some stuff they wanted to give you, probably some junk that had no place in Heartslabyul's storage room. But hey, reduce, reuse and recycle, right?

You walked along the empty corridor, your uniform shoes clicking against the clean marble floor. You stared along the walls, looking over the various decorations and paintings hanging, some caught your eyes, and some others made you question the previous dorm leader's interior design skills.

You heard a familiar shrill voice, probably nagging at some students who had done something incorrect, and surely, there he came, face the same bright red tone as his hair, stomping over in your direction.

He stopped a couple of steps away from you, you yourself standing still so as to not aggravate the situation. His hands went to fix the imaginary folds on his perfectly clean white dorm uniform, his skin slowly coming back to his usual tone.

"Prefect," He cleared his throat, his hands now putting his crown perfectly in place, the clip making a clicking sound the moment it was situated. "I was informed that you'd come back, and was told to help you find the storage room."

His fingers moved some loose hair strands out of his view, and finally came to a stop to his sides. However, as you gave a quick look, you noticed that the petite black and red bow that was held by a crown pin around his collar was slightly crooked. So, you proceeded to tell him to stay still for a second, stepping closer and extending your hands to move it.

Riddle's face became bright red again, perhaps from anger, since you were stepping into his personal bubble, or because of embarrassment, since you were stepping into his personal bubble. He made some incoherent noises, with some scattered words of "what", "unacceptable" and "you??" audible.

You finally fixed the bow in place, hands still on his collar, your eyes met his, and an idea struck your mind, this would probably end with your head coming loose, but it was worth it.

Your hands gripped his collar, forcing him to come forward so you could peck his cheek with your lips, immediately letting go and turning around to run away. You could hear smoke coming out of Riddle's ears as you told him that you knew where the storage room was and didn't need help,making him even more furious than he was, now closer to popping a vein.

"OFF WITH YOUR HEAD."

Trey ;;

"You brought the flour?"

You were helping Trey in the dorm's kitchen, he was mixing some stuff in a bowl, a light pink and green apron tied around his school uniform, side turned to you.

Well, helping would be a strong word to use in this case, you were mostly giving him the utensils and ingredients he asked, and when he wasn't asking, you just looked how his hands moved dexterously as they broke eggs, mixed the ingredients to make a soft paste, or cut fruits in small pieces. He truly was a skilled cook, you believe you could watch him cook for hours if you could, and the way he was humming some song while moving around, probably an old nursery rhyme from the Queendom of Roses was hypnotic.

"Hey, can you start the oven? Yeah, with the temperature I told you earlier." You did just as told, watching as the oven lights turned on, the inside already warming up.

You watched as Trey bent over, opening the oven and placing a tray inside, dusting his hands off as he closed it.

"Now we wait." His smile felt warm, just like every part of him. He turned his back to you, just as you got a message from Deuce, you responded to him quickly, he needed you to go and break up a fight between Ace and Grim, the usual.

You looked up, now seeing Trey without the apron, his uniform magically still clean, but his collar slightly crooked. You stepped forward, grabbing a hold of his tie, and pulled on it, fixing it in place. You brushed your lips to his cheek quickly, and soon enough, before you even got away from him, he returned the action, leaving such a soft kiss upon your temple that if someone told you a feather had graced you, you would have believed it.

You turned around, waving your hand goodbye without looking back, missing the fond smile he gave you as you walked away, his hands resting on his waist.

Cater ;;

Ah, the smell of freshly made coffee. Cater had dragged you to this "amazing" coffee shop he had found that had opened not so long ago, and was luckily not that far from the campus. He even paid for your food in exchange for you taking some "aesthetic" pics of him! It was a win-win situation!

You were sitting next to the window, close to the back of the store, the sun that filtered through the crystal felt warm against your skin, it was not too late, but the evening was close to an end.

You had your fork on one hand, the dessert Cater had recommended to you was truly spectacular, and you eyed the only thing he had ordered— a black coffee with no sugar. He was currently looking out the window, chin resting on his hand with the other around the drink.

The way the sun coated his skin as if it was liquid gold truly made him look even more attractive, his nose looked sharper, his eyes brighter, and the peaceful smile he adorned on his face could melt you in the spot if it was directed at you.

Your hand reached for his phone, which was laying upside down in the middle of the table, he prefered his camera over your old second hand phone Crowley had generously gifted you with, no offence, but the pictures it took had two pixels maximum.

You unlocked his screen, being met by the camera app already open, you pointed the phone up, camera looking directly at him and quickly snapped a picture, you made a mental note to ask him to send it to you so you could keep it as a memory from this day.

You clicked on the little image preview at the bottom of the camera app, opening the gallery as you wanted to see how the photo turned out, but accidentally, swiped to the side instead of zooming in, the image changing to one with your face in it. You were smiling wide, your eyes locked on the dessert he had bought for you, he had added the image to his “favourites” album.

Your eyes moved from the screen of his phone to his face, still looking out the window, the hand with which he was holding the cup moved around, making the coffee inside swirl. He looked at you as he took a sip, a playful smile on his lips.

“Taking a picture, honey?” you played along with him, but showed him what you were seeing on his screen, telling him that you were indeed taking a pic, but accidentally found that gem. “Oh. Oh, okay… Uhm,” He was not expecting you to see his secret, he just thought that your expression was too precious to not save it forever on his phone. “Do you like it? Cay-Cay couldn’t resist, sorry!” He stuck his tongue out, winking as you laughed him off.

Your body bent over the table, grabbing the hem of his hoodie to force him closer to you, his playful demeanor disappearing almost instantly, his face becoming nervous and perhaps even flustered. As you told him that you did like it, you left a chaste kiss to his cheek, sitting back in your place, you gave his wink back, resuming eating your dessert.

“I may have to invite you out more often if things like these happen every time.”

Ace ;;

“C’mon dude!!” He pushed you with his body to later put his arm around your shoulder, shaking you around lightly. “It’ll be just this one time!”

“LEAVE MY HENCHMAN ALONE.” Grim clawed at his legs, having been removed from your shoulders a while back and now walking alongside you. “We all know you’re just a lazy ass!! Do your damn homework and leave the Prefect outta this or you’ll face Grim the Great’s anger!!”

Ace sneered at your cat companion, shaking his leg to get him off, his arm not leaving its place encaging you close to him. He forcefully swayed you both around as he tried to get rid of Grim, until he finally succeeded, sending Grim tumbling over, rolling on his back to finally end up sitting on his ass, a vacant look in his eyes as he processed what just happened.

Silence took over, Ace knew that his life was pending on a threat, if Grim had gotten hurt, you'd surely end him right then and there. So, when Grim’s eyes slowly tracked up to meet your own, tears swelling on them, he knew he had fucked up.

Grim got up, his paws now holding your uniform, looking up at you with a pout.Your head slowly turned towards Ace as he pulled his arm off of your shoulders, trying to back away. His hands came up, his smile faltering as he broke into a cold sweat.

"Yo, Prefect, ya' know I didn't mean to do that… right? It was an accident!!" He crouched down to be on eye level with Grim. "Hey dude, 'm sorry if I hurt you, you'll forgive me, yeah?"

Your hand came up to his shoulder, forcing him to stand up. As your fist enclosed around his tie and you pulled hard, Ace felt his soul leave his body. You were eye to eye, noses almost touching, your hand gripping tightly at his collar. Your voice was low as you told him that if he did anything like that to Grim ever again, that'd be the last thing his eyes would see. Ace felt a shiver down his spine, but nodded nonetheless.

You turned around, picking up Grim with a smile on your face. As you looked back at him, he knew that that smile could and would destroy his life at any moment, but when you told him to follow you to Ramshackle to help him with his homework, he obliged.

Deuce ;;

"HAAH?! What did you say, dumbass?!" Deuce held his fist with his other hand, making his knuckles crack as he cornered a student that had muttered something under his breath that you did not get to catch, but, as you see, Deuce had, and he was less than happy at whatever was said." C'mon dickhead, say it out loud so that I can hear you!" His lips curled upward into a smile. "Or are you too much of a chicken?"

The student seemed to coward under Deuce's gaze, unable to repeat what had angered him, only making some unintelligible bubbles. Deuce's hands went to the boy's collar, faces so close that their noses would touch if they moved the slightest bit, be it not for the reason of their closeness, you would have teased Deuce.

He pushed him further against the wall, continuing to ask him to repeat what he had said if he had the balls to. Grim hid behind your legs, too scared to say anything, instead grabbing tightly into your uniform. You sighed, rubbing your temple, you had fought against multiple overblots, but this was still a pain in the ass.

You halfheartedly tried calling out to Deuce, telling him to stop and that it was a waste of time, but he did not listen to any word you said. Really? You HAVE to actually work to separate them? Damn it.

You walked towards the scene, ignoring the look some other passing students were giving you all. Grim stayed behind, holding your backpack.

Standing right behind Deuce, you rubbed your hands together before getting a hold of Deuce's shoulder, pulling him to spin around, face to face against you. Your free hand went to his tie, holding it and tugging so that his full attention was on you. You looked at him as your hand left his arm and went to his cheek, pinching it between your index and thumb, pulling at the skin softly. He flinched and complained, his arms flailing to his sides. Your eyes roamed behind you, where the student still stood, and looking right at him, you said one simple word, run.

And run he did, bolting it the moment you commanded him to, almost tripping over his own shoes.

"Ay, ay, ay," He held his cheek, looking at you with a pout. "I'm… I'm sorry prefect, I got angry." You patted his back, reassuring it was okay, before starting to walk towards Grim to grab your backpack. "OH NO, WE'RE GONNA BE LATE, RUN." You barely got to grab your bag before he dragged you alongside him to class.

[cartoonus-maximus]

“My Mate”

a YGO DM αlpha/Ωmega-verse au

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As some of you may remember, I started an alpha/omega YGO thing awhile back (as in ‘well over a year ago’) but didn’t have a cohesive story in mind for it. So now I’m trying again for the recognizable story angle, and we’ll see how it goes.

☑ more about this au | ❌ the fic | ☑ fic progress notes

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Part 1: Missing Pieces

or “how Yugi and Atem found each other”

Summary: In a world where people are born as alphas and omegas, a small group of people start their journey of mating, love, and marriage – not necessarily in that order.

Rating: M (for language, implied sex, discussions of biology)

Warnings: male/male pairings, male/female pairings, mild and censored swearing, references to past child abuse, everyone has bad parents, references to sex and sexual actions

Ships/Pairings: Blindshipping/Puzzleshipping (Atem x Yugi), Gemshipping/Tendershipping (Bakura x Ryou), Azureshipping (Anzu x Kaiba), Bronzeshipping/Eclipseshipping (Marik x Malik), Polarshipping (Jounouchi x Mai), Ribbonshipping (Honda x Otogi x Miho), Apprenticeshipping (Mahad x Mana), Mizushipping (Set x Kisara)

Chapter 1

first half written: 6/20/2018 – 6/25/2018

second half written: 10/12-13/2019

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Having a mate and being someone's mate was an idea that permeated the society around Yugi Mutou. Even with how society had shifted and evolved, with people who married out of convenience or for money, and with people who fell in love and lived with people they weren't mated to, the concept of being mated and sharing your life with your natural mate left such a strong footprint on the culture. Books and songs and movies were written about how beautiful and simple and necessary mated relationships were supposed to be, filled with pretty ideas and saccharin words.

Yugi wasn't sure how believable most of those stories really were, but he'd be lying if he said they didn't fill him with a sense of emptiness and longing.

“Mister Mutou!”

The sudden call of his name made the omega male jump in his seat, his eyes growing wide. His head snapped upright as his eyes swiveled away from the Tetris game on his phone and landed on the angry face of Mr. Yin. “Yessir!”

“I know my class isn't the most exciting time period of your day,” Mr. Yin said, his frown deepening as he spoke. “But please, try to pay some sort of attention to the lesson instead of your phone.”

“Yessir.” Yugi shrank a bit in his seat, but didn't put his phone away quite yet. It wasn't his fault this class was boring. And anyway, he always did well on the homework and tests, so what did it matter how much attention he actually payed to the lecture?

Anzu nudged him after the lesson began again, leaning over from her seat beside him to look over his shoulder at his phone. She whispered to him under her breath, making sure the teacher couldn't hear her. “Tetris? Really? You really like all kinds of games, don't you?”

Yugi nodded, trying hard to ignore her scent. Anzu was an alpha, and the scent was pungent and almost overwhelming when she was this close to him. Sometimes Yugi thought, if he didn't meet his natural mate sometime soon, he might lose his mind a little and ask if Anzu would accept him as her omega. It wouldn't be too out of the ordinary or anything – while most lower class people waited to marry their natural mate, unmated marriages were becoming more and more common all the time.

He moved the colored blocks across the screen, smiling when several rows of blocks vanished. “Well, I haven't found any games yet that I didn't like. Besides, anything is more fun than listening to one of Yin's lectures!”

“Fair point!” Anzu bit her lower lip and grinned.

“Hey, keep it down!” Someone hissed from behind them. Yugi turned his head back a bit, just enough to see Honda's irritated face. Miho sat beside him, holding up a hand to hide her grin. “I'm already repeating this stupid class – I don't want to have to repeat it again!”

“Alright, alright,” Anzu answered, smirking a bit as she turned back to face the teacher. “Don't get your panties in a twist, loser!”

Honda scowled at the back of her head, while Miho giggled silently.

The four of them made for a very well-rounded group, Yugi thought. Between them, they had all the gender bases covered.

Yugi Mutou was an omega male. His body was built to be short and compact, with hips as wide as a females. His body gained weight instead of growing muscle mass, and, while he had all of the same physical characteristics of any other male (growing facial hair, an adam's apple, and the appropriate equipment to impregnate others), he also had a female's womb and a high amount of estrogen. He experienced menstrual cycles every month, as well as the following heat cycles that came with adulthood; during his menstrual cycle, Yugi wanted nothing more than to eat his favorite foods and lay in bed all day, converting his sleeping area into some sort of a personal nest, while during his heat cycles Yugi would himself desiring nothing more than to find an alpha who would get him pregnant. It was a characteristic that had been built into his people by nature itself, as a way of ensuring the continuity of their species, and it could only be combated by the wonders of modern medicine.

Similarly, Miho Nosaka was an omega female. Like Yugi, she had the ability to bear children and high amounts of estrogen, and her body was built to be soft instead of muscular, and she too experienced both menstrual and heat cycles. Unlike Yugi, she didn't have any of the physical characteristics of a male, but instead had all the characteristics of a female: breasts, lack of facial hair, long legs, and a small waist. Omega females like Miho only had the ability to bear children, and did not have the ability to impregnate others.

On the other end of the spectrum was their alpha friends. Alpha males, like Hiroto Honda, only possessed male physical characteristics and the ability to impregnate others. His body produced more testosterone than estrogen, and he didn't have a hard time developing muscles. If anything, alphas were built to defend their family from any dangers they would have encounter in the past, like rival families or wild animals, and it was a trait that still remained even in their modern society. The other trait of alphas was that they experienced their own regular body cycle called “the rut cycle.” Their rut cycles came with adulthood and usually only came once a year, often around the alphas birthday, and lasted for one or two weeks. During these cycles, the alpha would be driven to take their spouse or mate over and over, impregnating them and making sure their species continued. Like the omega's heat cycles, the alpha's rut cycles were mostly a nuisance in modern society and often had to be handled by way of medical suppressants.

And then Anzu Mazaki (who Yugi definitely didn't have a crush on or anything) was an alpha female. She was tall and strong, like Honda, built to attract a spouse and defend her offspring. Her body was built with both a womb from which she could bear a child and the necessary equipment to impregnate her future mate, giving her both menstrual cycles and rut cycles. She had breasts and long legs and a small waist, like Miho, and all in all she struck a perfect balance between the softness of a female and ferocity and strength of an alpha.

If Yugi wasn't so determined to try holding out for his natural mate, he would jump into Anzu's bed in a heartbeat.

A mate was something nature provided. Every omega had an alpha, somewhere out there, and every alpha had an omega. Nature created perfect pairs who were mentally, emotionally, and physically compatible with each other, pairs who could create offspring together with minimal health defects or disabilities. While this concept was seen as outdated by some, and society was moving away from the concept altogether, it was still the default. Most adults still sought out their natural mate and married them and settled into families with them, and the majority of these relationships worked out for the benefit of everyone.

Yugi didn't have a lot of experience with mated couples. His parents had died in a car accident when he was young, and he'd lived most of his life with his widower grandfather, so he didn't have much first-hand understanding of what it truly meant to be with your natural mate. None of his friends had found their mates yet, either, and the bulk of his knowledge about it came through cheesy movies and obnoxious pop songs.

“Hey!” Miho asked suddenly. “Are you going to the fights later, Yugi?”

With Mr. Yin's lecture wrapping up, the omega male gamer turned around in his seat so he could properly face his friend, grinning widely. “You bet! Jounouchi's got work at his other job, so he won't be there today, but Bakura says he's going to be in a three-way fight later, against Malik 'the Shadow Twin' and Panik 'the King of Darkness.'”

Honda snorted. “Malik 'the Shadow Twin,' Panik 'the King of Darkness,' and Bakura 'the Demon of Darkness?' I smell a theme.”

“Yeah! And they're holding it later tonight, after it gets dark,” Yugi continued excitedly. “They're going to wear glowsticks and glow-in-the-dark paint, so it should look really cool!”

“Ooooh, that sounds awesome!” Miho sounded just as excited. “You wanna go together? We could pick up food on the way!”

“Sounds good!”

Honda frowned at the lilac-haired woman next to him. “Don't you have homework to do?”

“Don't be such a buzzkill, Hiroto! I wanna go see Bakura's fight!”

“You could come too, Honda.”

The alpha sat back his seat and crossed his arms, still frowning. “You know I only go to those things to cheer on Jounouchi. If it's just Bakura, I'm not going! I'm not cheering on some school dropout who thinks he can spend the rest of his life scraping by on a scrapper's wage and doesn't put any effort into bettering himself!”

While Yugi didn't want to admit it, Honda really wasn't wrong in saying what he said. Most of the Arena's entertainment fighters were uneducated, and took this job because it didn't have any education requirements. They staged fights against each other for the entertainment of large crowds, and they only made barely enough money to support themselves.

Even so, Yugi made a point to watch as many of Bakura's fights as he could, doing what he could to support his neighbor and childhood friend.

“Fine.” Miho poked Honda in the temple with the eraser end of her pencil. “Be a stick in the mud. But Yugi and I are gonna go out tonight and see our friend kick butts with glowsticks!”

Yugi stood up to gather his things, smiling to himself. Honda and Miho weren't natural mates by any means, but given how close they were and how much they behaved like a married couple so much of the time, they may as well have been.

“What about you, Anzu?”

The female alpha sighed, glaring down at a textbook from a different class she was in. “Sorry, guys. I've got a 10 page paper to work on.” She smiled brightly at them, winking. “Maybe some other time.”

“Oh, okay. Good luck on your paper!”

“Thanks.” She fixed Yugi with a look as the small assortment of friends headed out the classroom door. “And make sure you actually do your own homework instead of getting sucked into another game.”

Guess he'd have to put off that Warcraft quest he'd been planning to chip at. “Yes, o mighty alpha of mine. I hear and obey.”

“Oh, shut up!” She smacked Yugi lightly on the head with her stack of notes, making him laugh aloud.

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Across town, far away from Yugi's mind but not so far away in location, a young alpha male was standing in front of a mirror, glaring at his reflection. He was preparing for a party.

But Atemukannan Sennonda was no regular alpha male, and this was no regular party. Atem was born into a family of wealthy, elite Upper Class folk, in a long line of Upper Class folk. He may as well have been the son of a king; he'd never had to perform physical labor a day in his life, all but literally born with a golden spoon in his mouth.

It wasn't that Atem had never had any hardships at all. His mother had died when he was a child, leaving an open gap in his family, one that had never been filled; Father had never remarried, and Aunt Isis had been the maternal figure for both Atem and his sister, Mana. Atem was also the oldest child, and, as first alpha, had been named the heir apparent to his father's estate, finances, and family business. The company had been in the family for generations, and it was expected that Atem would take over when he was old enough, same as his father had taken over from Atem's grandfather before.

Because of his status as heir, Atem had never had much of a childhood, at least not in the traditional sense. His growing years had been spent pouring over academic papers and writing essays and attending public venues, while his sister had been allowed to run and play outside. Atem studied mathematics while Mana made friends; no one ever thought to ask the children's opinions (as no one had ever asked their opinions when they were children), but it was plain to see that, while Atem had a whole impressive and fully planned future laid out for him, Mana had the freedom to do whatever pleased her.

Atem sighed and straightened his tie. As used to wearing suits as he was, the one he was wearing now was quickly proving to be extremely uncomfortable. It was tight and stiff and terribly, ghastly formal, and it made him feel like he couldn't move his joints properly.

The suit was special, and bought for a special occasion. Specifically, for tonight's party.

Atem's engagement party.

And three words had never before in his life made him feel so trapped.

As of two weeks ago, Atem was engaged to Ryou Shirohara, the omega son and only child of Rusu Shirohara, one of the Sennonda family's business partners. Both families were wealthy, the Sennonda built on old money and the Shirohara built on new. While marrying into the Shirohara carried no prestige with it, it carried the promise of an alliance, space to expand, and money to be gained. It wasn't so much a marriage as it was an investment.

Atem couldn't say 'no' to the union. He didn't know how. Questioning his father's decisions for him had never been his place.

When the two young men had been introduced to one another and their fathers had told them about the engagement arranged between them, Atem hadn't been able to respond. He'd wanted to argue and scream like a child and run away, but he found he couldn't; instead, he stayed rooted to his spot, agreed like the obedient son he was, and hoped fervently that Ryou was a brat who would hate him and fight their fathers about it.

But, of course, he wasn't. Ryou was a model omega from a wealthy family: demure and soft-spoken and wholly dutiful to his father's word. Ryou had silently appraised Atem upon their meeting, and had then smiled and nodded his assent, his sweet face sealing a noose around Atem's neck.

… That image wasn't the best to be thinking about while fixing a tie, Atem thought to himself. And perhaps it wasn't so much a noose as it was a leash, but the image remained much the same.

Tonight's party and what it represented did nothing but make him feel like a dog that would be paraded around for show before being chained and fenced into a yard.

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The party went as expected. Business associates that Atem had never even heard of before were there. Extended family members were there. Ryou's father had some sort of speech or something that Atem couldn't even hear over the sound of blood rushing through his ears.

He hated it. He hated every second of it.

He didn't know most of these people, and he actually liked very few of them. He hated talking in front of people, and the wine was doing absolutely nothing to settle the butterflies that filled his stomach. He hated the suit he was wearing, and the stupid fake smiles on the faces of near strangers, and the stupid fake smile that he knew was plastered across his own face, and the unnaturally polite words that rose unbidden from his throat whenever anyone spoke to him, and Ryou...

… Actually, Ryou's presence was one of the few things he didn't hate about the event. If anything, Ryou was acting like something of an anchor, occasionally touching Atem's elbow or shoulder and smiling and talking to people when Atem seemed at a loss. It was like he'd been trained as the perfect host in his growing years. Belatedly, Atem realized that, as the omega son of a wealthy alpha man, he probably had.

As much as Atem didn't want to agree to an arranged marriage – it felt like nothing but another bar in the walls of his societal prison – he couldn't bring himself to attach any negative feeling directly onto Ryou. His fiance was very kind and had a sharp mind and a lovely face, with striking white hair and blue eyes, and he had a very gentle disposition. He would be what many would consider the ideal omega husband; at very least, Atem thought he would make a good husband.

Still, Atem's thoughts and eyes wandered across the banquet table to where his sister was seated. Unlike him, Mana was already married. She had met Mahad at school abroad, and the two had recognized each other as their natural mate in an instant. The pair had been engaged within weeks, each being the youngest child of a wealthy family; Mahad's father had been delighted by the prospect of his son marrying into such a high-standing family and Atem's and Mana's own father had willingly agreed to the marriage. 'Anything for his baby girl,' after all.

Despite his own disposition against marriage, Atem couldn't help but see Mana's relationship as a sign of his sister's freedom (she had gotten to choose her spouse, after all) while his own was a sign of the shackles of his life.

Feeling ill, he politely excused himself from the table, promising to return shortly. He had no intention of returning at all.

He escaped down a hall. The celebration was being held in his father's home, and Atem had grown up inside these walls – he knew them inside and out. It didn't take him long to reach his favorite part of the house from his childhood: a window seat with a view over the garden. Reaching the window, he opened it, feeling the cool night air on his face.

Standing in front of the window, Atem looked out over the garden, being careful of taking deep, even breaths. The moonlight reflected off the pond, illuminating the silhouettes of trees and hedges.

Atem didn't know how long he stood there – two or three minutes, perhaps – when there was a hand on his shoulder from behind. Turning, he found Ryou gazing up at him worriedly.

“Are you... Is everything alright?” Ryou's voice was pitched slightly lower, and his words were suddenly uncertain.

“I'm fine, I just... needed some air.” In the back of his head, Atem realized that he and Ryou were no different from one another, and that they were both guilty of hiding their true thoughts.

Ryou stood silently. Despite being trained to read people's intentions, Atem was unable to get a clear reading on his fiance.

“Ryou?” he asked cautiously.

“... Yes?”

“I know our marriage is a practical one, but how do you really feel about me?” Perhaps a stupid question, but he needed to know. “Do you like anything about me?”

The omega pursed his blue-stained lips, his lower lip pouting slightly in a way that almost made Atem want to kiss him. “What kind of a question is that?”

“I'm just... curious?”

“Well,” Ryou finally relented. “You seem nice enough, I suppose.” He paused, his voice lowering a bit. “I like your eyes.”

Atem frowned, surprised. “My eyes?”

The omega looked away suddenly, and when he tried to speak again, his voice had an awkward shake to it. “They're red. I mean... I like red eyes...”

This time, Atem really did kiss him. A chaste, taboo kiss that left Ryou's lipstick slightly smudged, a smear of blue across the alpha's mouth.

“I like your eyes, too,” Atem said, catching Ryou's hand in his own at their sides and giving the thinner digits a squeeze. He took a step back. “Go back and rejoin the party. I'll talk to you again tomorrow.”

Ryou gave him a questioning look, but didn't say anything. Nodding once, he stood up straighter and walked back down the hall, disappearing from view.

Almost as soon as he was gone, so was Atem, the alpha slipping out through the open window.

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Atem had often climbed down the trellis before, as a teenager. As an adult, he'd moved out of his father's house and had his own penthouse apartment, deeper into the city, and as such hadn't had to use his means of escaping his family home in some time. But, he was a small frame for an alpha, and, thankfully, was still light enough to climb down the same way he had as a skinny boy.

Escaping the estate and the party that was to honor him, the alpha made his way back into the heart of the city, walking the whole way on foot and shedding as much of the suit as he could as he walked. The tie came off first.

He walked quickly, with a specific destination in mind – the Arena. Sitting among the screaming throngs of fans in the bleachers and watching the fights was the only way he'd found to really relax.

How was he supposed to stay as a stuffy party when there were fights to be seen?

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.

At the Arena, Yugi was enjoying himself, waving his fist in the air and cheering the fight along with the rest of the crowd in the bleachers.

The fight was impressive and fun to watch, with the three competitors attacking each other while covered from head to toe with glowstick bracelets and luminescent body paint, makeup, and even nail polish. They looked like fish of the deep sea in that getup.

After the show, Yugi and Miho went down to 'the Underneath,' a part of the Arena's structure that was built underground, below the main fighting pit and audience seating. Part of the Underneath connected to the fighting pit floor, with platforms and trapdoors that could allow the fighters to make dramatic entrances or stealthy escapes. But the area Yugi and Miho were headed for was the community dressing room, where the props and costumes were stored and where the fighters would be after a performance. A security guard was stationed at the door, but, since Yugi and Miho both came regularly and were easily recognized, he just nodded at them in greeting and let them walk right in.

Upon seeing their white-haired alpha friend across the room, Miho grinned broadly and took a running leap at him, nearly tackling him. “BA-KUUU-RA! You looked so cool!”

“Wha-?! The fuck?! Get off me, woman!”

Miho giggled and stayed right where she was, her arms and legs wrapped around Bakura's neck and waist from behind. “Hmmm... I don't think I will.”

“Why, you--!” Bakura turned and leaned suddenly, threatening to fall backwards on top of her, just barely managing to shake her off. “I'm too tired for your stupid games.”

“Aw, what's the matter?” Another voice cut in from behind Yugi. The omega jumped and spun around, finding himself face-to-face (er, more like face-to-chest) with Malik Ishtar, one of the men who'd been fighting against Bakura not ten minutes ago. The strong scent of 'alpha' surrounded him like a cloud, assaulting Yugi's senses and rendering him unable to think for a second. “Did little Bakura get worn out?”

The white-haired alpha glared up at the tall, tan male. “Shut your stupid face, Ishtar.”

“That's not very nice, Bakura,” came a second voice. This time, a tall, tan, omega male appeared on the other side of the group, making Yugi and Miho both jump and turn around. The omega was almost identical to Malik, with the only obvious difference between them being their eye colors – Malik's eyes were dark gray, while the omega's eyes were bright fuschia. While Yugi had never seen the Ishar Twins up close before, it was very clear that this man must have been Marik Ishtar, the other half of the set.

The tan omega opened his mouth to say something else, but he cut himself off when his eyes fell on Yugi and Miho, the other two omegas frozen in confusion.

“Oh my Ra...” An excited grin grew across his face. “Bakura, you never told us how pretty your friends were!” He stared appraisingly at Miho's ponytail, his eyes following the length of the cascading lilac locks at they traveled down her back. “I love your hair! It's beautiful! It's such a lovely color!”

“Um, thank you?”

The tan omega suddenly turned to Yugi, peering down at the smaller omega. “And your eyelashes are gorgeous! Are they natural? They're so luscious and thick!”

“Marik,” Malik interrupted, moving to stand behind the omega and wrapping his arms around his doppelganger's waist. “I think we're scaring them.”

“Took you long enough.” Bakura made an apologetic face at Yugi and Miho before gesturing toward the Ishtars. “Yugi, Miho, this is Marik Ishtar and his mate, Malik.”

“'Mate...?'” Yugi blinked, realization setting in. “You mean, you're not really twin brothers?”

Marik chuckled and held up his hand and one of Malik's, showing off a set of gold wedding rings. “Yeah, we get that a lot. It's normal for natural mates to resemble each other, but we've always looked so much alike, most people assume we're siblings.”

“People always think we're twins,” Malik added. “And it doesn't help that our names happen to be so similar. So our personas for the Arena are inspired by the concept of the good twin and the evil twin.”

“I'm the good twin,” Marik clarified, batting his eyelashes and flashing Yugi and Miho an eerily angelic smile. “Usually we fight in the Arena as a pair, but the manager has been doing a lot of themed fights these past few weeks.”

If he was being honest, Yugi didn't really care about their fighting personas – he was much more interested in learning how the two met, and how they realized they were mates, and what being married to your mate was really like, and would any answers to those questions possibly help him with finding someone himself and finally be rid of his 'single and lonely at night' status?

… His menstrual and heat cycles were about to start, weren't they? Why else was he thinking so much about this?

Before he could ask any of those questions, though, Malik suddenly pulled a phone out of Marik's pocket, peering at it over his mate's shoulder. “Hey, it's getting late. We should head home.”

Not waiting for an answer, he carefully slid the phone back into Marik's pocket and then scooped the omega up in his arms, throwing him over his shoulder.

“Malik, put me the fuck down right fucking now!” Marik's voice carried quite a ways, even as Malik was carrying him off. He paused just long enough to flash a charming smile at Yugi and Miho and bid them farewell before continuing. “'Bye, Yugi! 'Bye, Miho! Maybe I'll see you some other time? MALIK--!”

Bakura sighed and rolled his eyes. “Finally. They're gone.”

Yugi frowned, disappointed that he couldn't get any answers. He glanced at his own phone. “They're right, though. It is getting late.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let me hit the shower and I'll walk you two home.” Smirking, Bakura set his hand on top of Yugi's head, ruffling his multi-colored hair. “Okay, shrimp?”

Yugi frowned and tried to slap his friend's hand away, to no avail. He hated being made fun of for his lack of height. Bakura knew this, of course, and carried on with it anyway. “For the last time, I am not short!”

“'Course not. You're tiny. That's waaaay different!”

The white-haired alpha ducked into the shower room, laughing while Yugi glared after him.

.

.

.

They dropped Miho off at her home first before heading to the apartment complex that both Yugi and Bakura lived in. Yugi had barely walked through his apartment door and kicked off one shoe before someone was knocking on the door.

“Forgot my keys,” Bakura explained when Yugi opened the door. “An' Kisara's at work and won't be home 'til later. Mind if I crash here?”

“It's fine.” Yugi knew his grandfather probably wouldn't mind, since it was just Bakura. “I think Grandpa's asleep.” His eyes lit up. “Wanna play a game before bed?”

Bakura smirked as he kicked off his shoes. “Only if you don't mind getting your butt kicked.”

“Oh, yeah? Just try it!”

Before too long, the pair had fallen asleep on the floor of Yugi's bedroom, sitting in front of his gaming station on the floor, game controllers in their hands. Their heads were leaned back against the bed behind them as they slumbered, and there they stayed until morning.

[bunni-hopper]

Here's the thing about copying.

I'm gonna hit ya'll with a hard truth. As brutal or mean as this sounds, it's something that every creator has to accept.

No idea you ever have will be original. No idea, nor concept. Nothing.

Of course, this sounds like something someone would say to excuse copycats, right? I mean, it'd sound that way to me.

Except it's not.

See, there are...a LOT of people on this planet. Millions and millions of them. It's no wonder that there will a good number of people that have the same idea.

Say person A made a concept based around the life of a fairy. Person B also makes a concept around the life of a fairy. There are certain things in both stories that line up with the other.

One would think it's a clear cut case of B copying A right? However...

B has never even heard of A, and the concept B and A had were both inspired by real life fae lore that are really popularized and well known.

That's not copying, and it never will be. It's just a coincidence that two people had similar ideas.

A very good example of this would be Dennis the Menace. There's the old newspaper comic, and there was also someone else who made a story called Dennis the Menace. Despite that, both creators had NO idea whatsoever that the other existed at the time.

Now, another point I want to make...

There is a massive difference between copying and taking inspiration.

You can be aware of a creation that exists while making your own. Person C saw a comic revolving around an alien that can control emotions. They're a fan of it, and they get ideas for their own work. C uses those ideas from that comic to make their own creation, a little girl who has psychic powers and can control emotions.

Copying would be if C basically reused every little detail that comic had with barely any changes to it and passed it as their own original idea.

This isn't to say that copying doesn't exist. Far from it. Copying someone's idea is a very malicious act that hurts the original creator.

But there's another point I want you all to keep in mind. There is ONE thing that someone has that makes a piece truly original (and even then, this can still follow the rule of two people having the same idea. Again, LOTS of people on this earth)...

...an idea isn't original, but the execution is.

It always ALWAYS comes down to the execution. You can have the same kind of cast, main characters, side characters, setting, time period...

...and then there's the execution of it all.

Here's two examples you all might be more familiar with for those who've followed me for a bit.

This is Joe. He belongs to @atomi-cat and is one of her titular characters. As you can see, he's a mug, tall, has a big nose, is purple, is based around coffee, looks tired all the time, and dresses pretty formal, and is really strong. He's also the oldest of his siblings, having to look after them and take care of them after something happened to their parents. He loves his family and will protect them with his life.

Other examples of Joe with his siblings, showing how he is with them.

This is Cafe de Olla, he is owned by @bichcarito and is the main character of her comic, Rooibos City Life. He's a mug, big nose, purple, tall, really strong, dresses formal, looks tired, centered around coffee, is the oldest of his siblings after what happened with their parents and took care of them from then on, being very protective of them.

Another example of Cafe and his family

Sounds pretty similar right?

Well, yes, because they are.

But.

Their execution and stories differ very much from each other. The two dress formal, but Joe is an accountant while Cafe is a cop. Joe is less expressive and monotone while Cafe is aggressive and loud. Cafe shows favoritism with his siblings while Joe doesn't. Joe's parents disappeared one day when he was a child and never came back, while Cafe is still in contact with his father and escaped his mother from an abusive situation when he was in his 20s.

Story wise, it's more episodic so there's not much of a linear story with Joe, but he lives his day to day life with his siblings with some adventure and trouble here and there, while Cafe's story focuses on his life as a cop in Rooibos City, where corruption is on the rise and having to deal with his past, as well as his love life with Latte.

A perfect example of coming up with an idea, while similar, but still managing to keep them entirely separate and their own individual thing.

So to wrap this up, these accusations being thrown around of copying and stealing these days is tiring, and it needs to stop. Even then, if you believe this is what's happening, you need to go to either creator and let them know so they themselves can handle this PRIVATELY. Starting a witchhunt and white knighting helps NO ONE. All it does is cause unneeded drama and having it become public ruins people and prevents others from creating in fear of being accused of the same.

(Images shown were all used with permission from their creators)

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 29)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 4.1k (I’m sorry)

Warnings: The usual

A/N: I know today was supposed to be a PoV update day, but I am struggling with those atm, so for now I’ll post every Saturday and Tuesday, and if I write and want to post an Ivar PoV or smth, I will do so out of schedule. I’m so sorry, but otherwise I’ll just stress myself out.

There’s a bracelet mentioned in this, I had this one in mind. Pretty, innit?

And just an fyi, (I haven’t done these in a while, damn): Falcons are symbols of Freyja, who has stories referring to how she cries tears of gold at the absence of her husband from her side. Bats are symbols of Persephone, and in my canon I’ve always portrayed her as a woman of dark skin and blind eyes. Oh, and snakes are symbols of Hades.

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ @heavenly1927​ @toe-vind-ek-jou​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @pieces-by-me​ @angelofthorr​ @samsationalwilson​ @peachyboneless​ @1950schick​ @punkrocknpearls​ @ietss​   @itsmysticalmystery​ @revolution-starter​​

The air around you is strange, a mix of warm and cold that doesn’t quite manage to be lukewarm, each second the breeze changes from a welcoming moment in the sun to the biting winds of a coast. Even the sky looks wrong, somewhere between night and day, the sun shining brightly one moment only to turn cold and distant the next.

You can almost see the silhouette of a woman standing in the distance, and because you know you must, you walk to her.

She extends a hand, her smile vicious but her eyes warm.

For a moment, when you blink, the blind eyes disappear and pale eyes look back at you, crying tears that shine like gold. Her lips aren’t stained by the red tint of pomegranates and blood anymore, but she still smiles, a mother beckoning a child into her embrace.

It is not the face you have come to know, yet she’s still familiar, and their voices when they whisper your name sound like one.

You reach with trembling fingers, try to reach her, and for a moment you can almost feel her warmth, burning like the fire that was once all you could feel. But the moment your hand finds hers, the moment the tips of your fingers touch hers…the cackle of a falcon, the screech of a bat by your ear, and she is gone.

All you have left is the cold that seeps into your skin and the certainty they have heard you, and answered, each and every time you’ve prayed.

A murmur of your name brings your attention to the youngest son of Ragnar, forcing you to return your attention -your mind- to the here and now, to the city that starts to wake up, to the streets you are supposed to be walking.

You answer the question written in Ivar’s eyes with a smile.

“I’m fine,” You promise quietly, “I have been having trouble sleeping, that’s all.”

“Dreams?”

“Are you to trust dreams as visions?” You ask, a little life returning to your voice as you tilt your head to the side.

“You told me yourself that your Goddess’ form appears in your dreams.” Ivar argues.

It wasn’t just her.

You refuse to admit to the son of a Viking seeress that you have dreamt of Freyja. If by chance some of Aslaug’s gift remains with Ivar, you dread to hear him decipher the meaning behind the form you saw in your dreams. So, you keep that to yourself.

“But you do not believe in my Gods.” Is what you argue with instead.

He shrugs with his arm not on the crutch, “I believe in you.”

You stop in your tracks, stunned into silence. Your eyes are glued to Ivar’s back as he continues walking, and a tremulous smile starts lifting at your lips, aided by the fragile hope and foolish emotion blossoming in your chest.

Ivar turns to you when he sees you are not coming, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly at your surprised and commoved expression.

“Don’t overreact. You were never wrong about your…dealings with your Gods before.”

Shaking off the surprise and the foolish hopes and feelings that have no place here, that cling to your mind like cobwebs, you skip the space between you, offering him a smile and a nod.

“I still appreciate the trust, Ivar.” You tease, skimming bold fingers over the back of his hand, a smile on your lips.

He regards you in silence for a few moments, not walking anymore, and you see in his gaze that he ponders with himself whether to say something that’s in his mind or not.

“Let’s go eat, woman.” He finally huffs, turning his attention to the path ahead. You bite down your disappointment at him swallowing whatever his words were to be, and walk at his side.

The thralls that greet you when you enter do so with a smile, although their eyes linger on your hair for a few moments, and move cautiously about as they set the food in front of you both and take their leave.

“You keep confusing them, you know.” Ivar starts casually, already focused on his food but still demanding that you sit at his side while you eat your bread and drink your herbal tea. You have no idea how these people manage to eat so much so early in the day.

“Me?”

Sucking his fingers clean, a gesture you shouldn’t be following with your eyes the way you are, Ivar lifts his gaze to focus on you.

“You refuse to let them braid your hair unless we make a deal, you reuse that old dress every chance you have.”

“I like my hair this way.” You quip, rather obstinately.

Ivar’s eyes go to the gentle twirls and the delicate updo holding the hair away from your face, studying the style for a few moments. Finally, he shrugs in response.

You have an inkling that’s the closest you will get to receiving a compliment, so you let yourself enjoy the victory as if it were one.

“You still get cold in that dress. You keep trembling when night falls, woman, it’s annoying.” He mumbles.

“It’s…mine.” You offer as explanation, smiling down at your infusion as you watch the herbs swirl and smell the familiar scent of red clover and chickweed.

When you lift your gaze from the swirling herbs in your cup, you catch his eyes on you, but he adverts his gaze to his food once again when he speaks, “You have dresses in our room. Those are yours.”

“They are not mine, they are clothes you had people bring to me.” You insist, fingers tracing the worn Byzantine thread with care.

“You can ask them to bring you the ones you like.”

“I don’t want to take it from them, they…deserve compensation.”

“Would it be better if you bought your own, then?” He offers, and even if excitement bubbles in your chest and into your lips in a small smile, you still refrain.

“I don’t have any gold.”

“I can give you all you need.” Ivar sentences, and although for a moment your mind lingers on the meaning you think he intended behind those words, you soon find yourself with a smile on your lips and only thoughts of the peplos and chlamys you had back in your home before it burned down.

It has been so long since you have had time -or coin- to make some dresses.

“I don’t want to be in your debt.” You insist, even if you have to bite your lip to keep from smiling.

Ivar regards you silently for a few moments, resting his elbows on the table between you and challenging your eyes with his, his expression asking you why you decide to be so difficult about everything. You offer a shrug in response, wondering if he sees the hypocrisy in complaining about you being difficult to deal with.

“Think of them as…gifts, then.”

“Alright.” You murmur, your gaze holding his for once not feeling like it’s a duel, but an encounter. When it is a genuine one, however rare they are, Ivar truly has a lovely smile, you realize.

When you are done with your meal and murmur your goodbyes as you prepare to head for the apothecary home, Ivar interrupts you, sly smile on his lips and a shine in his eyes that, were he to be any other man, would make you think he is flirting.

“I like red.”

You smile in response, bending down to press a kiss against his cheek. Ivar grumbles his way away from your affection, but the shine in his eyes, the faint color in his ears, give him away.

“Come with me to the market and I’ll see what I can do.” You offer, already knowing you are triumphant.

____

“Oh, this is fun.” You laugh, dangling your feet over the chariot’s end as you watch the ground quickly move underneath them.

Ivar grunts something in response to your enthusiasm, and you can almost tell he is exaggeratedly rolling his eyes as he faces the horse and guides it through Kattegat’s roads.

You say nothing, still beyond thankful he agreed to come to the market with you, aware as you are of how…uncomfortable he is walking around the people of Kattegat. If his words the day you witnessed first-hand what happens when his eyes get that blue tint to them are anything to go by, and you know they are; it is evident he hates the reminder, for himself and especially for others, that he is disabled.

You’ll never know what life was -is- like for him, you know you couldn’t fathom the pain, the anger, the resentment. But what you can do is try to understand him, understand his rage and his hunger.

I spent most of my life crawling around in the dirt, having to look up at everyone, like I was always kneeling in front of them.

And again, the part of you that is soft and foolish wants nothing other than to give him the happiness, the certainty, the safety, the love some may say he does not deserve but you would gladly give freely. And the part of you that is cruel and angry wants to watch him conquer, triumph, wants to stand by his side and see the world that pushed him to the ground burn.

A voice that sounds so alike his whispers there’s no reason why only one of those things has to be possible.

Still, in your mind lingers the image of a younger Ivar, heartbroken and hopeless at the seemly inability to fight, to earn his right to Valhalla; and it sends a pang of pain through your heart.

You know the stubborn King would only call it pity if he were to know, so you keep your tone light when you say,

“Thank you for this, Ivar,” He only answers with a huffed ‘hmphf’, so you add with a side smile, “I hope you know I will ask for chariot rides way more often.”

“For the right price, I’ll give you anything you want.” Ivar finally answers, and you catch a glimpse of his blue eyes turning to you for a moment.

“Dare I ask what the price might be?”

You could swear you hear him chuckle, and before long the market is in your sights, bubbling and colorful, and your attention is stolen by the wares and chanting vendors.

As you walk eyeing every little trinket and odd curiosity, you cannot keep the nostalgic smile from your lips.

“When I was a child my mother and I used to walk markets just like this one. She…she had this tradition, bought a new dress or a new piece of jewelry each time my father was to return from a campaign.” You recall with a watery laugh, fingers caressing the hanging necklaces of colorful beads you walk by.

“Campaigns? Like raids?”

“Yes, she…she used to say it was so he would have some surprise to return to, and my father would joke it was her way of keeping him in Eleusis, a threat that if he left us too frequently she would spend all our coin on pretty things,” You answer softly, running your hand over a piece of cold blue cloth, “Our temple looks over the sea, and I would sit with her on the steps, waiting for my father’s ship to return. He used to say our smiles guided the navy home,” You laugh. The smile in your mother’s lips as the sea reflected in her burdened and yet loving eyes is brought forth in your mind, and you cannot keep the next words from stumbling out of your lips, “I think…I think those are the only times I remember her being…happy.

She fought so much, through her noble title and the title of wife of a Strategus, through her worship and her strong voice. And yet she perished amongst flames, her death cheered by her own countrymen.

The cold hand of fear grips your heart, and after being once so close to ending your tale the same way, for a moment you refuse to expose yourself to that bitter and barren end, no matter the cost.

You shake off the dark thoughts, and focus on the market and the life bubbling within it.

“I don’t think I ever said this, but Kattegat truly is beautiful, Ivar.” You offer after a while in silence, the sharp focus of his blue eyes setting on you at your words.

“My mother turned Kattegat into a trading hub, allowed the town to prosper through commerce. When I became King, I…wanted to honor that.”

“Did Queen Aslaug teach you of trade?” You ask curiously, your lips still smiling as your eyes rake over the stands of so many different colors, of the offered spices and cloths and pets. It all is beautiful, loud, and with pieces of everywhere in the known world scattered throughout.

It feels like the Silk Roads. It feels like the first home you knew.

Ivar huffs, a combination of amusement and maybe regret, “No, she didn’t. I did not care for it, but my older brothers learned from watching her rule,” He explains, and remains silent for a few moments, for so long that you think he’s not going to speak again, until he takes a deep breath, “Hvitserk has been the one dealing with commerce and foreign trade, and he has done…good for Kattegat.” He says finally, the praise towards his brother gruff and carrying the bite of rancor, like admitting the other man’s success irks him.

“You should tell him that.” You murmur as casually as you are able to, pretending to eye a display of metal bracelets.

Your fingers trace over the snakes on one of the intricate metalworks, and you are reminded of the altar in the forest of Eleusis: Persephone, sitting in her throne with a scythe, symbol of Demeter, held in her hand to demonstrate her pledge to her mother, and snakes, symbols of Hades, curled around her body as proof of her husband’s love.

“Do you like it?” Ivar asks, ignoring your previous words and looming over your back as he regards the delicate bracelet you hold. Not waiting for your answer, he motions for it and talks to the man behind the stall in his own language.

You place your touch back on the King’s arm, but this time is a call for attention, “Thank you, but I couldn’t, I don’t need it.”

But he shakes his head, lips pressed into a line, “I asked if you liked it, not if you needed it.”

“Must we argue about everything?” You sigh, exasperated as you watch him pay for the bracelet with curt words.

When he turns his gaze back to you, he does so with the arrogant and maddening smile you have learned to hate, “I don’t know. Shall we argue about that?”

You just huff in response, striding your way to a stall with bright linens and leaving him -and his bracelet- behind.

“Sure, make the cripple chase after you.” He growls, the bite in his voice paired with shame that even with your back turned to him you can sense, making you falter. A moment regret pangs at your stomach, but you will not apologize. Instead, you move to one somewhat empty passageway, so you can speak freely,

“I don’t like that word,” You grit out as you turn to watch him approach, “Rather, I don’t like how you use it.”

Ivar stands in front of one of the more secluded alleys, and you can sense the tension in his frame, the shame and despair, but say nothing about it.

He is quick to fire back, “Well, I don’t particularly like being a cripple, wife.”

“Oh, for the love of-…” You growl as the word rings in your head, and you pace away from Ivar for a moment, running a hand through your hair as you roll your eyes. When you turn back to the King, you face his angry and defensive gaze with your own, determined and fierce, “You are much more than your legs, you are what you made out of yourself past them, because of them,” Shaking your head but keeping your voice down and the people from hearing, you hiss, “It would have been easy for you to wallow in pity and let the world look down upon you, but you didn’t. You are dedicated, and strong, and brilliant, and…and many more things; and you chose to show them to never underestimate you, you made the choice to fight.

His eyes look into both of your own, the movement of the Greek-Fire like irises hinting at a desperation, a hesitancy, a fear, you once would never have believed Ivar would be able to show.

You reach with impulsive, careless, stupid fingers to trace the scar that has mesmerized you for so long, that runs right over his cheekbone, under his eye. He jumps at the touch, although not as violently as the last time you were this stupid, and keeps silent as his eyes, his mesmerizing eyes, jump between yours with a thousand questions written in them.

With a deep breath and refusing to move your gaze from his, even if you feel as exposed as he is, you continue,

“And it wasn’t easy, was it? It wasn’t and it is not fair. And if you use that word like…like they use it, you prove them right. And we both know they are not right about you.

With one last caress of his jaw, you lower your hand and press a vulnerable palm over his armored heart, looking up at him with determination.

Ivar regards you in silence, surprising you at his lack of defensiveness, of bite, of cruelty. But his guarded, so tightly controlled expression that it almost looks fragile makes something within you relent, something within you soften.

And your voice is just as quiet as before, but this time lacking the bite when you say, “So…stop using that word like an insult, because you turned that word into so much more. Because you are so much more,” You say, the fervor in your voice surprising you. After a beat of silence, you add in a mumble, “Like an insufferably stubborn man, among other things.”

He says nothing in response, only stubbornly offering you the bracelet with a clenched jaw. You roll your eyes, but extend your arm and allow him to put it on your wrist, trying to dispel the electrifying effects his warm touch has on your skin.

With his fingers still on your wrist, Ivar tugs and draws you closer. Surprised, your feet clumsily cross the space he demands to be crossed, and you look up into his eyes, those alluring eyes that both threaten and adore.

Ivar says nothing for a few moments, before finally moving forward, and your heart skips a beat, your breath leaves you. For a moment that lasts an eternity, you think he will be the one to give in.

But Ivar only leans close to speak by your ear, a murmur of your name. A moment, and you hear him again, quietly, barely a breath, “Thank you.”

“Don’t,” You warn, just as quietly, “I did not say those things expecting gratitude, I said them because they are true.”

Uncertain fingers trace one last hesitant caress along the skin in your wrist, right over the bracelet he gifted you with, and it is a silent agreement between you that you both return to browsing the market.

“Almost as fine as Byzantine silk, I swear on it,” The woman promises, offering you a display of soft and flowing linens. “Fit for the Gods, even.”

You laugh as you shake your head, “I am far from divine, good woman.”

“Because you lack my silk,” She insists with a toothy smile, and another light chuckle leaves your lips as you look over the different colors of the silk she offers, eyeing the varying colors and trying to decide on a good one for a formal peplos.

A rough hand grabs one of the dark red pieces before you can make your choice.

“I like this one.” Ivar says, and even if his tone makes it sound like an order, you still nod your approval and ask the vendor for the needed linens.

Later, after spending part of your day browsing the dresses and cloth offered in the market so tirelessly your feet now ache, you relax in your bed with a warm cup of milk and honey in your hands, watching as the pale sun settles over Kattegat’s horizon.

The warmth of the fire, the safety of the house around you, the rhythm of this city; none of this should feel as familiar, as comforting as it does.

Drawing your knees to your chest, hiding bare and cold feet under the furs, you set the cup down and keep your tired eyes on the horizon, even if the sun’s light is quick to blind you.

When you blink past the light, you find yourself looking into eyes as blue and as burning as Greek Fire, and a small smile pulls at your lips. He extends a hand, offers you a bracelet.

You roll your eyes, but accept Ivar’s warm touch as he places the bracelet around your wrist. Proudly keeping your place at his side, you walk with him through the street.

A woman keeps her dark eyes on you as you walk her by, and when you offer her a small smile and a nod in recognition, she offers you a smirk.

“Snakes curl at your feet. They bind you to this realm.” She says, her Greek harsh, only slightly better than Ivar’s. You swallow past the knot in your throat, and turn your gaze once again to the path ahead of you, jaw set tightly.

“Not for long.”

She laughs, darkly, hungrily, knowingly.

“You should know better than to say that, chosen of Persephone.”

You stop dead in your tracks, something off about her flawless Greek startling you. She holds your gaze, a challenge shining in her blind eyes. You blink, trying to see what changed of her face that unsettles you so, but you cannot seem to focus.

The woman lowers her face, a dark laugh echoing around you as darkness consumes the once vivid and loud streets. You turn around wildly, looking for…for…

The woman appears in front of you, face bare and blood dripping down her full lips. She extends her hand, offers you a red veil.

A gasp makes its way out of your lips as you sit up in the bed, eyes frantically searching for…her, as if she is to still be here.

You cannot shake from your mind the snippets of the dream -Vision? Message?- from your mind, and when you straighten from the fire you were occupied with, you catch sight of the clothes and linens you bought today and are startled by the amount of red you can see.

The color of a bride’s veil. The veil she offered you.

When you lift uncertain hands to run through your loose hair, you catch a glimpse of the bracelet Ivar gifted you on your wrist.

A shackle. A snake to curl at your feet and bind you.

Trying with all your might to dispel such thoughts, you return to your seat with the now cold cup of milk and honey in your hands and close your eyes tight.

Try as you may, each time you manage to shake off the images of your dream, behind closed eyes you see the countless dreams that came before it, the countless times you saw a figure that wasn’t quite mortal lurking in your dreams.

All the times before and after your return to Eleusis where you saw clearly in the distance a pair of thrones, though you knew one would remain empty for quite a while. Even after finding yourself shackled and bound in Kattegat, the dream of the snakes that slithered around you, only to then make you trip and fall, only to let Ivar move over you, promise you a kingdom against your lips.

Gods, the vision of…of the woman that cries gold, the motherly smile, the armor covering her chest. How you could blink and see blind eyes and dark skin instead, bloodied lips and still the same warm and welcoming smile. Both hands extended towards you, of which you found yourself unable to hold on to neither.

You never believed it to be a curse, to be a woman born destined to be close to the Gods.

But your eyes fill with tears, your heart grows heavy, and you cannot help but think how life could have been so much easier, how you could have been so happy, if only you had never known both of the Seer and the Oracle, of Freyja and Persephone. Of Kattegat and Attica.

And how you wish for a life where you don’t feel Fate tearing you in two.

____

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked this chapter!

Also, yes, I made a Phantom of the Opera reference lol

[akiwisfics]

Dipping Her Toes In

Summary:  A snapshot of what freedom might look like for Kirari, and the next step of her relationship with Sayaka. Notes: Response to the Hundred Devouring Artist’s Prompt, “Kirari’s first ‘I love you.’” You can find the rest of the collection here. 

---

>> “What does it mean to be in love?”

“... With love being so closely connected to meaning and fulfillment, it's valuable for each of us to define love as an action or series of actions we can take to bring us closer to the people we value...”

A glance through the article doesn’t offer many tidbits. Warnings about not appreciating partners over time, fantasy bonds, things that she never considers. In any case, it’s been some time now, and just as quickly, she clicks the tab close.  She needs something more… concrete.

>> “Scientific studies on love.”

“...During the first love-year, serotonin levels gradually return to normal, and the ‘stupid’ and ‘obsessive’ aspects of the condition moderate. That period is followed by increases in the hormone oxytocin, a neurotransmitter associated with a calmer, more mature form of love…”

The medical benefits might interest Sayaka if she brings it up; they sound like things the girl would use to justify using the word herself, but by now, she knows better: Sayaka gives in to the feeling, surrenders to its irrationality like the true beast that it is. Though it isn’t useful, perse, she does bookmark it for later. Sometimes, Sayaka gets bored with her schoolwork, and something tells her she may appreciate a small abstract like this for bedtime reading.

The girl never learns to relax.

>> “Quotes on love.”

“ At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.”

Plato is a questionable source of advice, maybe. The quotes are saccharine and only fill her mouth a sickenly sour taste. They’re better suited for agonizing romance novels and pop tunes that Yumemi still sings on the radio sometimes. Perhaps a straightforward approach is necessary.

>> “Wiki-How ‘How to Confess Your Love’”

“Take a step back. Be rational for a moment, and take stock of the situation. Consider your relationship to this person, and try to predict how they will receive your words.”

Oh.

Was she supposed to confess before the relationship started? She doesn’t think Sayaka would reject her if she admits to it; not when the other girl had confessed her love… a year ago now? A year and a half? It feels longer, but she tries to block out the shades of things she doesn’t want to think about; it’s easier that way, when now she has something normal that’s hers.

But how would Sayaka react to it? It’s a thought she’s never considered, so she keeps reading.

“Make sure that you mean it. If you have never been in love before, it may be hard to understand the implications of this phrase. There are many types of love…”

What does that mean?

“Sister?”

Kirari pokes her head away from her laptop, and notes the curious look in Ririka’s eyes. She knows she hadn’t started that long ago, but it feels so much later than it is. There’s some cacophony of traffic outside their apartment window, drunk office workers bickering about the latest gossip around the office, her stomach grumbles at the sweet aroma of curry simmering in the kitchen, and Kirari feels at home. Her legs are stretched out in front of her, toes wriggling freely as she balances the laptop on her knees. Her glasses feel a bit crooked, but they have to wait another week or so before she can fix them.

But it doesn’t matter, because tonight, she has a bigger project on her hands, and she can see the way Ririka is already worrying her hands into her white apron.

“What are you doing?” her sister asks and peers over curiously at the laptop screen. Her face blanches just a tad as she scans the article.

Kirari can’t help giggling at the response. “Sayaka is coming next week. I thought

I’d do something nice, but I’m… having a bit of trouble.”

“You two are dating... right…?”

She nods, and keeps scrolling through the page. More social plays. Indirect confessions, gauging the other person. However, it just seems like Kirari skipped a few steps. She never has to worry about Sayaka not being receptive, because she must be. Yet… she keeps pulling up to that second step. The types of love. She doesn’t have many examples. She loves Ririka, for instance. Familial love. But she doesn’t know if the word sits right on her tongue the way it does anyone else.

She doesn’t recall ever saying the word before. At least not like that. She doesn’t recall saying it to her mother, her grandmother, to cousins, to pets, to Sayaka. It isn’t something that…

Ririka is stepping away, but the impulse comes to mind. “Hey, Ririka?” Kirari calls after her, enough to give her older twin some pause.

“Yes?”

Should she look at her when she says it? Would it be more natural? Kirari doesn’t quite make it, instead focusing on the small counter behind her, filled with calendars, homework, bills, and dates. Things to remember for later. The words however, come out easily enough-- even as they feel a bit weird on her tongue.

“I love you,” she says.

Ririka looks slightly disturbed. That didn’t seem right either. Is it really that odd to hear her say it?

“I think you’re supposed to say it back,” Kirari suggests.

Her twin still hesitates, as if testing the word for herself-- seeing how it tasted, if it really fit how she feels. She’s learning how to wear her heart better on her sleeve, and Kirari enjoys seeing it. They are two people now, and though love fitted them before now, it molds itself more naturally in her vocabulary.

Yes. She loves Ririka. She is her twin, her lifeline since she was a child and even now, when sometimes it still feels like the world is ready to swallow her whole and drown her in its murky depths.

“I… I love you too?” Ririka squeaks, though it comes out mostly as a question. It works for now, and truthfully, Kirari finds a bit of comfort in the fact that it’s foreign for them both. They are two people now, but something about their commonalities warm and comfort Kirari all the same. She still plays games, has dumb jokes, and sighs and grumbles whenever Kirari doesn’t think. It’s now that it’s only two of them, they can just be that.

Kirari always loved Ririka, but now especially, it doesn’t hurt to call her sister.

--

She’s known for a while, of course, but perhaps Kirari didn’t have a word for it right away. Fascination was a safer word. It sparked academic interests-- thoughts and feelings more akin to objectivism than the more dangerous realms of subjectivity and the heart. When she puts it like that now though, it feels… sterile-- a dry taste on her tongue, better suited for Terano’s voice, her speeches. Or maybe her midterm paper.

It started and ended with the tower. It always did. She knew the name she wanted for them when she fell, but it was a taste that she was familiar with long before then, a certain sweetness that watered her mouth, like fresh fruit in blistering hot summers. Her eyes had darted and memorized the resume with a rejuvenation she had never known, never felt, and from it, the first loops of a love letter began to form in her mind.

But she hadn’t known how to write a love letter, nor the word for her fascination, so instead, she constructed a tower, and let it loom over the entire school-- a beacon of her obsession and tether to this new humanity that encroached on her heart.

(She still has the deed to that piece of land. She keeps it locked tight in a small safe underneath her bed, along with other traces of the old life she left behind. The only two things she ever needs constantly are the things she has already. Ririka. Sayaka.)

(Sometimes the other things still come back. Sometimes the nightmares don’t stop. But there’s either warm arms around her in the morning, or a welcoming, defrosting smile waiting for her in the kitchen-- Ririka’s breakfast. Soft. Perfect.)

She could’ve told Sayaka after the fall, when she looked so divine in the shimmering moonlight, eyes shining and glistening. In a way, Kirari did? But it wasn’t… it wasn’t the same, was it?

Sayaka never does well with metaphors. Despite the constant reminder of this, Kirari seems to constantly forget. It’s easier to slip into those ideas and actions that she knows well-- a double-speak that was necessary in the clan, at the school. If a truth isn’t at least a half-lie, then its free information-- and information never should be free.

Sayaka is an open book, but the language is one she doesn’t understand just yet. She’s learning though, slowly. She prefers her glasses in the morning, she prefers earthy teas, and she fidgets without anything to do. Waiting is an action to her, but to have nothing planned is permission for her to fiddle. Sometimes that’s organizing and cleaning the apartment (much to Ririka’s chagrin, when it takes weeks afterward to find everything), sometimes it’s studying the big law books-- a few extra copies making a neat stack on the coffee table. Kirari isn’t sure what to do with them now that her entrance exam is done, but Sayaka keeps insisting on keeping them in case she needs the books again.

She puts things to reuse and cherishes what luxuries she can afford. It’s a skill that Kirari is learning, slowly but surely. She recycles, she’s started cooking lessons with Ririka, and though she loathes to do it, she puts more focus on what they need versus the excess and statements that she enthralled herself with growing up.

But Kirari has grown to enjoy parts of it-- beautiful aspects that were easy to forget when she was richer and more pressured. Acts of love, self-sacrifice. Coupled with rarer appearances, even the smallest of actions seem to carry a heavier weight.

It started with a picnic.  Early spring, with the white lilies in full bloom, petals fluttering in the warm breeze. Her nose itched from the pollen as she laid on a dark blanket and observed the open blue sky, cloudless and empty. The looming tower was the solitary object in her vision, the lone door they dove out of just the barest outline from so far below.  On a whim, she outstretched her hands, framing the door between her fingers. What would it have looked like from down below? Two girls in the throes of their own madness, plummeting to their supposed deaths.

“Pres-- Kirari!”

Ah. She hadn’t been used to the name yet. Kirari smiled still, letting her hands drop lazily back on the blanket and patted the empty spot next to her. “The weather really is beautiful.”

“You… you just graduated. Shouldn’t you be--”

“Who’s going to kick me out?”

Sayaka relented and piece by piece, she laid down next to her, shoulders stiff and an uncertain fidget as she observed the clear sky above them. It may have been moments, maybe hours. Kirari counted the breaths shared between them, memorized the warmth that spread where their fingers and hips brushed, and allowed herself to consider what forever would look like just like this. The thought was dizzy, unclear, always is, but it was a thought that was hers . A thought that no one could ever, ever take again.

Not even the girl that held that dream in her hands without even knowing, even as Sayaka had continued to fidget next to her, thoughts elsewhere as they always were. Now? She’s better about it, but some days--

“Are you nervous?” Sayaka had asked, though better for herself than Kirari.

“No,” she spoke evenly, “I know you’ll find me when you need me.”

“And--”

Kirari found her hand, fingers twisting and tangling in the sheet below them and tangled them with her own hand instead. She squeezed firmly, once, and tried to take in the softness along her rough pads, knowing that it would be empty come tomorrow. “I always need you.”

--

And she always does.

So Kirari tries to include her in other ways. They text more frequently now, and sometimes when Sayaka visits, they spend half the time just working on homework and studying. She tells herself it’s normal and that’s okay too. The classes don’t challenge her as much as she would like though, and sometimes her mind drifts. Kirari thinks about fish, thinks about the smaller aquarium she has in the apartment, what her and Ririka will learn how to cook tonight. There’s supposed to be a raid, and she thinks Sayaka is free for once to lend a hand. Thank goodness, but Kirari is a shit healer.

Her mind finds the article when it does wander though, and still, she has to consider everything that’s come before and now. She missed the chance to confess when the election ended, she missed it on her graduation day, and distressingly enough, Kirari missed it when they had their first anniversary just a few months ago.

It was pleasant. She had saved her money through the last couple of weeks before it to take Sayaka to an expensive restaurant downtown-- seafood. Kirari had gifted her a pendant necklace-- a heirloom she had stolen from her clan back when she was leaving it. … Still in the midst of leaving it she supposes.

Though Kirari didn’t have the funds (Sayaka would be terribly upset if she spent the money on her instead of fixing the very minor crook in her glasses of all things), she has to wonder if there is something that could create a moment for them. Not so unlike the picnic between them, a gesture so simple but still stikes at where Kirari needs it.

… Sayaka did just finish her entrance exam. The results wouldn’t be posted yet, but perhaps--

“Igarashi-san?”

It takes her a second, but Kirari is learning to get used to that too. She stands obediently, and feels relieved at the lack of curious, bewildered stares. No one blinks at her name. No one recognizes her face. She is just a classmate, a figure in the crowd. But she wonders, if she had kept the Momobami moniker, would they?

“Could you read the next two paragraphs for us please?”

Kirari speaks loudly and clearly, even as her mind continues to wander. It’s a habit she can’t break from high school, unfortunately. She can’t help it, really. Whatever they read today will be a distant memory, foggy shapes once she’s turned to bed for the evening. Instead, she remembers the way she heard that name the first time.

Sayaka doesn’t know. If she was better about herself, she would admit she’s embarrassed. But she likes the way it sounds next to her name. Kirari Igarashi. It doesn’t remind her of peaches rotting in trees, of drowning. It’s a name that’s hers, and Sayaka’s too.

One day, she’d like it to be legally hers. For now, a few forged papers for her college admissions let her live the fantasy.

--

Kirari knows the man that moved next door to them. He’s smart enough to keep gloves on his hands, hiding the brand permanently etched on his skin, but he doesn’t know enough to keep the weighty recognition out of his eyes as they cross paths in the apartment hallways.

She doesn’t bring it up to Terano when she calls her later, even as she makes plans to meet her. They know Kirari still has a foot in the doorway, just in case the clan tries something again.

The next time she sees him, Kirari waves. He ignores it.

--

They always meet in public. Kirari isn’t sure that’s for her own sake, or more for the sake of Terano’s pride. It’s a routine at this point-- Kirari dangles a particularly juicy carrot, one Terano can’t ignore as she works to repair the damage, and Kirari asks for a favor fitting the price. A public space allows Kirari escape routes, and it allows Terano to have watchers-- in case something goes wrong. Kirari counts the heads that look just slightly out of place, the ones that take a second too long to look away when she sits down.

They never meet at the same restaurant, but Kirari learns that Terano has a habit. She likes coffee, the way the beans reek and leak out of the store out into the open patio. Terano always orders it black, and uses careful sips to disguise her nervous pauses. She’s changed little in the year, now with a weary weight to her eyes that Kirari is all too familiar with.

Kirari settles with a chai tea, because sometimes the thick aroma is enough to distract her from the two very ugly things around her: coffee and bad company.

Today is no different. They’re closer to Shibuya, a dizzying circle of subway stations and commuters that dizzy Kirari some ways and fascinates her in others. Now that her aquarium is more reasonable, she occupies her time observing people like the fish. The commuters and works walk their perfectly etched paths with few variations or changes. If she tries hard enough, she can recognize a few-- those that share the same path she does. If she tries hard enough, she could tell what days they stopped to grab coffee themselves, or which ones had some skeletons in the closet that they weren’t trained as a child to keep secret like Kirari did.

But Kirari is supposed to be normal now, so she doesn’t try that hard most of the time. Terano never thinks she’s trying enough.

She sits down on cold iron chairs, swallows the bile down at the thick smell of coffee beans, souring her mouth, and offers a placid smile to Terano. Something more familiar to both of them. “Good to see you, Terano,” Kirari lies.

“Stop calling me,” Terano snipes. Always straight to the point. “Every time you call me, I keep thinking I was better off just killing you.”

Kirari chuckles and marvels at how her cousin’s eyes trail the white envelope naturally as she pulls it out of her jacket pocket. It’s much plainer than the old calligraphy that was drilled into them both, and she prefers it. “You could never pull the trigger,” she teases in return, naturally. “Do you have it?”

Terano scowls, deeper than usual, but she still digs through her suitcase. What she pulls out is an envelope with sleek black, sealed with clan kanji that she hasn’t seen in months. Something inside her sinks, but Kirari knows that’s the purpose behind it. She wishes she could shake the feeling. Instead she lets herself tread along the surface. Breathing room.

“She passed. That really shouldn’t surprise you.” And yet, Kirari releases the breath she didn’t know she was holding. Even as Terano continues, uses slim fingers to slide the cruel reminder of things she doesn’t want anymore, Kirari feels relieved. “Top score. The pre-law department has been busy trying to make sure the offer’s good. They’re worried someone might leak the score to other schools.”

And Terano hesitates. “... The name she’s attached to--”

“It’s not real anymore.” She feels the smooth paper against her own rough palms, and feels how her appetite drains with each inch that she feels. It stings, it burns -- a heat Kirari so desperately tries to ignore as she stuffs the envelope in her pocket for safekeeping. Later, she will smooth out the creases and take in each letter of approval. University of Tokyo. With her. The warmth will be better then. Light.

Terano swallows. “... Igarashi?”

Her smile blooms at the word. Terano doesn’t say it with the gravity it deserves, but in a way, Kirari appreciates it. She wants her to be hesitant. Uncertain of something that never belonged to the clan. It is hers. It is her and Sayaka’s.

“It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Her eyes trace upward, to silver hair, no doubt too bright in the open sun. Kirari likes to think that Terano is trying to observe her for the first time. Not with the chains around her neck, of that nightmare of Momobami. She grew so tired of it choking her, and though there’s still bruises, some maybe too deep to heal, she’s free.

Only once, Terano swallows her pride. “The short hair suits you.”

--

“Are you sure about this?”

Sayaka threaded her fingers through as if handling something far more precious. Perhaps like sand through her own hourglass, dreading cutting those seconds and years away with a clean shear. Kirari’s eyes slid closed as Sayaka worshipped. Sometimes she misses those mornings where Sayaka would carefully braided silver tresses, looping them with finesse that Kirari could never perfect on her own.

“I need something new,” and she looked up, offering a smile only shared between them. “I know I can trust you to pick something that suits me.”

Sayaka hummed carefully, and through her reflection in the mirror, she could see how furrowed and frustrated she looked. Eyes dark and frown deep. She knew how deeply she was thinking, and the idea of what Sayaka would come up with thrilled her. With gentle hands, Sayaka brushed her hair back, letting it pool behind the chair.

The glean in her eyes was remarkable. “I won’t disappoint you, Kirari,” Sayaka said with stark conviction, leaving a kiss to the back of her head before she began her work.

It took some time and experimentation, but Kirari loves the freedom. They have time to decide what they want. What Kirari wants. The bob cut took some getting used to, but she loves the way it fans against her cheeks when she hunches over notebooks or her laptop. She loves the way that when her and Sayaka are sleeping, Sayaka’s still finds her hands tangled in her hair.

Kirari is in love. She’s always been in love.

--

There’s an extra pair of shoes. Mary’s here. The relationship between her and Ririka confuses her. Mary is all spitfire, physical brushes and jerks. She’s careless and unapologetic with her touches. Perhaps it appeals to Ririka in some sense, that someone would be so comfortable with themselves after spending so long hiding behind a mask like a tortoise shell.

Mary is stretched out on their couch, blonde hair drawn back in a loose ponytail, tied in silk black ribbon. The hum out of her pursed lips is almost contagious as she scrolls through her phone, completely at ease in a space she would have shied away from before. Kirari likes to think that it’s Ririka’s influence, and she’s grateful too, that they seem to be happy together. She just isn’t sure how it works.

Kirari has seen them together of course. Ririka shies away from more overt affection when Mary first arrives, but she gets used to the affection, she sees her grow more into herself. Back to the agonizing babysitter in many respects. She remembers how openly Mary gaped when Ririka admonished Kirari for the first time in her company, and Kirari thinks that was when she realized how serious they were.

But she doesn’t know how they don’t find that constant dance exhausting. And that’s not even including the love mess. Ririka is just as lost by the terminology. She hardly ever makes the first move.

“Where’s Ririka?” Kirari asks in way of greeting as she crosses the threshold into the living room. Their coffee table is starting to lean in the weight of the big law books. There’s a fern plant that needs watering, and the window is open to the busy streets below. She smells noodles at the shop down the street; salty. Maybe they have the extra cash to grab a bowl this evening.

Mary doesn’t look away from her phone, disinterested as ever. “Grocery shopping. She wanted me to wait for you.”

“That’s nice.”

She puts the phone to sleep and sits up, allowing Kirari the space to sit. As Kirari takes her seat, she realizes Mary is wearing perfume and tries to bite back her smile. “I’d like to ask you something,” Kirari says as she sits there, stiffly.

“I’m gonna regret saying yes, aren’t I?”

“Has Ririka said ‘I love you’ yet?”

The way Mary chokes immediately at the question is fascinating as she lurches back, covering her mouth with her hands. The red of her cheeks fits her blond better than Ririka’s silver, but no less amusing. “ What? ” Mary croaked out.

“Has she?”

“Th-This isn’t any of your business!”

“What would you consider romantic enough for such a confession?” She turned closer to her, legs crossed, and studies the way Mary squirms underneath the questioning. There’s something lovely how uncomfortable both her and Ririka could be. “I was considering a devotion day of sorts. People like Ririka and Sayaka need someone to remind them to relax, don’t you think? Breakfast in bed, a nice walk in the park perhaps, and … how do I bring it up?”

“ Shut up, Kirari!”

“Have you said it to Ririka yet? How did you--”

“SHUT UP,” and Mary latches onto her collar tight with clammy red hands, stretching the fabric and shaking her violently. Kirari’s head thumps with the way it rocks back and forth, but really, she thinks the headache is more internal. She wishes Mary could be more honest, but perhaps they’ll learn to do that in time.

--

Some days, it hurts.

It hurts worse than any word Kirari can describe.

But for the first time in her life, she feels like she doesn’t have to be alone to deal with it.

--

Sayaka gets in late, and as they take the dizzying concrete pathways back to Kirari’s apartment, her eyes are already drooping and Kirari spends more time holding her up than actually walking there. She’s learned how to relax a bit more now that they don’t use secretary or president . It’s just them. Sayaka and Kirari. It’s a thought that bubbles pleasantly. Like champagne simmering below. When Sayaka is here, Kirari never stops smiling.

She’s grown too. Sayaka has never stopped training, and she feels muscle as she holds her weight, the weight of a taser in her pocket. Some habits never die. The same time they settled on a good haircut, Sayaka started wearing her own in a high bun with long dark banks framing her beautiful, perfect face. The scratches never completely faded, and Kirari has to stop herself from counting the scratches as she guides them.

“Did you sleep at all?” Kirari teases gently.

Sayaka stifles a yawn, but she doesn’t pull away to save face. “I wanted to make sure everything went well.”

It doesn’t surprise her, but there’s nothing disappointing about it either. Kirari is learning the language, even as it evolves and starts using words that used to be just hers. Sayaka is a book-- her favorite book. She thinks of it like one bound by old parchment and illustrations painted with beauty and dedication. A marvel of detail that frames each chapter in ways that could never be replicated again.

They collapse in bed together as soon as they make it, and Kirari welcomes the extra weight. She welcomes the warmth molded against her. She welcomes the fingers tangled in her hair and the butterfly kisses against her cheeks and lips.

Sayaka shows her love most here, and it’s moments like this that Kirari cherishes most.

--

The date hits a snag immediately when Kirari wakes up to an empty space next to her and the digital clock reading 11:30. She smells Earl Grey and eggs from the cracked door, enticing her to crawl out of the residual warmth of her bed and further into the reaches of the apartment. If she closes her eyes and concentrate, she can hear a light hum, carefully content.

She wants to listen to the melody longer, but she knows Sayaka doesn’t like the breakfast to get cold. Kirari gets up in starts and pauses, fumbling for her slightly crooked glasses and old sweatshirt and pants. She keeps her feet bare because she likes the feel of her toes against ground that’s hers. She yawns and she looks less than perfect. And that’s okay.

Sayaka’s eyes find hers as Kirari wanders into the kitchen, and something catches her by the warm smile. It curves her eyes, black hair wild and fussed from the way Kirari clings to her in her sleep. She’s wearing a t-shirt and shorts, bare legs twitching off and on in a nervous fidget. She pours the tea with a practiced perfection, steam billowing and clouding both of their glasses in the tight space.

“Good morning,” Sayaka says and the smile stretches just a wider, and all too sudden--

“I love you,” Kirari blurts. It’s not perfect, not even close to perfect. They both look like a mess, Sayaka’s dark circles under her eyes after months and months of studying and preparing. Kirari’s hair is tangled and fussed, make-up smeared across her face. But it slips out like a waterfall, one that Kirari can never hope to stop.

She doesn’t realize the tea cup slips out of Sayaka’s fingers until it cracks on the floor, and like a startled rabbit, Sayaka jumps back-- eyes owlishly wide and flabbergasted. Kirari isn’t sure if this is the reaction wants.

“... What?”

Kirari hesitates. “Is… was that a bad time?”

Sayaka cries and Kirari is never, ever sure what to do when it happens. She isn’t sure Sayaka knows what to do when she does either, because rather than responding, she starts bending down to pick up the broken ceramic. By the third piece though, her hands start shaking as the phrase hits her, and almost as if on instinct, her hands start gravitating toward her eyes to cover her tears.

Kirari takes them instead. A quick snatch up and a squeeze tight. She wishes it was to comfort the poor woman, but she wouldn’t-- “Careful. Wouldn’t want you to blind yourself, my dear Sayaka.”

“I’m sorry, I just--”

“Is it weird?”

“No! Never. I…” And her eyes well up again. “... I love you too.”

She kisses once. Forehead. Then along the curvature of one brow. She lets the small touches calm Sayaka down. The ceramic can be picked up later. The tea can be remade, and while the eggs probably couldn’t be salvaged, there’s always another time. She’ll send a better note later, especially after Kirari wakes up one morning to her glasses perfect and the tea cup replaced, but for now, she chooses to cherish the warmth between them.

It’s only one of many first steps in their lives. Kirari doesn’t mind waiting a bit longer for more.

[kinetic-elaboration]

September 12: The Vast of Night

Just finished watching The Vast of Night. It was good but I do feel like it lost me a little at about the 2/3 mark, and so right now I’m more stuck in the ways it was frustrating.

The stuff I liked:

It was very atmospheric and had exactly the kind of vibes I was looking for: 1950s desert night. Just like it says on the tin. I also like the two main characters a lot. They could have been annoying but the actors made it work. I liked that it was a little ambiguous how well they knew each other or what their friendship quite was. They were sorta like surrogate brother/sister but they could have just as easily been, like, acquaintances in a small town where everyone knows each other who just happen to get into this weird thing on this one night.

I also really liked the depiction of the town, and how much effort was put into making it feel real: the familiarity of everyone with each other, the shots that specifically established how close/far everything was from everything else. I liked that it felt like a radio show a lot--right down to the screen going completely blank sometimes and just having voices talking.

And I enjoyed the immersion if it basically being real time and real place. Like it probably was about 90 minutes in universe, and any time anyone moves from place to place, we tend to follow them. The only jump cuts were when the action was taking place in two spots simultaneously and we were cutting between them. So it felt real and, I mean this in a good way, small. Contained.

I was basically completely on board until the point where the old woman told her story. When she talked about her son being like an alien radio I was like “...okay this isn’t what I was expecting.” Not in a good way. It felt like a whole new type of alien story was being introduced and QUITE late in the game. Now it’s not just ships talking to each other inscrutably or even vague stories about what the military might know, it’s like... alien languages and abductions and like specifics on a whole new level. There’s even a theory (a dumb theory!) about what the aliens might want!

I wish I had a way to say this succinctly, because I was rambling through it with my mom right after we finished watching but basically... the movie appears to be very self-contained and simple--not in a bad way, but in the sense of, this is a one-night-story, everything you need is going to be in these 90 minutes, it’s not an epic, it’s not a mystery, etc. And so my expectation is that it will be economical. There will be no wasted details. Everything we see and hear will be important, every clue will be picked up and explained by the end, and every string will be tied. I really ENJOY stories like that; I find them immensely satisfying, in part because they are by nature very well constructed. It all comes together in the end.

But then it didn’t really, in this case. I don’t necessarily mean that mysteries weren’t answered. I wasn’t expecting resolution in that sense. I wasn’t expecting to know everything about the aliens--in fact, I was expecting to know less than we did--but I was expecting the narrative of the movie itself to resolve. I’m not explaining myself well, I know.

For example, the biggest and most annoying example, there’s a big deal made out of the basketball game tapes being recorded over and reused, and when Faye and Everett take the tapes from the library to find Billy’s friend’s recording, they mention the possibility it was recorded over again. So one would expect this would have meaning??? And yet nothing?? So why? It’s not that the conversation was unpleasant or annoying but I was expecting an ah-ha moment from it and then didn’t get it.

The squirrel or other animal biting through the wire also came up a lot and I didn’t see the point of that. I mean it established the town, right, and that’s fun, but it seemed like it should be more meaningful than that. I thought it might pertain to like the way that stories get retold and distorted but...idk it seemed to just be local color I guess?

Then there was stuff that I thought might be actually important but it’s just that I wasn’t getting it. Like for example, it seems like it should be/might have been important that Faye has no father but a very young sister, especially given that she has the sister with her for a lot of the last part of the film, and putting it in the context of the time period, and the old woman’s story about having a child while unmarried/being a single mother herself. I thought it might be something pertaining to a theme of the dangers of being othered in a (small) community. Like, the aliens pick out people who are alone at times when everyone else gathers together (like at the game, though what the actual evidence is for this I don’t entirely know) and we get lots of references to this, as well as references to the size of the town and of course plenty of evidence about how everyone knows everyone else. There’s the reference to the Indian basketball players as well, and it’s very relevant that Billy, a voice only hear over the radio, is Black. There’s also that bit where Everett gets them away from talking to the man at the game because he’s too much of a loner and not to be spoken to.

That said, Faye doesn’t exactly seem to be ostracized. And though she talks about walking everywhere because she doesn’t have a car, and not having enough money for college, a lot of other people seem to be working too, so it’s not, like, weird of her.

So I don’t know. If the movie had been what I expected/wanted it to be, I would not have to work so hard for the theme or for the relevance of certain details. And again, the movie is so short and so self-contained and so simple in terms of its basic plot, and so focused in terms of characters, time, and place, that it really doesn’t have an excuse for extraneous details. It’s not a sweeping epic, you know? I don’t want the things I learn about these people to seem random. Why learn that Faye has a mother and sister and no father and not anything about Everett’s family? Because it didn’t chance to come up? This isn’t real life, it’s a narrative!! No excuses!

The other thing is that the movie is clearly basing itself in the tradition of the The Twilight Zone, and that show was defined by its twists. So I was FULLY expecting a twist. Something about the Cold War? Something about the nature or origin or intention of the aliens? Something about the various technological “news” Faye was reciting at the beginning? I mean I would have been happy with a basic/classic twist even tbqh.

But no... it’s just an abduction story I guess. The MOST boring of alien stories.

I would have liked if they’d gone more into the alien ship noises specifically, the intercepted conversations, the accidental (ish) conversation that comes from humans replaying the recordings...

I don’t know. I like the concept of aliens as inscrutable and probably benevolent, just like existing in little bits and pieces for us to wonder about. Unknowable. I like that much more than aliens picking people up into their giant flying saucers. Just a personal preference.

In some ways, it felt like it became a completely different movie in the last third. A lot of new ideas were introduced, like the alien language (versus ship’s sounds), the abductions, the alien trance state thing, and that’s in a movie that until then had been more about a slow, creeping dread. A movie that was never afraid to take its time. Then it starts throwing in new ideas all over the place? And dropping old ones? I almost wonder if the director was bullied into major edits or re-shoots or something, like if someone said ‘you know this is too boring, this lacks resolution, this isn’t flashy enough.’ Maybe that’s just what I want to believe. I’m basing it only on the text and not on any extra knowledge, of which I have none. It just felt weird that a movie that was so good and so controlled in the beginning started making what I think of as amateur hour mistakes later on.

All that said, I did really enjoy it! I’m glad I watched it and I would watch it again.

[underthedekutree]

Young Link might have PTSD - Part 2: Termina is NOT a Parallel World, Technically

This is a continuation of my last post so if you’re seeing this and haven’t read it, go here.

This is the part where I somewhat smoothly segue into Majora’s Mask. Link, lonely and filled with unprocessed trauma, leaves Hyrule in search of Navi. According to most sources (which take from Hyrule Historia probably? don’t quote me on it), Link falls down a hole into Termina, a parallel world to Hyrule, that contains many familiar looking denizens of Hyrule, but playing different roles. And well, if you probably guessed by the title, I have a rather different interpretation.

Okay, so in a nutshell my theory is that Termina is in fact all a dream, kind of like Koholint Island. Except the one dreaming up this world isn’t some deity like the Giants or Skull Kid or the Moon. It’s Link.

(big explainey hoo hah below)

Evidence 1: Link begins the game sleeping. Yes, I know literally every Zelda game begins this way and it’s a whole tradition thing. I am beginning with the weakest points first and working my way up to the strong ones. We’ll get there.

Evidence 2: The reuse of character and environment models from Ocarina of Time. The literal IRL reason for this is of course the game famously being given only one year of production time, which meant that the most practical method was to reuse as much material from MM’s predecessor as possible (eg. Romani Ranch sign is the Kakariko Village sign, and still says Kakariko Village on it). It seems like a rather offhand afterthought for Nintendo to chalk it all up to “oh its just a parallel world like Link to the Past or something. But think of it like this; when we dream, we often see familiar people from throughout our lives put in strange and unexpected situations, like that irritable old farmhand you hated so much is now a depressed circus master for some reason. Dreams don’t make sense. Things you know will mix with other strange inexplicable things, fleeting thoughts in your mind, all roughly tied together by whatever emotions you had been feeling when you went to bed. Malon is split into two people, Romani and Cremia, her older and younger self. This might reflect how Link feels about Malon, that she changed so much in those 7 years that she’s like a different person entirely, that it’s hard for him to process that they are the same, because the change was so shockingly sudden for him.

Evidence 3: Gorons in the snow, Gerudo by the sea. Yes, I know that sounds a lot like good evidence for a parallel world (that’s why the idea is widely accepted in the first place, it has merit), but it also works in as dream world evidence too. As a child, my family was obsessed with skiing. We would go to the same mountain every winter, and we would stay at the same lodge. It almost became like a second home for me. So much so, that one night I dreamed that my house had been replaced by the lodge, so it wasn’t on a snow-capped mountain, but in a bushy Australian suburb. Okay that kinda got off subject but I’m bad at conclusions so in summary Dreams Just Be Like That (tm). You get what I’m saying right? No? Sorry, let’s just move on.

Evidence 4: The Milk Bar. AKA my favourite location in the game! It’s often overlooked as the “haha funny they couldn’t put alcohol in kids game so its kiddy milk hee hee”, but it is actually a strong thematic pillar of Majora’s Mask. As I mentioned in Part 1, if you put a 9 year old in a 16 year old’s body and call him an adult before ripping that all away is probably going to leave the kid with an identity crisis. What is a mature place open at late hours when children are sleeping? A bar. What is a drink associated with the young, being produced for the purpose of helping children grow? Milk. No please don’t go I swear there’s more to this, stay with me. In order to gain access to the bar, Link must prove he is mature enough by wearing a mask, a disguise, like Adult Link is to Young Link. Being adult isn’t earned through years of natural living experience and mental development, it’s a thing you are given by adults to just BE when they deem you worthy, at least from how Link sees it. So that is the amalgamation of dream thoughts that is the Milk Bar. Is it mature? Is it childish? What is the line between the two? Is there one? It’s the culmination of his anxieties and confusions that he doesn’t know how to express. Another, smaller expression of this anxiety is the Clock Town Guards. When Link is a Deku, the guards say they don’t allow children outside the gates. When Link turns back however, the guard goes to stop him because he looks too young, but sees that he has a sword, and lets him pass. Why the sword? Well, in one way this is a callback to Kokiri Forest, where Mido doesn’t let Link see the Deku Tree until he has a sword. But also, what is the item that lets Link travel through time and become an adult in OOT? The Master Sword. Link seems to believe that adulthood is measured by the things you have, physical markers of maturity, which is how lots of children see adulthood. You’re an adult if you can drink, if you’re tall, if you’re married, if you have a house, a car etc. But in reality this isn’t how it works. Heck, I’m technically an adult but I sure as hell don’t feel like one, because I know I still have things to learn about responsibility, patience and all the other things, that can only come with time, which is the moral conclusion of OOT, but clearly Link missed the memo. Don’t get me wrong, there are some indicators to show he’s grown a bit. He can ride Epona, use the bow, do flips like some kind of acrobat etc. But those strange and confused feelings linger, and manifest in the young boy’s dreams.

Evidence 5: The four transformation masks. The four masks represent different aspects of Link’s self, and the way he grew and changed in OOT. Deku Scrub the Innocent, Goron the Confident, Zora the Mature and Fierce Deity the Hero. Link began only knowing the Kokiri Forest, and nothing of the world outside. As he set out on his journey, he grew more confident in his skills and defeated greater foes. When evil took over, he learned from his fatal mistake and worked to right it. And when it was finally time to face the greatest threat, he was ready, with all the heart pieces, bottles full of fairies, Biggoron Sword in hand. At that moment he struck the final blow he probably felt like the strong and unstoppable hero everyone in Hyrule told him he needed to be. And that feeling of pure uncompromising strength, with the whole world behind him, manifested in the Fierce Deity. Fierce Deity is much taller than Adult Link, and packs so much of a punch that he can beat Majora without batting an eye, like some overpowered Super Saiyan. It reminds me a lot of Undertale, with young Asriel becoming what he imagines to be an all-powerful godlike being, like something you’d see as a children’s drawing. Fierce Deity gives off those vibes, like “he has a HUGE SWORD that SHOOTS BEAMS OF LIGHT and he’s 8 FOOT TALL and CAN KILL ENEMIES IN A SINGLE BLOW!!” Before the final battle on the moon, when Majora gives you the mask, he childishly asks if you want to play a game of good guys and bad guys. And the good guy always wins, no matter what. Fierce Deity makes the final boss a cakewalk, but its supposed to.

Evidence 6: Anju and Kafei. Short one, because it falls a lot into everything else I’ve said regarding childhood vs adulthood. Kafei is effectively a switcheroo of what happened to Link in OOT. An adult shrunk back to childhood, uncomfortable in his new body and looking for a way to fix everything. He’s a reflection of how Link now kinda feels like an adult in a child’s body, because he had started to be used to being called an adult.

Evidence 7: The Moon. I haven’t super touched on the main meat of the game yet, so here it is. The moon and the 3 day mechanic is an allegory for constant mounting pressure, that builds and builds, never ceasing, because the world is in danger, and there’s only one person who has been chosen to save it. I’ve always been interested in the Chosen One narrative, and how different media explore the idea of the world’s very existence being pushed onto one person. How at the end of it all, they can never be the same again after all they’ve gone through. When you’re somehow expected to hold up the Moon itself single-handed, and your life and everything you care about suffers because you’re putting everyone else before yourself. That feeling of complete loneliness under a crushing weight, and although other characters may come to help you, in the end its still all down to you, and you never had a choice in any of it, as all the decisions were made by someone else. You must do what they tell you. Believe in yourself, believe...

Evidence 8: Skull Kid. The story goes that long ago in Termina, the Skull Kid and the Giants played together, until one day, the Giants left, leaving the Skull Kid alone and heartbroken, with nobody to turn to. As life moves on, things may change, and people always come and go from your life. Your friend might move overseas, or stop texting you, or you might fall out of friendship after an awkward event from which you could never recover (no, these have totally not all happened to me, shut up i’m fine), or your fairy companion might just disappear without so much as a goodbye after their task is complete. And it feels like you didn’t matter at all. That they never really cared about you, and you’re as easy to drop and move on from as a child’s toy. You might get angry, and want to shut them out, and give them a taste of their own medicine. Majora’s Mask teaches you that this isn’t the case. Life is ever changing, but you will always have the memories of times with your friends, and a chance to make more with new friends, like a sassy talkative fairy sprite and her shy brother or a child made of wood who wants to destroy the world. Friends come from unlikely places, so accept that change will happen and hope that wherever the people you knew are, they’re okay. You’re thinking about them, so they might be thinking about you too. And who knows? Life is unpredictable. They might just come back one day, and it’ll be like they were never gone.

Evidence 9 (the final one, I promise): The Song of Healing. At the end of all things, after losing ones you love, connections to family and friends, memories of things long past... you need time to heal. Link’s journey through Termina is a constant gauntlet of running into his own past traumas, forced to relive them again, and again, and again. But sometimes you should take a deep breath, gather your thoughts, and take time to heal. Although it can be important to confront your fears and learn to surpass them, it is exhausting, and you can end up more emotionally broken than when you started. The three masks all had regrets of powerlessness; unable to protect your community, your loved ones, or even yourself. Troubles you’ve gone through that keep plaguing your mind, and you’re wondering if you’ve done enough, seeking answers where none can be found. And the best thing you can do... is accept and move on. Be kind to yourself, and give yourself time to heal. Link’s way of processing his grief and trauma is to create an entire hellscape world in his own head, but not everyone processes it the same way. Sometimes you feel like you need to busy yourself, or listen to soothing music, or talk to people you trust, or spend copious amounts of money, or make some angst art, or cuddle your plush toys until their stuffing squeezes out. Sometimes life hits you in the face and you want to blame yourself for standing in the firing line, but it’s not your fault. It’s okay to feel however you feel, whether you’re drenched in a pool of tears or you just feel numb, it’s okay and natural. You’re okay. You’re here.

Okay so it got kinda personal at the end there but I hope it was informative, and made you think a little bit differently about Majora’s Mask and Ocarina of Time. You probably want to go back and play them now. Me too.

So was this all just an excuse for me to gush about how cool Majora’s Mask is? Hell fucking yes it was. Congratulations for making it through my monstrous ramblings, you get the secret prize of looking at my weird art on my DA. Here you go. Have a nice day, Zelda Nerds.

[ranger-report]

Review: THE WITCHER (2007)

With the recent popularity of The Witcher across mass media thanks to the Netflix series starring Henry Cavill and his arms, I finally began what I consider an epic quest to play through all three of the Witcher games and their DLC. This is, by no means, a small task, but you know I might as well sacrifice myself in the name of entertainment. So I began to play The Witcher: Enhanced Edition, a PC game released in 2007 based on the books of the same name written by Polish author Andrzej Sapkowski. Now that I’ve beaten it I have quite a few things to say about it. But, first thing’s first, and that is easily the most obvious aspect of this game:

It has not aged well. Not at all.

To begin with, the graphics of the game are very 2007. A product of seventh generation graphical technology to be sure, it doesn’t help that it’s running on BioWare’s Aurora engine, which was notoriously difficult to use outside BioWare’s own house. There’s all kinds of graphical glitches, people pass through objects, character models and textures are fuzzy and sometimes plasticine, facial animations are sometimes downright frightening. There’s also the fact that the game reuses the same character model for multiple characters, both important and unimportant, leading me to confusion sometimes as I swore I just saw that goddamn priest I just killed wandering around the city. Except now there’s two of him. And all the merchants look the same, too! This being the enhanced edition there’s a number of upgrades and clarity that’s been added in to the experience, but it’s still dated for better or worse. What has aged well is the use of impressionistic paintings for the purpose of certain cutscenes, adding an extra dose of epic quality to some of the goings-ons. This also includes more “intimate endeavors” Geralt can engage in. Long story short, there’s a lot of women in this game who are willing to throw themselves at Geralt, and if you play the cards right you can get down to business pretty quickly. Sometimes too quickly; one time I brought a woman a loaf of bread and she had sex with Geralt. It was confusing and out of left field. But each encounter comes with a brief piece of tasteful nude artwork of the lady in question as blurred models bump and grind in the background. And, to be completely honest, the artwork is really well done. Although it is very jarring to play a game where sex workers are clearly labeled “whores” and “hookers,” most of the women have a good amount of agency in the proceedings, particularly the two primary romance options, Triss and Shani. Geralt can actually romance these two women to the point of committed relationship, which is refreshing to see that sex is not just a reward for “romancing” a character in a game, but something the characters enjoy, while the romance comes from genuinely caring about someone.

Despite the graphical despondency, main characters fare slightly better, as anyone who needs to be easily recognizable is, and are crafted with much more detail and fine tuning than regular NPCs. While this is fine, sometimes finding these characters is a chore and a half. The Witcher has a day/night cycle, and characters follow this, but when my map is telling me I need to be in one place to meet up with someone, I can’t count that they will actually be there depending on the time of day. And I can’t artificially move the time of day forward unless I have a campfire to meditate at. Meditation is an interesting mechanic, btw, as it basically acts as Geralt “sleeping” and also functions as your chance to level up and distribute talents. On paper, I’m okay with that. In reality, campfires and places to sleep are few and far between, unless you’re close to an inn or someone who doesn’t mind you crashing at their place. And oftentimes you’re running back and forth in linear paths across deceptively open areas, back and forth and back and forth in what can only best be described as tedium when you’ll approach the quest marker on your map, only to find no one there, and need to hoof it back to a fireplace to change the time again. This can also lead to extra consternation if the game crashes, which it did a handful of times during my fifty hours of gametime. Save often.

And, finally, there’s the combat. For better or worse, it’s an exercise in clicking on people to attack them, then clicking again at the right time when your icon changes in order to string together combos. That’s fine. Combat is also divided into three styles between two swords: strong, fast, and group style, with steel blade and silver blade. Strong and fast styles speak for themselves; group style is for when you’re surrounded and need to attack everyone around you. Steel blade is for humans, silver blade for monsters. Sounds simple right? It is -- too simple. Clicking on people is as easy as that, with little interaction otherwise. Sure, you have to figure out which style to use on which enemies, and you can couple in Signs (magic spells) to make your life easier, but repeatedly clicking on people to whack away is bland at best, frustrating at worst. Later on when you can level up your sword styles to include more powerful/deadly moves it becomes more challenging, but even then it remains a strange exercise in an odd hybrid of real time/tactical combat.  Finding oneself surrounded can lead to death quickly, so if you’re not paying attention, you can go from overpowered madman to witcher meat in seconds. Literally seconds: enemies I would have no problem with one-on-one, or even two-on-one, suddenly escalate to an unstoppable force the moment that three or more come in for an attack. The game has a way of forcing Geralt into combat situations without warning as well, making it easy to be thoroughly unprepared for a deadly gangbang around a corner and a cutscene. The game also doesn’t have much of an autosave system, meaning that if you haven’t been hitting that quicksave button very often, there’s a deep chance you could get your ass handed to you and reload a ways back from where you were. Easily the biggest frustration for me in terms of playing the game. Enemies will stack status effects to clobber you; Geralt will attack and get hit; sometimes you can stagger enemies and one-hit kill them, but enemies can still attack while Geralt goes through the slow kill animation. I don’t know how many times I cursed the game in anguish as I was forced to reload yet again after a fourth monster swept in out of nowhere, or the one monster I was fighting decided to get in a Stun attack, then proceed to own my ass. Pausing the game at any time using the space bar can help to get bearings, but you can’t execute commands while paused. Saving in combat isn’t allowed either, so if a big fight starts and you realize you haven’t saved in a while, you’re screwed. Couple this frustration with the intensely boring act of clicking on monsters over and over again to fight them, and here we have the biggest weakness of the whole product.

That being said -- is the game worth playing in 2020? Despite being 13 years of age and regarded as the least accessible game in the franchise, what it brings to the table is a surprisingly effective storyline that involves subject matter which is shockingly relevant. Racial tension. Class war. Plague. Quarantine. Riots. Gray morals. Strange creatures. Frustration. Difficulty spikes. Blurred lines between human and monster. If that sounds hauntingly familiar, it’s probably because that sums up the first half of the year 2020. To say that I was expecting a 13-year-old game to reflect the state of current events would be a massive lie; in fact, at the outset of the game, I was struggling to maintain interest at all. However, as time goes, the story and the choices made are what end up being the game’s biggest strength, and ultimately its salvation.

The story opens up simply enough: Geralt of Rivia, our titular witcher, has been found in a near-death state and nursed back to health by his fellow witchers and former lover, the sorceress Triss Merigold. Coming back from the dead has cost him his memories, however, and the amnesiac Geralt is quickly plunged into conflict as a group of mercenaries called Salamandra attack the witchers’s base to steal the secrets of their mutations. Swords clash, magic flies back and forth, and Geralt is tasked with giving chase in order to retrieve the mutagenic formulae so they can’t be used for harm.

A great conceit in this is that Geralt having no memory of his past allows anyone unfamiliar with the world to gently ease in and learn about the world as he does. The game is set after the events of the books, so this gives an added bonus to readers already knowledgable of events. And as the player learns more about Geralt and his world, a variety of choices come into play. Most RPGs have this option to allow player freedom in telling a story, but unforseen consequences follow every decision; whether they come into play immediately or further down the road remains to be seen, but there’s a ripple effect that goes above and beyond the usual Choose Your Own Adventure details which essentially craft your character into a good guy or a bad guy. What’s brilliant about this is that the game never hints at this; it isn’t until the game breaks away into a cutscene with monologue does Geralt realize how his choices crafted this specific moment. For example, in the Salamandra attack, Geralt can choose to fight off a horrific monster or help Triss defend the witcher laboratory. Depending on that choice, some characters may live or die, and the game will let you know that when it wants to....usually to hammer home a point.

What works to this being the strength of the game even further is the deep narrative, which is often times complex to the point of frustration. But the story develops at a natural pace, and never presents any choice as being right or wrong, black or white, good or bad. The main gist is that the human city of Vizima is under quarantine, fighting off a vicious plague, but also defending itself from the rise of nonhuman freedom fighters comprised of elves and dwarves. The city is divided on this, particularly in class division, with any nonhuman residents living in the slum quarter, while the affluent humans live exclusively in the market quarter. There are humans in the slums too, make no mistake, but it’s very apparent who is allowed to live where. However, the game makes no stance on this whatsoever; Geralt is presented with a series of choices based on the information at hand, and as the game goes on, comes closer and closer to choosing a side between the freedom fighters or the humans as tensions comes to a head with violence. Every action has a consequence, positive or negative, but also depending on who the consequences affect. Questions of moral arise; what truly defines a monster? Is it appearance, or is it action? It’s difficult to really spell it out further without diving into spoilers, as the story should be experienced first hand without any warning. That being said, it’s refreshing to play through a game in which the character is clearly defined as being the hero, but then forces the player to ask if their actions are truly heroic or actually damaging in the quest to destroy the greater evil.

In closing, The Witcher is a mixed bag. Narratively, it’s a stellar effort that swings for the fences and sticks the landing. From a gameplay perspective, it’s a dated game that’s sometimes a chore to play through, even to the point of dire frustration. But it’s one that I can cautiously recommend. While it certainly took me six or so hours to finally believe that I had the hang of it -- I didn’t -- struggling through the first quarter of the game can yield beautiful results, especially once it rolls into the final, jaw-dropping conclusion. What I will say is that it really beats you over the head with your choices, even the ones you didn’t know you were making, and holds up a mirror to ask if your decisions were really for the greater good or not. Outstanding work in that regard. I’m looking forward to playing The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings now that I’ve beaten this, and someday I’ll even come back to see the paths I could have taken. Just with tempered expectations this time around.

Final score: 7/10

[ryuukia]

[Translation] SolidS Vol.1 Animate Short Story “Nai mononedari”

I’ve been trying to postpone translating other things, and as always I started digging my collection. That’s how I came across this (it’s as old as SolidS, really). I have Rikka’s story and Dai’s story too, but I don’t have Tsubasa’s (if someone has it and wants me to translate it, feel free to send it to me?). Anyway, I’ll be taking care of them these days before returning to either kisosekai or the duet SS. 

I did google this and found no translation, but if somehow I missed it, let me know and I’ll take it down. ‘Nai mononedari’ translates as ‘crying for the moon’, or more literally ‘asking for the impossible’.

Many thanks to Ryota for helping me out with the proofreading. Please don’t repost/reuse my translations. 

Hearing a knock coming from the door, Shiki removed his headphones.

“Come in.”

“Hi. …...Wait… Are you busy now?”

The one who popped his head in was Dai.

“No, it’s fine. What happened?”

“I thought I should return this CD to you.”

As he said so, Dai started to survey the room curiously.

“If there were to be an earthquake, you wouldn’t escape alive from here.”

There was a computer and an audio recording equipment staffed together and pushed against the wall, then on the bookshelves, the sheet music, CDs and records he collected as a hobby were packed like sardines.

 “I guess so. Anyway, if you want to listen to another CD or something, help yourself.”

“......Ah. I’ll take this then.”

He pulled out a CD and turned the jacket around.

“The first piece produced by Takamura Shiki.”

“You have poor tastes.”

“You bought it from a wagon sale, though.”

“Don’t mention that part, please…”

”But, the albums after this were bought at its original price though.”

“...... Thanks, I guess.”

“Somehow, I feel like this is something that will be stuck in my mind. Oh yeah, Shiki, did you play the keyboard for this song?”

“You have a good ear. Especially when it doesn’t even have credits on it.”

His expression switched to astonishment, then he answered “That’s because you have strange habits” with a meek face.

“It suddenly came to mind when I listened to some SolidS songs.”

“Strange, huh? …...hmm, I’ve been told that before because I’m self-taught.”

“You’ve never had a teacher?”

“The sheet music was my teacher.”

“Oh, nice. If I were to play, I don’t think I could pull out those sort of sounds.”

“Now that you mention it, Dai can play the piano, right?”

“I took lessons, but that was a long time ago.”

Shiki placed a stool in front of the synthesizer and after hesitating a little, Dai sat down. He started to hit a few keys right after, as if checking the sound, and eventually shifted to a familiar phrase. 

(This is ‘Nai mononedari’, isn’t it?)

The rhythm is clean and on point. It’s the first sound that will be produced since he’s actually learned the basics of music.

“Right, Dai, would you like to use a keytar in our next live?”

“Eh…...Isn’t that kinda difficult though?

“If you can play the piano, in 10 minutes you’ll get used to this.”

He started to murmur, clearly engrossed in his thoughts.

Things like what kind of person he is, or how far he can go are still completely unknown to him. 

It’s impossible to imagine. He’s at that age.

(I’ll be drawing out his potential out of nothing.)

Making up his mind, the latter took a breath in. 

“Give it a try.”

Shiki laughed and said words that he knew would motivate the quitely timid Dai.

“If you play it properly, I’m sure Tsubasa will be annoyed.”

Narrowing his brows, Dai answered with a laugh. “I’m in.”

If you like my work and you want to support me, you can now buy me a coffee by clicking right [here]. I also started taking commissions, more details are right [here]. Thank you~

[ogovs]

The Beginning

Hello everyone and welcome to my latest creation. My name is Taylor. I am a 27-year-old from Michigan. I am currently a student studying environmental studies. I will be graduating in spring 2020 and will be the first in my family to earn a college degree! Anyways, the Original VS Sampled blog will be my 5th blog (omg). Is this too many blogs? I feel like this is too many blogs. So many topics, so little time.

My other blogs...

Observernumber5 – born under the bridge

thuglifetilidie – a mix of love

imiss2005

taylorsgreenthumbprint – Garden Oasis

I got interested in music before I even knew I was into music. My mom is crazy about music. She is around 60 years old, but every era of music, she had picked her favorites (a good and funny example of this would be her loving Future, especially when the song Mask Off was released). When I was younger, she would blast music from our living room’s surround system, even on school nights. There are albums she’d play over and over. I would never have put the CD in myself and listen to the artist myself, but when a song played on the radio, I knew all the words to the songs because of her lol! My dad also listened to some real oldies, that I’d grow accustomed to hearing. We’d have shopping trips to Circuit City every time a favorite artist’s CD came out. Once I began listening to my own tunes, I was able to get anybody’s CD I wanted. This was around the age of 10. I liked R&B and loved gangsta rap. My mom is actually the reason my love for Bone Thugs started. I was raiding my bro’s CD and Tape collection and listening to his music at this point too. There was a lot of Eminem, Devin the Dude, Outkast, 50 Cent, and even Mike Jones – before he blew up.

At 11, I joined my junior high’s band, played Alto Sax for a year then switched to Clarinet the next and stuck with that until I graduated High School. Also at 11, My dad had brought me a guitar for Christmas after noticing my interest in playing instruments. Here I started listening to rock. At this point I had 2003 rock and what came before. I learned the early 2000s songs and 90s. Around this time, music downloads on LimeWire had taken off, and I could get anything I wanted. Ahh… the early 2000s, I loved all the music during this time, hence the imiss2005 blog that I terribly neglected, I’m ashamed, lol. Maybe I’ll start to build it, who knows.

 Onto other things, it wasn’t until a couple years ago 2015 maybe? I began to hear a lot of songs, sampling old songs. Rap producers/ DJs did this a lot in the past, this is basically how hip hop originated. DJs would take old school records, especially funk, use the drums or entire beats and speed them up or slow them down to let rappers rap over the beat. Song sampling has become very noticeable within the last 10 years for me. During this time, I was (and still am) really heavy into playlist creation on iTunes (one of the very few things I like about Apple), and I had a brilliant idea! I need to comb through my entire music library and find out who has sampled who. I started with my favorite artists. I hear songs on the radio that are old songs that have been sampled and new songs on the radio that I recognize the samples. Samples are reused portions of original songs, or even movie audio, etc.,. A producer will take pieces, rhythms, melodies, drums, vocals, isolated sounds from original songs, and sometimes manipulate these portions to make their own creations. It’s awesome!

When I listen to music now, I always wonder, did they sample that? Then I run to the wonderful site Whosampled.com to see what they come up with. This has been my primary resource for discovering the original music of my favorite songs.

One of the first songs I realized that was sampled is Aretha Franklin’s “Call Me” that was is a featured single on her 1970s album This Girl’s in Love With You.

Franklin’s “Call me” piano melody was sampled by Slum Village in their song “Selfish,” coming from their 2004 album Detroit Deli (A Taste of Detroit). (Good old 2004, the early 2000s. Come back to me). “Selfish” features an awesome hook sang by John Legend and a phenomenal verse and production by Kanye West.

Both artists have significance to me since they both hail from and or got their start in my home town, the Dirty D. Detroit. We all should (and better) be familiar with the wonderful Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin. She has influenced and contributed so much to the awesome R&B music we have today. Rest in Peace, Queen Aretha. As for Slum Village, I don’t think they are as popular as they should be, especially with this smooth song they have given us.

So, this is how it will be. I will try to do one of these posts everyday. I will post an original song, along with a few facts about it and the artists, followed by the song that has sampled the original song. I hope everyone enjoys this blog and also discovers some new music. 

[transgressivehug]

your brain makes up my world and its running out of memory so it just reuses data for faces, interactions and environments

braile books

neverending skyscrapers

talking to spirits

I realized I was dead three days ago when I no longer had incentive to drink water, sleep or talk to anyone.

the end of our days comes slowly where the framework of the universe starts to corrode but so do you, so you are mentally unable to differentiate new reality from old. people look different, less complex. more like a doll that speaks back in trite sayings, then repetitive symbols, then agreements solely then a restless humming sigh, growing and growing until all that you hear from others is sheer white noise.

you can wake up and find that there is no one else alive.

losing teeth

insides made of thread and being pulled out of me

night fog

some serious contemplation on depression and how it works. there is some sort of satisfaction from pain both physical and emotional. (we are naturally adjusted to pain in our natural environment as a product of hunting.) depression comes from a consistent enjoyment of this satisfaction

i dont want to sleep because ill snap back into the cycle. i will wake up to late and feel bad or i will wake up early and feel bad so instead i just stay awake and feel okay. ill eventually have to give in though, it will always happen.

eco terrorist

im with the woes of those without problems

ill fill that hole with sickly (redacted)

ill still feel sore when i leave the store

i cant talk to no one

my friends just wanna break me

check my phone and now see them leaving

clothes to patch up my bleeding

all i see is white light.

i only ""had wealth

now i am my real self

until then

what i know for certain

i just want to hurt them

i just want to hurt them

injuries from a friend

they just want to love

10 years but its just not enough

i want to be alone

and when i hear you cry on the phone

i want to be alone

when i see how i couldve gone

i want to be alone

when i hear silence then a sob like glass broke

i wish i could be alone.

hyper reality and post-truth

tooth gloss

végétale

one quarter of the screen being blinding huge and loud but beautiful like the sun and the rest being perfectly boring and mundane

night blindness

a tiny echo throughout the entire world that slowly grows in feedback to become deafening hiss then a massive rumble reflecting off of the sky like non stop thunder

a day where nothing important happened.

the news just went blank or showed a burning log or the anchors sat around twiddling their thumbs and painting their nails waiting for something to happen.

once when you are in your mid forties. while you are in your home. you will turn off the lights and reach around in the darkness for your familiar furniture but when you go to touch them your hand falls through the place of the object. you realize it isn't there. you search for another but cant find that one either. you notice that your vision isn't adjusting to the dark at all. it is just pure black. with nothing to grasp for or even feel besides the ground you start to walk around but nothing comes in front of you. the living room, kitchen, bedroom, basement you were just in has now become completely baron. you are able to run in any direction completely freely. eventually the ground you step on starts to add friction. even just tapping your feet in place gives your shoes/socks/feet some extra adhesion to the ground. this negatively affects your speed as you attempt to run further and further away from where your house once was. the adhesion ends up with you tearing bits and piece of the cold ground and tracking them onto your feet. it feels like you are stepping through gravel, then wet sand, then mud until walking becomes a chore and you must eventually stop running. once you stop you feel like you're almost being pulled back by a million small spider web strands hooked to your back. you sink into the ground and becomes the dirt. this is death.

warm tar spilling from the gaps in the ceiling and filling up the room one drip at a time

breathing in water and mashing our hands into one joint.

fairies

your fingers come to a point

bodies of light

FOAM

GLOTH

at the bottom of everything there is only your perception

bolt cutters to your achylies

killing everything i touch

the fear of falling backwards onto a nail

computer souls

transgressive hug

i spill over (thoughts)

yell in water

virtual reality - all senses doubled

siamese twin surgery

negative light & positive light

becoming both girl and boy

the universe as it is unperceived

untouched the by machines of cognition

there are two worlds

you are always in and will always will be in the unperceived world.

a circular room with a ever lasting ceiling filled with webs stretching from one side to the other. condensation filling up the threads and dripping down and down until you have drops at the floor hitting at the speed of your blood flow. the drips are thoughts in your head

unborn as verb

leg with green blue purple and yellow bruised flesh sinking into skin in patches on knee, shins and one freshly applied to top of foot. scabs attempting to dam streams of warm red wet. cuts from toe to thigh, shine and drips let to rest on skin as beads. the ankles bitten thoroughly.

i pick who i date and i get good grades.

i walk around this park alone and think wow thats all that there is to it all.

i know how to live.

the frog that breaks its own leg to use the bone stub as a weapon

media made by terrible people and which its worth comes from interpreting the author

dismantled radio towers in untouched forest

you are driving home late at night and you are going down a road that you've gone down for years but the scenery changes without you even noticing to a foreign town and you realize that your home and the people you know are gone without a trace

getting stuck in a loop with your mind never telling you to stop

shard of glass in my chest

the longer it stays

the sharper it becomes

bubbles form in my muscles

and pop

hide in public

voluntary solitary confinement

drip feed

born without a body

drink BPA

i live in my BPA

</3

BLINK

a continual struggle of perception.

wisp: translucent like a fish but with green blue or pink tint. delicate beings with long legs, human with a set of seed sprout green wings and young vines wrapping along them. small fish-like frowning mouth.

wisps play in among the threads and fuzz on the iris. fluttering inside pulls up pure light like a snow globe for those who grew up in hell. they love to feed from the black pupil, globs of jelly acidic and sweet.

light has two speeds. quick light being the same as ours and slow light roughly the speed of a an uncomfortable worm squirming around until it can find a recipient it can crawl into and die

transitioning into a girl naturally.

the feeling of a wine glass in the hand. opaque liquid that leaves no stain on the glass like shiny shiny mercury which tastes like lychee.

crystal makeup jars with single drops of hue so pure the vision in your eyes flips and overwrites into pure white iridescence.

sharp jewel décanters filled with alcohol which tastes of warm mint tea and nothing else.

the best art analogies are to cuisine and the best cuisine analogies are to sex.

the sound of winter wind screaming through naked tree branches. there are few moments when spirits can be pulled up through the ground and into the reaching fingers of the tree in order to tell the world their now everlasting suffering. they tell their story in sheer

seeing your own death.

relapsing forever.

what a fucking cope.

recoiled when i touched his hand.

the vestigial mind, only unlocked using meditation.

infantile, pathetic.

imaginary friend:

to see your parents cry.

their costumes fail.

you can never sleep the same.

the doe will shake off its afterbirth in a shiver.

you are two.

obédience to a stranger

she controls everything i do

i am unaware, this deep love ive sacrificed my understanding of. i am just a passenger in my own mind, she is the me which i have no bearing over but she is also the part of me who i have influence over, like my body, she controls my lungs and heart. she is wise and i trust her with my life thats why she controls my vitals and essentials. anxiety is a result of disagreement among her and i, she can struggle and control my body but it takes lots and lots of effort on her part.

this is the guiding reason as to why those who are sociable tend to be happy with themselves. they can understand how to communicate with themselves by talking to others.

being in love with someone else is just a way to embue another vessel with your inner opposite spirit, they can mimic your own soul.

every night you give up yourself fully to your partner

they do not need to be the opposite sex

death is becoming entirely your spirit, the side of you which is unconscious. she is connected (or at least can be) with the rest of the world. in death you are forced to become the rest of your spirit.

the only way to die without suffering is with the acceptance of your loved ones. they are part of you and

the second half is embodied in rest, and stagnation. the inner most desire. those who have no will power are those who have succumb to their second halves. their second half will at the highest stage try to completely devour you. you will kill yourself.

dreams are an attempt at communication from your second half. sleep in the conventional idea of science seems completely irrational. this is the most important reason for sleep.

milquetoast

a man in a suit his being is amorphous and pitch black.

[thesinglesjukebox]

THE NATIONAL - YOU HAD YOUR SOUL WITH YOU

[5.20]

Ooh, you had your soul with you...

Joshua Copperman: I Am Easy To Find is the most challenging The National have been to date, for both intentional reasons and some less intentional ones. All the hallmarks of a great National song are here: production loaded with ear candy (like that guitar line or the third time they've abruptly entered a string interlude), Bryan Devendorf's torrential downpour of snares. But Gail Ann Dorsey merely fills in for Matt Berninger on the bridge rather than complementing him, and the lyrics, written by Matt's wife Carin Besser with Thomas Bartlett, sound increasingly like self-parody -- "I had only one last feather left/I wore it on the island of my head" is like someone threw Boxer into a neuralnet. High Violet has aged well because its songs were whittled down into their best possible forms, the band's internal tension giving way to external effortlessness. I Am Easy To Find has elements of that effortlessness, but this first single is one of a few moments where high-budget gimmicks just barely elevate mid-tier National songs. Yet, they do. [8]

Alfred Soto: The National record music for men who order Pink Rabbits on weekends and smoke too many cigarettes when their wives "let" them go to concerts. No National single lacks for odd hooks: here, the distorted guitar figure ping-ponging between speakers, an ace string section interlude, and the usual Bryan Devendorf kinetics behind the drum kit. Momentum and an attractively meaningless title -- ho hum, another National single. [6]

Tim de Reuse: So, what is this -- rather, what was this supposed to be? Dry, cluttered electronics under heavily-compressed drums under a soppy string arrangement under a nursery-rhyme melody: none of these pieces fit together. The more you listen, the more incomprehensible details float groggily to the surface. Why does it feel like they forgot to unmute the bass track before exporting? Why are the hi-hats exiled to the edges of human perception? Why feature a guest vocalist if you're not going to let her do anything? Perhaps the most confusing part is that The National could've easily continued selling out stadiums for decades to come by just writing High Violet over and over again, which shouldn't be hard given that from 2005 to 2013 they basically released one really good album four times with increasing amounts of reverb. That's not the outcome I dream about for a band I have this much emotional investment in, but I'd rather daydream about that than listen to this awkward pileup. [2]

Thomas Inskeep: This doesn't sound like anything I've heard recently; it sounds original, the sound of a band in the studio doing lots of things they've never tried before because they've realized they can. And on this song at least, the National can -- this is dynamite, especially drum-wise. And that's before the unexpected vocal appearance of Gail Ann Dorsey, whose rich, full voice initially sounds as if dropped in from another song. And her harmonizing with Matt Berninger is gorgeous. [7]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: Matt Berninger's rich baritone was always one of The National's big draws, or at least one of the only things that made them stand out. The other: Bryan Devendorf's ability to make his drums sound simultaneously austere and elastic. Removing one of these elements isn't a complete dealbreaker, but the skittering electronics here are shallow ornamentations that show how the band is running out of ideas. [3]

Vikram Joseph: Bryan Devendorf's percussion has always been the National's secret weapon, giving their songs a skittish, propulsive anxiety that tessellates perfectly with Matt Berninger's strange metaphors and sad non-sequiturs. But despite its kineticism, it feels effortless, an integral part of the song. On "You Had Your Soul With You", the percussion becomes a jarring, distracting sideshow, as if it and the jittery synths are pursing each other around the back of a stage while a key expository scene unfolds in the foreground. It's no coincidence that the strongest part by far is the lush, string-soaked middle eight, where guest vocalist Gail Ann Dorsey delivers the best line in the song: "You have no idea how hard I died when you left." Her vocals fold beautifully into Berninger's, and the many female guest slots on the forthcoming album bode well (who can forget the shatteringly beautiful duet between Berninger and Annie Clark on their cover of "Sleep All Summer"?). The band's clumsy, scattershot use of electronics, however, does not. [5]

Josh Love: I feel like a hypocrite pushing back against this brighter, more dynamic iteration of The National after I'd gotten so ground down by their miserablist shades of gray that I didn't even bother giving their last album a fair shake (and I counted myself a big fan even up to and including Trouble Will Find Me). Still, "You Had Your Soul With You" just sounds like Vampire Weekend's or St. Vincent's nervy, busy aesthetics lazily grafted onto Matt Berninger's solemn vocal burr. [5]

Katherine St Asaph: A genuinely striking intro -- those 15 seconds of jerky guitar panning are both arresting and a great test of whether one of your earbuds has crapped out -- built on the watery foundation of a song by Coldplay, or for that matter The National. The former sinks into the mush; the latter twitches with the fripperies too much to swoon. [5]

Iris Xie: "You Had Your Soul With You" just reminds me of the discomfort of trying to listen through some of my brother's early '00s alt rock as a 10-year-old, and trying to understand what was so good and "adult" about it, and was I missing something? (The answer is no.) This sounds like someone trying to make a drum and bass track, but with... actual instruments? The sensation of listening to this song is like watching a Windows Media Player equalizer move and shudder around, and you pay more attention to the little spiky discrepancies than the song. I do like the post-chorus instrumental where the discordant drum work suddenly opens up, like the sun after the rain has ended, but then the muddiness resumes. Combine this with a smooth but slightly suffocated delivery, and I feel messier and scattered than before I started listening to the song. I guess that suits the lyrics, but the song sounds unclear, even to itself. [5]

Iain Mew: For all the superficial electronic additions, it sounds vital in a classic, immediately familiar way that The National haven't in a while. Matt Berninger is once again a man suspended in crisis, picking his way between collapsing velvet walls in total calm while the drums tell of secret adrenaline surges. Well, the first half does anyway. The second half is new in a different way, with its open expanses, Gail Ann Dorsey guest vocals and accelerating string arrangement that had me searching "You Had Your Soul With You" + "Owen Pallett." They each work, but the resulting feeling is a bit awkward: two contrasting styles of "return to form," squashed into one track. [6]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[weiss-royal-schnee]

My Spoiler Free Video Game Review: Unravel & Unravel 2 PS4, XBOX One, PC (Review for PS4)

If there was one word to describe both the original unravel and its’ sequel, it would be pure wholesomeness. Not with the just the designs of the characters either though I will say that it definitely helps attribute to that. However, throughout playing both games their stories and the overall aesthetics really help with the overall vibe of the games. Because of this, it allows the underlying themes of their respective games to be very charming and adult while not come off as hamfisted or cheap.I will say that the themes of friendship, family, and bonds have been done many times in media and for this game it’s no exception; however this is not necessarily a bad thing. In fact in many respects it's never a bad idea to tackle themes that are reused by other pieces of media. I for one personally love seeing new IP’s with age-old concepts, themes, and moral done in a different way. While both unravel games doesn’t necessarily do anything particularly “new” so to speak. ColdWood has done an amazing job with their visual storytelling and have a created the protagonist, Yarny, the visual vocalpoint of both games’ themes. While they are very familiar themes the don’t feel reused, but nostalgic. Like rereading one of your favorite stories from your childhood. For this review I decided to look at both of these game for 2 reasons. One is because the original Unravel had always been on my “games to play’ radar for some time. Since the sequel was recently released back in June I decided that now was a better time than any. Two, is because both were released as a bundle so I decided to tackle two birds with one stone. Let us begin this review with Unravel, created by ColdWood Interactive and published by EA originally released in 2016.

Visuals/Sound/Performance: Unravel

The visuals in this game really speak for itself, this game is absolutely beautiful. Because of the visuals, it really help amplify the atmosphere and overall tone of the game. When there is any snow section you really feel the cold with how well visual and sound design is. I played this game on the PS4 and it always ran at a constant 60 fps. The soundtrack for this game is also equally charming. Ranging from quiet violin and woodwind ambiance to big bombastic pieces with sessions of instruments. While no huge orchestrations, the music does help the mood and the setting of the game. The animations of Yarny himself really give a lot of life to his character vene though his is nothing more than… well yarn.  

Story/Character(s): Unravel

The best way to describe the story of Unravel is that it is just a story of life. A very simple slice of life story with themes of family, communication, death, and even drug abuse. The game starts off with a cutscene of an elderly lady in what she seems to be reminiscing about her past with her family. Then as she walks up her stairs a ball of yarn drops from her basket and Yarny appears and the game starts. A very, very simple beginning however it does work for setting the overall tone and mood. This game doesn’t necessarily have a structured “plot” (e.i character arcs and/or development). The story mostly revolves around you (Yarny) mending broken bonds and helping fill in the memories inside a scrapbook. You experience the story by going through pictures or this game’s stage select. In each level you’ll see people/memories frozen in time that you collect automatically as you go throughout the stage. It’s lucid way of storytelling, but it does work. That said though, while this game does take it’s messages seriously, it doesn’t really go to deep with them either. For some it doesn’t necessarily have to be deep or complex since it could come off as preachy, but for others it may come across as basic or even shallow.

While Yarny doesn’t have any real personality to him, I did enjoy playing as him. Even though he basically yarn as previously mentioned his expressions and reactions to certain events in the story just makes it an overall pleasure to see him succeed. Whenever he “closes” (they just get thinner and smaller) his eyes and clutches a yarn piece close to his chest, it just makes me just go “awwwwwww.”

Gameplay: Unravel

Unravel is a physics based puzzle platform akin to games like Limbo, Inside, and Portal. You’ll mostly be using mechanics based around Yarny’s yarn. You can grapple up to different high to reach places. Slingshot yourself up to platforms or ledges. Move small objects and swing yourself all over the place. Since there is only much yarn you can use, since you use the yarn from Yarny’s body, you can only go so far. Throughout the stages you can find large wads of yarn that basically act as both your save point and refill. You can also tie yourself to any point with a yarn piece wrapped around it.

The games’ structure very similar to Mario 64 in how there are many stages or levels within a hud world or two rooms in this case. There are 9 stages in the game that are represented by pictures. Each stage you go into has different environments and challenges. There are secret collectables that are actually pretty well hidden within the games level design. Speaking of level design, something that is both appreciated and not so appreciated is that since you do learn all the mechanics right off the bat. This does make the levels feel similar only made different with the added challenge and enivornments. There are also problems where I had tried to tie myself down to one yarn piece but it connected to another object that I didn’t want to connect to. The physics for Yarny could of been better as well, not that they’re bad no. Yarny does feel a bit too heavy and stiff for something made entirely out of yarn (and a bit of wire but that’s getting off topic). This also goes for the objects as well, many of the items you push around don’t really have a weight to them. It would have been really interesting to see the more of these items in more creative physics based puzzles, but as they are they don’t do really much other than “push this here to get to a high ledge”. This game is also short you can finish it in an afternoon, I only clocked in about 6 hours. But for the price I paid only being around 30$ for 2 games (or just 15$) I would say for the experience alone it was worth it. The alone without the bundle is also 20$ but I’d still say go get it.

Conclusion: Unravel

This game was truly a treasure to experience. It was very fun with some minor frustrations towards the end game. Definitely recommend this game to people who want just a relaxing game experience when they have an afternoon to kill. I also recommend this game to anyone who is an artsy video gamer who loves atmosphere and aesthetics in their games.

Score: 7.5

[thatswhenyourefrom]

Sunday’s Best - “Poised to Break” & The “Californian”

I wanted to give insight into the checkpoints of the external forces that make me who I am today. I won’t deny that most of these pieces will mostly stem from my adolescence (and also mostly be music), but I still act as clay in the presences of art around me. The selected pieces (or collections of pieces) may be precise or vast, so expect varying lenses. Most of what I wanted to bring to this conversation were my hidden gems; pieces I hold so true to me and me only. I came to a realization recently that some of my favorite albums and some of my favorite movies do not stick to some of my peers. I don’t expect them too. I also don’t expect to sway any opinions or justify any of my opinions. The expectation is to usher you in to the closest parts of me.

I first heard Sunday’s Best in 2002 on a Canadian tv show called Undergrads before I was in the double-digits. It was a background song (reused again in the end credits), but the chorus stuck in my head. Whether it be hummed, sang, or just spinning around in my head, the song and the sound was stuck (and remains to be to this day). This song has built a house on top of my brain.

In the early 2000’s, the internet was picking up a lot of steam, and even though I was a young little guy, i started to learn my way around it at a young age. Yet still, there was difficulty in finding what I was looking for. I needed to find the artist of this song and the name of the song and download it on Napster or Ares or Kazaa or Limewire (or……). When a certain mood would strike, I would feel almost nostalgic and go on journeys to find a soundtrack list of the songs involved with this show. The hunt for the past is what I craved, and still do. One day I found the Undergrads website, put up by MTV when they used to make websites for each individual show on their rotation. It was a flash site and you could navigate around a little picture and highlight items for more information. One setting to navigate was a bar. In that bar was a jukebox. In that jukebox was the soundtrack list.

I began downloading every song I could. To be entirely honest, I think that these two Sundays Best songs were relatively easy to find, since the rest of the soundtrack was made up by obscure Canadian power pop bands. After listening to the first song I downloaded I knew I had found it; the song was called “Saccharine”.

I mark this song as my touch point for what I would later call emo music. The cul de sac that now exists with the houses of The Promise Ring and Texas is the Reason would most likely not exist is I didn’t hear “Saccharine” when i was nine years old. It fit right in with the other music I liked at the time like Jimmy Eat World who had just brought the light of Bleed American to the world. I get amped in the same way when I hear “Saccharine” as I do “Sweetness” by Jimmy Eat World; youthful, energetic, a little pain, and most of all nostalgia.

[If you would like to split hairs for a minute, I really love the poppy sound of this song and it‘s a much more of a power pop/college rock sound that I was attracted to than something classically emo, but it paved the way, so i digress.]

The hooks still get me. The riffs enliven me. At the very least, you can walk away from this song thinking it it is a catchy bastard. If anyone in the world can take a step back, look in on this song, and for even a second understand that this is the foundation for some person’s entire musical world, you have found me out. I am an open book at that point.

This is one song.

There is another Sunday’s Best song in the soundtrack for Undergrads and it also rang in my head, but to a much lesser extent. “White Picket Fences” is a much more reserved song by comparison to “Saccharine.” Quieter, yet way more dynamic. It grows so much. From what I remember from Undergrads, the audience only hears the last section, a theme that is bigger and hookier than the mood the rest of the song lays.

These two songs remained on my iPod for years.

When I was around the ages of fifteen and sixteen, I decided that i really needed to figure out all of this mumbo jumbo and really hammer down the music that has plagued me for years. What is that sound I am looking for? I want more Sunday’s Best. Can’t just search indie rock. Can’t search punk. Can’t search anything. The keyword “emo” was found and i had suddenly discovered a bible.

I spent a ton of time getting to know a ton of new bands which continue to dominate the music I like today. In this discovery of bands, I also learned much about record labels, including Polyvinyl records. Guess who put out Sunday’s Best’s music.

I decided that I would make the gamble and buy the CD “Poised to Break” by Sunday’s Best from the Polyvinyl store. I call it a gamble, because I have been severely bitten by looking in deeper to a bands output only to find out that the single I love is by far the only thing I could find likeable. This is not the case. This album is ten songs of exactly what I love.

“The Hardest Part” is a strange opener, because it’s kind of big and heavy. The chorus is yelled for Christ sake. It’s easily the angriest sounding song for an otherwise mellow band that I would call energetic at most. Partially uncharacteristic, but still a damn fine song. Track 2, “Bruise Blue” would fit right in with the soundtrack of Undergrads (and parallely my life). It’s calm, full of hooks, emotional. Great. Followed by “Bruise Blue” is “White Picket Fences” and “Saccharine”. At this point, my thought it “well I have all of the best songs out of the way.” “Indian Summer” blows that away with a track that I am so surprised isn’t heralded as an indie rock classic. This song wants be on every mixtape and MTV show until the end of time. “When is Pearl Harbour Day” is an awesome song about nostalgia, including the following line which rings in my head all of the time: “I hate nostalgia, it tries to hard to remember only the easy parts.” Track 7 and 9 are both energetic ones. Track 8, “Looks Like a Mess” is a broody, melodramatic song that I am undeniably in love with. “Winter Owned” rounds out the album and brings it back to the energy of track 1 and employs the same mixed singer chorus. The final track (and bonus track) is called “Congratulations”. Full of hooks, personal experience of naivety and confusion. The secret track is an instrumental song I am sure they used to open sets with. I am glad they included it because it’s loud, slow and cool. To me, each track is unskippable.

The whole album sounds like a soundtrack to a teen drama show that were hugely popular in the late 90’s going into the early 2000’s. Shows like Buffy, Dawson's Creek, 90210, and so many others were drenched in naive and intense emotions, stories of love and personal growth, and youth culture which made them a perfect place for this type of music. I am lucky i got to grow up in the times when I did where I can look up to those people on the screen, then be them, then look back on them with a familiar nostalgia.

Years later I would find that Polyvinyl holds a “Garage Sale” where they sell their surplus records and cd’s for next to nothing. While flipping through the garage sale, I had discovered Sunday’s Best had a second full length. I must have unconsciously ignored this release due to my fear of ruining the sanctity of my entire musical foundation. Do I risk it? What if it sucks and it’s ten boring songs? Or what if they sound like other more popular bands of now? It did come out in 2002 when this type of music was the mainstream. This is more than just a $3 gamble.

I bought it. It’s called “The Californian”. It’s better than the first LP.

Again hitting a ten song track count, “The Californian” is a succinct mood of an album. Much more consistent in tone, the songs are a lot more mellow than the ones on the first LP. This doesn’t mean that it lacks dynamics or moments of intensity. But it does mean there’s less yelling, head banging, and anthemic lyrics. What arises is my own personal therapy. Whether it be because I found a lot of this music (emo) in the autumn seasons, or if my mood just drew my to these sounds during fall, I always return to my classics around this time. Monday was a brisk day and I put in “The Californian” and it immediately hooked a line to the center of my heart. The air reminded me to being a young person and being in high school and college and time passing and old friends and how I used to feel so big, and the songs from “The Californian” were not there to yell at me; they were there to hold me like mother to her child. Therapeutic.

Quick track by track: The album launches into “The Try”. Coming off of the first album, you immediately know this album has more pieces to each song (production wise) creating a huge sound. But it’s not wasted. Every melody is catchy as all hell. “The Try” reigns that in. Track two, the title track, continues this pace. The chorus bops around a bit. “Don’t Let It Fade” is the single. Very quiet. Very somber. The bridge is my favorite part. “The Salt Mines of Santa Monica” has more energy than the last two so it sounds like a bigger “Poised to Break” song. The second singer has great contributions in the pre-chorus. He is really being used in a more calculated way. “If We Had It Made” comes in with massive church bells sound. One of my favorite songs. I love the bells. I don’t entirely know what the song is about, but the chorus moves me. Track 6 is a rocker. Even so, it’s consistent. “Without Meaning” was used in a Gilmore Girls and it’s directed melodrama fits that vibe really well. “Beethoven St.” is pure Sunday’s Best. If you wanted to write a song like them, copy this song. “Brave But Brittle” has a lot of the classic emo riffs. The way the intro falls over itself and then morphs into have arpeggios. Another favorite of mine. The last track is easily my least listened to song, but that’s because I usually reach my destination listing to this album in the care. It’s great though and I kick myself for missing it.

(I could give more in depth track-by-track if requested, but that isn’t necessarily the point of the writing.)

This band and these two lengths are an emblem of my growth. They are a tree that has stood my whole life and I am still sustained by its fruit. The sound that is contained in these albums is contains a definition of who I am and what I love. When you cannot articulate a feeling with direct words, you use art. That’s what artists do. Though I could never imagine conjuring this feeling inside of anyone else with my own art, I am glad I can direct others to this album and this feeling. It it’s hooks can get in and you let yourself get pulled, you can be me.

-luke

[black-wolf066]

Happy Hour Hysteria

Summary: (Season 7) Flu season has hit Hyperion Heights and Regina is in over her head at the bar. Thankfully Henry and Rogers are there to help.

Words: 2153

((((((A/N: This is a prompt idea that I couldn’t resist taking. The squad goals started off so strong at the beginning of the season and then we saw nothing else from the three since, haha. Tagging @theonceoverthinker for her help with the title, it went from “Happy Hour Mania” to “Happy Hour Hysteria”.

Prompt idea by @mcbrideannemgt

Roni’s Bar. I’d like to see an episode in Season7 where Roni’s bar is so busy that she asks Rogers and Henry to help man the bar and they agree. It turns out they are brilliant at pouring drinks, serving customers etc. Total team effort impressing Roni completely. Rogers takes no nonsense from drunk customers either

Anyway onward with the story. I hope I did your prompt justice!)))))

Happy Hour Hysteria

Flu season.

Every small business owner's worst nightmare.

Roni's was beyond crowded, and with Regina's staff of two down for the count, she was definitely in for quite a rough night.

Though in the beginning, it hadn’t exactly started out that way.

It had gone as per usual in her routine as a bartender. The regulars had all showed up right after work, patrons that Regina absolutely loved dealing with because she knew exactly how to handle them (keep the alcohol flowing and they typically kept to themselves). Roughly after nine, the hordes had picked up as if on cue. It was a Friday night after all and as the younger masses came in to celebrate their weekend, the older regulars had left before the establishment got too loud with chatter and music.

It was all something Regina could handle with or without Adam and Mia there to help. Nothing more than a normal night on the job. What wasn’t normal was the fact that they didn’t stop coming from all angles of her bar.

The inside and the veranda were bursting at the seams with people of all ages and sizes; the number undoubtedly beyond what was considered safe for fire code and regulation.

And as she scrambled around to fill orders and sanitize glasses to reuse; only one thought crossed her mind in all the chaos. If she got fined for anything tonight, Lucille would be swinging giddily while her fireballs were currently out of commission.

“Hey, sweet cheeks! We need more beers!”

And if that buffoon at the far corner table didn’t stop yelling and calling her sweet cheeks, the baseball bat was coming out sooner.

In all the rushed motions to get everyone served, she almost missed the movement from the corner of her eye as someone boldly walked behind the counter. She whirled around; about ready to rip the person a new asshole, when she froze.

Henry took only a second to grin sheepishly and apologetically for startling her, before bending to grab three Bud-Lights from the mini fridge to help serve the next impatient group of patrons.

Regina relaxed and smiled briefly in relief at his profile.

Help had arrived in the form of her cursed son, and with a bit of the pressure lifting at his arrival; she dove right back into the fray.

(***)

“Sorry about earlier; it just looked like you could use the help.” Henry finally stated the moment they were given a small respite.

“Don’t apologize,” she answered immediately as she garnished a glass with an orange slice and filled it with Blue Moon from the tap. “Your arrival was a godsend tonight.”

“What happened, anyway?” He pivoted to grab the Skyy vodka from the middle shelf to pour out three shots. “Where are Adam and Mia?”

“Flu,” was her one worded response as the masses picked up again.

(***)

Somewhere along the second wave of customers, Rogers had shown up.

At first, Regina thought he was called in for a complaint. It was exactly what she didn’t want or need at the moment; which gave her all the more reason to believe it was the case.

Thankfully, it wasn’t so.

He was dressed down far too casually to be on duty or on call tonight, and his stance wasn’t stiff but relaxed. As he moved away from the entrance, she glimpsed him staring at the crowd in bewilderment before she had to look away to grab the money for the Jaeger Bombs.

“Oh crap,” she barely heard Henry mutter over the loud din.

“What?”

“I forgot I invited Rogers to meet me here.” He answered as he briefly waved when Rogers’ attention finally shifted to the two of them. “He’s been so adrift after the Eloise case; I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get him out and about more.”

“So you invite a recovering alcoholic to hang out at a bar?” she deadpanned.

“I invited him to meet me here.” Henry repeated; the old, familiar sass allowing Regina just a moment to believe that the curse was broken and everything was alright. “We were supposed to go see a movie.”

“Well,” she waved him away as she took another order. “Don’t let me and this place stop you.”

Before Henry could retort at her dismissive behavior (she honestly didn’t mean to sound so flippant, but there were more important matters to attend to at the moment); Rogers walked behind the counter, nodding with a smile of greeting and understanding as he shifted to help. Regina was just about to tell him he didn’t have to, but his gentle smile and piercing eyes prevented the words from tumbling out.

So they worked; each one of them forming an efficient rhythm around each other with ease. Henry—she knew—could handle it; having heard the stories involving Lucy’s ballet recital. It was Rogers; however, that she found herself more impressed with. He may not have been as graceful as his counterpart, but he was holding his own fairly well with mixing and pouring out the orders.

But the more they operated around each other, the more the pangs in her heart grew (almost screaming to be noticed). She didn’t have the time to notice it though. Didn’t have the time to contemplate or reminisce on how well they had worked as a team even back in the Enchanted Forest.

At least, she didn’t have the time to think about it until she finally did.

By the stroke of midnight, the crowds had slowly ebbed and dwindled to something more controllable. The nightlife in her bar was still lively, but they no longer had the hordes blocking up the counter and stools—the space currently being occupied by a group of frat boys egging each other on with shots of tequila and lime.

With the extra manpower—despite thanking them and reassuring that she could handle it from this point on—Regina was finally able to wait on and clean up the tables. It was as she was wiping down one of the booths; her eyes traveling back to watch the boys man the counter, that those thoughts reared their ugly heads.

It was comforting and heartbreaking all at once to have them both near again but not have them remember her. To have Henry not recognize her as his mother for the second time in their lives. To have all her painstaking progress with Killian—of getting him to break down his walls and open up—unraveled back to the start. She missed how her son—even with a daughter of his own—still came to her for advice as he and Ella raised Lucy. She missed those quiet nights with Killian spent conversing and reminiscing when sleep eluded them both. She missed the others too, she missed Ella and Tiana and the bear hugs Lucy would give her. She missed how Henry could get Jack so worked up over Star Wars (her son had and still was a natural storyteller; Jack didn’t need to see the movies to fall in love with the tale and its characters).

She—

“Hey, sweet cheeks! Another round of beers for me and the boys!”

Regina startled out of her thoughts, and the moment the words sunk in; she huffed out air through her flared nostrils in annoyance.

In spite of her bar being overly busy (a recipe for disaster if there ever was one), there surprisingly hadn’t been as many incidences tonight as she originally thought—the few rowdier ones easy to manage between the three of them and whoever they came to the bar with. Regina had a feeling it was due to Rogers’ continued presence. Most of them knew he was a detective for the district of Hyperion, and whether he was on duty or not, none of them seemed willing to test their luck with him—not when he’d pierce them with a look that words couldn’t manage when things started to get out of hand.

Then there was the corner table; the loud jackass with his equally loud and boisterous friends.

She was thankful that, during the wave, one of the quieter men—designated driver by the looks of it—would come up and order their pitchers of preferred ale for the group. But that still didn’t stop Pig McGee and his loud mouth from being heard over the din of noise every once in a while.

“Sweet cheeks, ya listenin’?!”

The thin ice that was her patience for him broke into several sharp pieces.

“When you start talking to the owner of this establishment with respect, then maybe she will.” Rogers answered before she could pivot around and give him a piece of her mind.

A few surrounding bystanders quieted to watch the exchange as Rogers moved from behind the bar; standing tall with the no-nonsense air surrounding him as he walked.

“Who asked you?!” The burly buffoon shot back.

“Mike, take it easy man.” The sober friend piped up with his hand on Mike’s shoulder; warily eyeing Rogers and the scowl on his face as he came closer. “This isn’t worth getting kicked out.” The others at the table murmured in agreement.

“Heed your friends’ advice, mate.”

“Not your mate.” Mike sneered as he clumsily stood. He was easily a head and a half taller than Rogers, and solidly built like a mountain; and from the corner of her eye, Regina could see Henry reaching under the counter for Lucille. “I ain’t disrespecting nobody. All we want are some beers,” he gestured around. “This is a bar, ain’t it? So why don’t you go back behind that counter, and let the pretty lady serve us.”

“Mike, he’s a cop, I’m not bailing you out if you get locked in the drunk-tank again.” The sober friend tried yet again, with one of the others standing to help.

“I suggest you either sit down or get out.” Regina affirmed and cut off whatever Mike was going to say; stepping forward before things could get any more out of hand. “This is still my bar, and if you continue to disturb myself or my patrons.” She gestured to everyone as a whole, but she was mostly referring to the group of women who had had to move tables to get away from them. “Then I have the right to kick you out and not allow you back in.”

Mike looked ready to argue—his face no longer flushed from the alcohol—but Rogers and a few other men moved to stand next to her.

“Come on, man, let’s just leave. S’not worth it.” Mike’s third friend slurred as he and the fourth man stood and pulled their coats off the back of the chairs.

There was more back and forth, but eventually, the four left; Regina cringing when the door was slammed shut more forcibly then was necessary from Mike.

Well, at least the glass didn’t break. She mused as she thanked the men for their help. She then turned her full attention on Rogers, stopping him with a hand on his arm before he could go back to the counter.

“Thank you.” she shot him a grateful smile and squeezed his forearm gently to show the sincerity of her words.

He smiled humbly back, his cheeks and the tips of his ears tinting a slight pink as he responded to take the praise away from himself. “Yes, well, you looked more like Negan then Roni for a second there; figured it was only right to step in.”

She snorted and smacked his shoulder. “You know I don’t watch that show.”

“Yet you still got the reference.” He responded with a wider grin.

(***)

By the time the bar closed at two, and everything was cleaned up and restocked by two-forty-five; the three of them were exhausted as they moved and collapsed into one of the booths.

“Thank you, I don’t think I could have survived tonight without you both.” Regina stated as she raised her can of soda in a toast.

Henry and Rogers did the same.

“With all the free beers I’ve been grabbing, it’s the least I can do. Gotta earn my keep somehow.” Henry joked.

“Not to mention the replacement cake and all the beignets you sent to the station.” At Regina’s startled look, Rogers raised a brow and grinned. “Didn’t think I would notice that, did you?”

“Hell of a cop.” She responded with a mirth-filled huff. “To friends.”

She clinked her can with theirs as they chorused back, “To friends.”

Regina didn’t know how she was going to break the curse and save Henry at the same time, but she wouldn’t give up. It was just the low moment before the hero fought back. That’s what Henry always believed, and so too would she.

She had her boys and their family to protect after all.

[isabellaflynns]

Liveable | Self Para

“The worst of it is I am perpetually being punished for nothing; this governor loves to punish, and he punishes by taking my books from me. It is perfectly awful to let the mind grind itself away between the upper and nether millstones of regret and remorse without respite; with books my life would be liveable – any life.”

– Oscar Wilde: His Life and Confessions, by Frank Harris

The therapist sits on a chair opposite Isabella, on the other side of the glass wall. She’s wearing a white coat, just like the other doctors, and a name-tag which reads DR. SHORE. She has red hair, just like Kristen Kringle. This is the third time she has come to see Isabella, and Isabella has yet to say a single word to her.

“What are you reading?” she asks. She always tried to engage Isabella with a question, and it’s incredibly irritating.

Isabella silently turns the page of her newspaper. She has read it twice this morning, but she knew that Doctor Shore was coming today, so she times her reread perfectly with the other woman’s arrival. Her eyes scan the lines of text listlessly, not actually taking it in.

“You know,” Doctor Shore says in a thoughtful voice, “I’m sure I could speak to the guards about getting you a book.”

Isabella goes still. This is clearly bribery, but she wants a book so badly that her chest hurts. She wants to touch its cover, to flick the pages and hear the familiar sound of them sliding against one another, to inhale the scent of paper. She misses books so much.

“They told me there were a lot of books in your home,” Doctor Shore says.

She is the first person who called it that. Your home.

Isabella looks up sharply and doesn’t say anything.

“You obviously like to read,” Doctor Shore says. “I’ll see about getting you some books, okay?” She stands up, leaving more than half an hour before the session is supposed to end. “We’re not all bad guys, Isabella,” she says with a small smile.

Sleeping here is almost impossible. The screams and cries of the other inmates go on and on throughout the night, and Isabella puts her head under her pillow. She hates loud noises. But the pillow isn’t thick enough to block out the sounds, and she sings to herself softly.

“Moon river… Wider than a mile… I’m crossing you in style… Someday…”

She pulls her bedsheet tighter around herself and imagines that Edward is right beside her, holding her close the way he used to, stroking her hair.

Christmas Day drags by as any other day does. Isabella only knows it’s Christmas because they serve her a roast for dinner. Pale white chicken and soft potatoes and thick brown gravy, slopped into a plastic prison tray. Isabella looks at it when it slides through the small rectangular hole of her cell, and she wants to vomit.

The dinner of kings, she thinks, and then she walks over to retrieve it. She sits down on her bed with the tray on her lap. “Merry Christmas, Isa,” she says to herself.

She hopes the letters made it to her friends on time.

Every morning a copy of The New York Daily News is delivered through the small letterbox in the wall of her cell. She is usually awake before they deliver it. She reads it as slowly as possible, savouring every article, staring at every photograph, even going as far as to read the job adverts. Anything to make the first reading last as long as possible, she does.

And then she rereads it, this time checking for grammatical errors, and mentally proofreading it. Sometimes, if she’s so bored that she can hardly stand it, then she drags this task out, and pauses with her editing to do something else, only to come back to it in an hour or so. But, usually, combing through the entire paper takes about two hours.

Finally, she tears the words out one by one, carefully, and lays them on the floor of her cell. She rearranges them into stories or poetry. She makes collages from the pictures, carefully tearing figures from adverts and photographs. And, for the rest of the day, she makes new sentences from old ones, and appropriates facts to make stories.

By the time they turn the lights out, that day’s paper has been completely cut up and rearranged. And, the next morning, Isabella sweeps the words into a pile in the corner of her cell to potentially reuse when the next paper arrives.

On her eighth day in Arkham Asylum, Isabella writes to Edward again. She knocks on the glass of her cell until the guard comes over, and then she requests to be taken to the rec room. It’s the only place they’ll let her use pens.

She sits at the metal table and holds the pen to the paper. She writes Dear Edward, and then stops. She has no idea what to write to him. Everything she wants to say has already been said in the previous two letters she has sent. She loves him, she misses him, things are terrible here, she’s sorry. There is nothing left to say. Edward hasn’t been to see her for over a week. He never replied to her last letter.

Her hand shakes a little. I miss you very much, she writes. There is so much white paper left to fill. So, she writes about how her day was, and how the food is here, and how the therapist said she might be getting a book for her cell. As she writes, it gets easier, and she pretends she’s telling him this to his face, sitting right across from him, holding his hand, talking to him.

She signs it, Forever yours, Isabella.

The medication they give her in her food makes her tired and distant. She sleeps a lot. Doing anything is so much effort, and everything feels so far away, separated by a thick glass sheet that she cannot break. Her emotions are so dulled, like she’s living in a fog. When she wakes up, her first thought is I am in an insane asylum.

There are so many sickly colours here. The walls are pale green, and the doctor’s coats are white, and the lights are anaemic yellow. The food is watery and beige. Nothing is bright. When she catches sight of herself in the reflection of her glass cell, she looks washed out and pale. As if she’s fading.

For a long time, Isabella thinks. There are so many hours to kill in here.

She thinks about Harley giving her the friendship bracelet with a small, silver, mouse charm. She thinks about Oswald telling her know thy enemy – the first piece of advice he gave her. She thinks about Edward saying he felt like he’d found his partner for life.

I love you too, obviously, he had said. I love you. Isn’t it strange though?

She remembers the sweet scent of apple pie drifting through the farmhouse, barely masking the unpleasant smell of decay and sickness – the aroma of chemicals and medicine and body odour and closed-off rooms with no air.

And she thinks about everything she’s lost.

“Are you going to talk to me today?” Doctor Shore asks with a smile. Isabella is staring at her paper, so she doesn’t see the smile, but she can hear it in the doctor’s voice. She doesn’t move.

“I’m still working on getting you that book,” she continues. “If it could be any genre, what would you want it to be?”

The question is so tantalising. It’s not about Edward, or the farmhouse, or why she’s there. Isabella opens her mouth before she can stop herself and says, “Classic children’s literature.” She looks up from the photograph she was staring at.

Doctor Shore doesn’t react to her speaking. She just nods understandingly. “Yes, I like children’s literature. I feel it gets a bad rap, because it’s for children, but I love it anyway.”

Isabella closes her newspaper. She’s so bored of reading the news. All she wants is a book to hold, but it will come at a price. It will mean cooperating with this woman. The discussion about children’s literature is a ruse, and she knows it. The real questions will come any moment now, and Isabella wants to control the conversation as much as possible.

“You called the farmhouse my home, in our last session,” she says in a flat voice.

“Well, it was, wasn’t it?” Doctor Shore asks. “You lived there for a week.”

“It wasn’t my home. It was our home.”

She expects Doctor Shore to raise an eyebrow at that, or disagree, or make a note of something, but her expression doesn’t change. She looks calm and politely curious, as if there isn’t a pane of bulletproof glass separating them.

“Yours and Edward Nygma’s,” Doctor Shore says. It is stated as a fact.

Isabella feels a shiver run down her spine at the sound of his full name. She always shivers when she hears his full name. “Yes,” she says softly. “Ours.”

Doctor Shore is quiet for a moment. And then she says, “Do you think he feels the same way?”

Isabella hates that question. She hates that everyone thinks she’s some sort of idiot. Harley and Edward and Oswald and even Iris West all seem to think she doesn’t realise that Ed doesn’t feel the same way. She knows he doesn’t. That’s why she had to drug him and handcuff him.

“That’s a ridiculous question,” she says. “I know he doesn’t feel the same way. But he would have. In time.”

She doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, so she picks up her newspaper and stares at it pointedly, not actually reading a word. And she hears the scrape of metal on the floor as Doctor Shore picks up her chair and leaves.

The worst part isn’t the drugs, which make her groggy and slow, or the food, which is insipid and practically inedible, or even the lack of books. No, the worst part is the loneliness.

There’s a thick pane of glass between herself and everyone who comes to see her. Harley hasn’t come back since Isabella sent her away, and she didn’t reply to her Christmas letter. Daisy visits, but she feels distant and separate. There’s been no word from Edward.

Even when she goes to the rec room, she stays away from the other inmates and doesn’t speak to anyone. She just writes her letters and then returns to her cell.

She hasn’t made physical contact with anyone besides the guards for ten days.

Yes, the worst part is the loneliness.

Isabella wakes up to the sound of something sliding through the small letterbox hole in her the wall of her cell. She sits bolt upright in bed and stares at the book on the floor. It’s very thick – probably around six hundred pages – and paperback. It landed face-down onto the floor, so she can’t see the title or author’s name.

She stands up and walks across the cell, and then bends down beside the book and picks it up. It wasn’t damaged in the fall, thank goodness, and she turns it over. The Complete Chronicles of Narnia. Beneath the title is a picture of a lion’s face, with its mane surrounding its head like fire. It’s beautiful, and clearly been read several times, because the edges of the pages are thin and rough.

She strokes the cover with her fingertips and closes her eyes.