#tournament chess board set

[mosharrafdha]

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[schrodinger-swriter]

Can I get lucifer x a reader that loves chess like they are really good

Gn reader pls

If you to not write this please tell me

-L.B Creations

Lucifer x Reader who is very good at chess

Going to make an attempt to get one more post... maybe two if I work fast enough out before I have to call it a day. Hope you enjoy, Anon! C:

I'll try to get to other requests tomorrow!

He likes to consider himself a good planner, and thus good at chess. Now... he's not terrible, but he is no where near his level. He tries not to let it hurt his ego, and honestly? He's a little proud of you for being so good at something! Bonus, if it makes you happy or gives you something to keep yourself stimulated. He wants you to be healthy and that includes mentally.

He might get a little sour after losing a few games, but that's just him being a little competitive when it comes to games...

If you ever enter any chess tournaments he's going to be your loudest cheerleader, he might just kicked out of the event!

Gets you really high quality sets, I'm talking sets with chess pieces made of a rare crystal and boards plated with gold and silver. It can sometimes look a little... tacky... but he wants every reason to spoil you!

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

the counterpart

chapter 8 — fly on the windscreen (final)

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.” You humm. 

Now you saw it. 

—

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

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

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

You think of that evening again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course. 

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

Viktor clears his throat. 

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

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

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

“In your wallet? How scandalous!” 

“Scandalous?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And tonight it hits you right in the gut. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Viktor. Viktor, please—“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You proceed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I truly mean that!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world makes sense again. Or so it seems.

— 

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

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

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

P.S.

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

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

The morning finally starts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Answer it, then.”

“I don’t know if I can.” 

“That won’t ease our quandary.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Viktor chortles. “Is that even a question?” 

Oh fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he falters, coyly chewing on a thin lip.

“I think there’s a remedy for that.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not the word I was referring to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

[kingorqueenofnarnia]

Narnia headcanons

High King Peter the Magnificent

Was the only one that got married out of the four siblings. He married for love, which is extremely rare for Royalty. He had no children, but he loved his spouse/(s) dearly (you may hc his spouse to be of any gender you'd like. Personally, i think Peter is bi.)

Epithets given to him by the narnians include but are not limited to: the Dragon Spirited King, King Peter the Kind-Hearted, Protector of the People, et cetera.

A few of his unofficial titles given to him by people from surrounding countries are: the Warmonger King, the Berserker, and the Bloody Barbarian. He had a reputation of fighting bloody wars and emerging victorious, and was feared all over the Mainland.

Earned the epithet the Bloody Barbarian because he wore blood red war paint on his face every time he rode to battle. It began right under his eyebrows, fanned out over his temples and down to his cheekbones. His blue eyes shone like gemstones against the dark colour; it made him look like terrifying.

Had long hair— it reached the back of his knees at its longest, but he got caught in a fire and had to have it cut to above his shoulders right before they fell out of Narnia.

Became obsessed with braids when he saw dryads braiding each other's hair the day after the coronation. He set up a tradition for himself— with every battle or duel he won, he would add one braid to his hair. It looked very intricate, and the braid count reached close to forty by the time he fell out of Narnia.

Had severe PTSD from all the wars he fought and from being a child ruler. He hid away when the terrors hit, either in the royal library or in Lucy's chambers. He wouldn't speak for hours and hours, and only got brought out of his thoughts when all his siblings gathered to form a cuddle pile to warm him up.

The chief battle strategist of Narnia, taught by Oreius and assisted heavily by Lucy. Came up with truly ingenious plans and formations. From this, stemmed his love for chess. You would often find him and Susan or Edmund holed up in a corner of the castle with a chessboard between them. He and Lucy refused to play each other, because they knew each other's strategising style too well and the battle on the board always came to a stalemate.

An Old Man at heart, truly. He loved to sleep early and wake up with the sun and have a nice, hot cup of well steeped tea as he listened to one of the castle servants read out the news of the day. Early nights and calm mornings were his favourite. Sadly, he did not often get either of those.

Epitome of academic jock. Very well read and had lots of knowledge and always studied diligently, but he preferred being out on the battlefield or in the arena with Rhindon in his hand and his shield on his arm. Introduced rugby to Narnia, and was the Jousting Champion at the annual Inter-kingdom tournaments for eight years straight til Edmund finally gave in to his pestering and participated, and took the trophy home.

His favourite subjects are History, Strategy and— weirdly enough— the Languages. He and Susan especially enjoy calligraphy. Both of them have extensive collections of luxury writing instruments and inks.

Had so many titles that he started hating writing formal missives by the fifth year of his reign. It was too tedious to write out all of them, so he simply hired a court scribe and called it a day. Even now, he considers hiring that faun the greatest idea he ever had.

[scaranation]

༊*·˚ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒’ 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐓

header art by @/kkaags on twitter

Pairing: chess captain!Ayato x reader

Content: fluff, headcannons, modern high school au, ayato is slightly a red flag on this one

You joined the chess club as a newcomer to the game, where Ayato introduces himself as a fellow beginner. You think he's just terrible at chess - after all, how could he lose to you so often? However, as time goes on, you begin to question if you're the one who's been playing into his hands all this time...

a/n - was just rereading ayato lore and remembered he plays chess, so i wanted to write about him doing it in a modern chess setting where he's absolutely whipped for the reader 😭 i cant stop writing about desperate genshin men im so sorry

chess captain!ayato, who’s been harbouring a small crush on you ever since you stepped foot in campus. despite taking different classes, you’d always be the centre of his attention, even if you rarely interacted with him.

chess captain!ayato, who’s elated to see you join the club. the moment you confess to being a beginner, he flashed you a smile before asserting that he, too, was new to the game.

chess captain!ayato, who revelled in the gleeful look on your face whenever you won a game against him. he’d take care to fumble right into your victory each time, just to feel his heart flutter when you smiled.

chess captain!ayato, who’d play exactly as you wanted when you tried book moves for the first time. oh, you were attempting a scholar’s mate? he’d ‘accidentally’ fall right into the trap, feigning shock as you smugly pushed your queen to F7.

chess captain!ayato, who ignored the incredulous looks everyone else shot him when he blundered his way through every game with you. as a highly accomplished player - winning all the tournaments he competed in - it certainly was a sight to see the kamisato ayato open with pawn to H4.

chess captain!ayato, who would only play at his true level when you weren’t looking. his favourite hobby was to push the worst move possible and watch your thinly veiled happiness as you won yet again, pretending to be annoyed when you teased him for his ‘stupidity’.

chess captain!ayato, who would leave ayaka to run the club as his vice captain whenever he was busy in a game with you. he enjoyed the expression on your face as you thought, the light twitching of your lips to murmur ghostly syllables to yourself. he liked to imagine how those lips would feel on his.

chess captain!ayato, who would desperately try to prevent you from realising he wasn’t exactly as bad as you thought he was. when you were talking to your friends about how absolutely hopeless he was at chess, he’d shoot them a silencing look to staunch their shocked expressions. if you tried to look up previous records from tournaments, you’d somehow find yourself in conversation with him and forget about what you were doing entirely.

chess captain!ayato, who’d nod eagerly and let you ‘coach’ him in chess. he’d smile so delicately as you bid him good luck before a tournament, whilst everyone else idly wondered why on earth the feared ayato would need help to be reminded of piece value.

chess captain!ayato, who’d be too immersed to notice you if you walked in on him playing a proper game. you’d be stunned at the way his fingers gracefully snapped the pieces into position without hesitation, the subtle clink of lacquered wood against the board reasonating through the room as he claimed piece after piece. he was nothing like the foolish, impulsive player you’d versed countless other times.

chess captain!ayato, who’d study his opponents with an almost terrifying look of sheer calculation. his eyes would skim emotionlessly over the board, lithe hands almost flying between the pieces and the timer. occasionally, a cold smirk or two would escape - indicative of his incoming victory.

chess captain!ayato, who’d look so wounded when you found out - acting like you’d caught him cheating on your non-existent relationship. you’d only feel embarrassed at having thought you were better than this absolute menace of a player, whilst he apologised time and time again before (timidly) asking you to play one more round.

chess captain!ayato, who’d then offer to properly teach you outside of school hours. of course, he didn’t view them as tutoring sessions - he saw them as dates. or, perhaps, just opportunities for him to admire your face until he reached the stage of his plan where he could ask you out, and you’d be too equally infatuated to refuse.

Checkmate.

༊*·˚

[fan-goddess]

Support for the Queen

Taglist: @sylas-the-grim, @valeskafics, @lovelykhaleesiii, @arcielee, @barbiedragon, @cyeco13, @lunaoieoie,

warnings: Viserys as a kind of shitty dad is mentioned, Brat taming, p in v sex, teasing, praise kink, for the first time ever there is spitting people, breeding kink at the end, also exhibitionism if ya squint,

This is based on this request here

Authors Note: there may be errors, I don’t really know. I tried as much as I could even though I did quite enjoy writing this :)

Series masterlist here

Aemond never actually realised how male dominated the chess world actually was before you’d came into both his life, and the life of the chess world.

Soon, he’d become an undefeated champion for years. None were willing to take a chance of an embarrassing defeat, and instead thought it was better for themselves to surrender their kings early like cowards. It was the same routine, utterly boring and pointless, until he finally met you.

His elder sisters had no interest in chess at all, even though his father had tried hard for years to change their minds. The effort his father went though was shocking to all his kids to say the least. The many varieties of chess sets that were purchased was extortionate, and so was the cost of all the grand chess masters that Viserys had hired to play matches in front of them to try and spark some type of interest. In the end, both attempts failed disastrously.

The most they interacted with one of these attempts was when Rhaenyra his eldest sister got a Barbie themed chess set for her birthday, with Barbie on the side of the whites and Ken on the side of the blacks. She took one look at it and couldn’t stop laughing at how ridiculous it was, much to his fathers annoyance. As according to Rhaenyra, he’d gotten the game custom made and supposedly cost him an absolute fortune.

His father had tried hard with his elder brother too, but like with his sisters, he also soon lost interest in the game. He become a burnout before he could even begin to be forced to compete in any competitions. The lucky bastard...

Viserys though hadn’t really tried with Aemond. Deeming his wish for a prodigy child already gone and hopeless. Though after Aemond had the accident, he’d found himself easily becoming bored just sitting in his hospital room. The crap tv was only showing the same six episodes of some lame kids show, and the lone window only displayed the reflective wall of a tall skyscraper.

Aemond doesn’t remember too much of the hospital, as he was constantly being pumped with some green pills that now he’s older, is surprised how the hospital found it fine to give to a ten year old.

But what he does remember, is that in the corner collecting dust was an old an old chess. It was practically gathering dust. The wood finish looked old and faded, and there were a couple pieces missing. Still, it was a better way to waste time than any else there.

A couple hours later, when Viserys had walked in on Aemond playing against himself, Aemonds “normal childhood” was over. As I’m Viserys eyes, he’d finally found that prodigy kid he so dreamed of to latch onto. From that moment, all Viserys had made him do was tournament after tournament.

It grew tiresome after a while though. As soon after he’d begun to properly compete, Aemond found himself becoming an undefeated champion in his league. None were willing to take a chance of an embarrassing defeat, and instead thought it was better for themselves to surrender their kings early like cowards. It was the same routine, utterly boring and pointless. That was until however, he’d finally met you.

You’d fascinated him since he first met you. The miniature jab you gave him when not even three seconds after looking at the board, and already you were predicting a move just like he could do. It wasn’t much, but it certainly made him begin that road of obsession.

Obsession over you. Obsession over your talent. He even found himself obsessing over the interviews that usually he’d tend to ignore. But after he met you, suddenly he’d find himself having the urge to check the chess monthly magazine, and any other type of news that studied chess, in every store just to see where you would pop up next and who’d you next defeat.

Plus, that little battle of the boards that he’d had with you those months after he’d beaten you. Those were fucking precious to him.

The obsession though didn’t even stop after the two or you had agreed to date.

At the current moment, he’s watching you once again be the only woman competing in this tournament. And once again, he’s watching you completely dominate the pathetic fucks who think just cause they have cocks, they can defeat you without much effort.

To be completely honest with himself, the way you were staring at your opponents with this look of just utter satisfaction and smugness, reminded him of himself. And he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t turning him on a lot.

The little smirk you give the current guy you’ve just put in check, some fucker who looks like you’ve just insulted his mother to his face as you move a previously positioned knight, makes him so hard he feels like he needs to nip to the men’s bathroom to sort himself out.

But he knows that you look for him for support, as much you’ll refuse to say otherwise. And if he was to move and walk away from your match, it’d completely throw you off and make you believe you need those pills the two of you tried so hard to fight with for most of your lives.

His erection only worsens when you finish the match that’ll get you into the quarterfinals, and as you finish your handshake in a sportsmanship manner, you turn to him and wink before walking to your next match.

Aemond can’t help but chuckle in amusement as he looks at your swaying hips. You definitely had to be riling him up on purpose by now. There had to be no way that you hadn’t realised the reason behind why he was positioned awkwardly on his chair as he sat himself down on another seat, to watch you once again dominate the competition.

The next few times though that he’s forced to move to watch your next match, his hands are awkwardly positioned in front of his throbbing dick in a poor attempt at keeping it hidden. Though by the way you turn to him before you start the finals and look down with a bemused smile, it official confirms to him that you now know just how much you were effecting him by your cockiness.

By the end, after you’ve shaken hands with some Belgian fucker looking like sour milk, Aemond feels his instincts working before his head. You’ve barely held the small champion trophy and cheque that they’ve given you, before he’s handing them to a bemused Baela whose been watching the match with him, and dragging you into some abandoned store cupboard and forcing you to sit on a desk that looks as if it’d fall any second.

“What the fuck is your problem?” You snap while Aemond himself chuckles in amusement. You’re cocky act has seemingly fallen into brattiness, yet even while you do it he can see the way your eyes drift down to his crotch where his jeans don’t do well to hide the prominent bulge straining against the denim fabric.

“You princess. You’re my problem.” Is all he says before he’s connecting his lips to yours, and the wet sound of your kissing surrounds the room as it seemingly grows hotter.

At first, Aemond focuses solely on taste of your lips. The lips that currently taste a mixture of the small vodka shot you downed befofe the match and the strawberry lip balm that drives him fucking crazy. But while he’s thinking about how perfect and good you are for him, the feeling of your hand trying to undo his zipper, and you sticking your hand down the front of his jeans to fondle at his erection, breaks him out of his love spell.

The deep groan that rumbles from him is muffled by your lips, and when he pulls away, he smirks at the small you you let out.

“Oh I see! The little brat wants her winning prize…” He smiles as he pulls up at your dress to reveal your soaked underwear. When he pulls that down slowly and teasingly, Aemond nearly groans out loud at the sight of your dripping core all layer for him. All pretty, waiting and desperate for him to fill it.

The sight makes him want to get on his knees and see if you’ll taste as sweet as your lip balm. But as much as Aemond wants to feel your arousal on his tongue, already practically salivating at the thought of tasting you, his erection aches painfully straining at the fabric, reminding him of what you were doing to him minutes previous.

So instead, Aemond only teases you with the pad of his thumb, before moving away before you could finish on his digit. He relishes cockily in the harsh glare you give him, and stands to his full height and brings his jeans and underwear low enough to free himself from his denim restraint.

Aemond can’t help himself from chuckling at the sight of you staring lustfully at him, and so he wastes no time in pushing himself inside of you, and relishing in the high pitched whine you let out before he’s forced to cover you mouth with his hand to quieten you down.

As he thrusts desperately inside of you, he can feel the air of your breaths hurry into pants through his hand as he speeds up to purposefully bully that rough spot inside of you that he knows you love. He can hear you whisper something into the skin within the base of his palm, and releases you mouth from his grasp to hear it.

“Please Aemond! Please let me cum!” You whine as you dig your nails into the skin of his back that you’re able to reach from under his shirt.

“Awe… does my pretty prodigy want to cum?” It’s cruel for him to tease you, he knows it for a fact, and yet it’s so strangely satisfying to do so. His movements dramatically decrease to a snail like pace, and he has to burrow his head into the curve of your shoulder to hide his smile when he hears you whine in annoyance. Like a child when she hears her mum won’t buy her a lollipop…

“You’re such a dick Aemond!” You growl. His head immediately takes itself away from your skin, and his grip on you tightens. When he looks into your eyes, his eyebrows furrows in annoyance, and he can already see the hint of regret on your face as his own turns stony.

“What did you just say?” He murmurs. He can see the way your eyes widen slightly at his calm demeanour, but both he and you know he’s nothing but calm at the moment.

“Come on princess use your words for me now. What did you just say to me?” One of his hands moves to grab ahold and tighten on your jaw, forcing you to make eye contact with him as he moves forward and effectively leans forward to tower over you. If Aemond had any idea on how you were feeling at the sudden atmosphere shift of the room, by the look on your eyes alone, he’d say you were aroused. Very aroused, if the sudden increased wetness he felt meant anything to go by.

An idea comes to mind, and a satisfied smirk appears on Aemonds face as a single thumb of his wedges it’s way into your mouth, and to his amusement, you don’t even need instructions before you begin to suck diligently at the digit with hooded glazed eyes.

“Good girl…” He purrs. “Open your mouth wide now.” And when you do as he says, he wastes no time before collecting some spit on his tongue, and letting it drip from his onto yours. “Now swallow.”

When you do, much to his sadistic amusement, Aemond proceeds to roughly thrust back into you to bully that spot of yours once more. The grip on your body tightening again as he moves and his hips begin to dig slightly into your own.

Soon, once more, the sounds of his and your fucking filled the space of the room. Aemond doesn’t even bother to cover your mouth this time. Let them hear… he thought. Let them hear you being fucked good and proper by him, just as it should be…

You cum around his cock suddenly while he’s thinking, and the sounds of your pleasure go high pitched as your grip on him with your nails leaves small indents into the skin on his back.

Aemond knows that you’re currently on birth control. Both he and you had agreed when you’d agreed to date each other that kids weren’t what two highly successful chess players needed at this time, especially when you were that early in your own career.

Yet as Aemond cums inside of you with a low and deep groan, he can’t help but think about what would happen if his seed actually took. What would happen if a couple months later, he’d be able to lazily stroke a hand over your swollen stomach and think to himself, he did this to you.

[yuurei20]

Leona Info Compilation part 13: Appearance, Spelldrive and Chess

Leona is canonically attractive. Halloween visitors describe him as “so pretty” and “like a statue”, while the attendees at Fairy Gala mistake him for “a fairy of renown” due to his “rugged yet beautiful movement”, saying, “I wish I could be one of the stray locks adorning his face.”

Idia also says that both Leona and Malleus’ faces “are mega-striking”, while Vil is constantly commenting on how attractive (and aggravating) he finds Leona to be.

Leona is—according to Cater—a “Spelldrive legend”, and during Halloween we see a campus guest recognize him not as a prince, but as an athlete she saw during a televised Spelldrive tournament.

Jack says that Leona’s Spelldrive prowess is the entire reason why he enrolled in NRC at all, and despite Leona’s lackadaisical reputation we see that he is an accomplished member of the school’s Spelldrive team.

Ruggie says that he has “ridiculous magic reserves” and his stamina is “nuts” after Leona takes on five members of the Spelldrive club simultaneously for 30 minutes and never once loses the disc, which he refers to as “a warm up.”

While Jack is also an extremely capable Spelldrive athlete (capable of winning matches against older students, much to their displeasure), Jack says he loses to Leona in Spelldrive despite being physically stronger, which he finds frustrating.

When asked if he has a hobby Leona says, “If I had to name something, it’d be chess.” Leona says that he enjoys studying chess boards and getting an idea of what is going on in his opponent’s head by examining their strategies. He used to play a lot of chess when he was a child, “and against big, important grown-ups, too,” who wouldn’t take him seriously, and they would “get all flustered by the end.”

Leona will occasionally refer to chess in conversation, and we learn that he plays chess alone in the botanical gardens, as he hasn’t anyone to play against.

For Idia’s birthday Leona gives him a hand-crafted chess set from his hometown (he says he received it as a gift from his family and never used it, so he thought he would give it to Idia for use in the boardgame club), and the two stop the interview halfway through in order to play against one another.

It is never revealed who, if anyone, won the game.

Leona says that Savanaclaw students will challenge him to chess games on his birthday “like it’s some kinda birthday treat”, but it seems “they barely even know the rules.”

Leona says he has also "poked at" the chess game on his computer.

[rozyrne]

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐑 !

rivalries are put aside, and camaraderie takes their place. and for the golden deer, pulling neck and neck with the eagles and lions despite having the fewest contestants in the ring is all the reason to celebrate! or so rosado and hortensia thought. at the post-tournament grand banquet, the elusian pair have set up a golden deer corner, complete with yellow and cervid decor and drapery, and both hosts arrayed in house colors and face paint. "three cheers for knoll! three cheers for hilda! three cheers for eliwood!" "fear the deer!" a celebration lifting up the class heroes who'd carried them from underdog into the spotlight, and for all the deer who cleared the way valiantly to let them get there: —hip-hip hooray!

FOOD & DRINK:

—  CUPCAKE DECORATING  ╱  from yellow-sugar icing to pretzel antlers to cookie toppings shaped like deer, there's no shortage of supplies to make your cupcakes look any which way you want.

—  CARAMEL MERINGUES  ╱  a triple layer of chocolate and caramel in glass containers, tied off with a bit of string attached to a spoon. perfect to grab and take with you, or feed to a loved one.

—  DOE POPS  ╱  cake pops shaped like deer heads! and something sticking out of each one. a paper fortune? what does yours say?

—  GOLDEN SPICE CIDER  ╱  a warm and buzzy autumnal drink, perfect for the season and sure to banish any chills. both alcoholic and non-alcoholic varieties available.

—  CROUCHING CHOCOLATE, HIDDEN STAG  ╱  a culinary minigame? a table is arranged with a terrarium-like miniature woodland display, complete with moss, trees, golden deer flags, and a herd of deer themselves. one item in this display is made of chocolate. how many things are you willing to bite to find which one it is?

ARTS & CRAFTS:

—  THIRTY-POINT CROWN  ╱  craft your own glorious headpiece with paint, twigs, and twine to show off your deer pride! who can boast the most impressive rack? ( of antlers, duh. what were you thinking? )

—  WOOD CARVING  ╱  for the dexterous and crafts-minded, a setup with display and instructions to carve your own wooden deer to take home. organizers are not responsible for injuries.

—  DEERLY BELOVED  ╱  a stack of deer-shaped paper and pens greet you. "write a compliment and stick it onto its recipient!" the instructions say. if you're fast, maybe they won't even know it's you.

—  READY-TO-PAINT CERAMICS  ╱  a station of unfired bowls and plates and small vases invites you to decorate them however you want! several stencils are provided for the uninitiated, or you can go where your hart takes you.

—  DECORATE A FRIEND  ╱  from washable paint to stick-on sequins, glitter bombs and pinnable deer tails. find a willing victim to array in deer spirit — or make one.

GAMES:

—  FÓDLAN CHESS  ╱  a traditional strategy board game using a triangle-shaped board that can be played by two to three people. the objective is to be the first to move all your pieces to one of the other corners by jumping over your opponents' pieces. are you up for the competition?

—  LIMBO  ╱  everyone knows that being a deer isn't just about strength or smarts, but flexibility. challenge mode: wear an antler crown while playing, and don't let it fall off your head!

—  ANTLER TOSS  ╱  you have five tries to land as many rings on the tines as you can for a prize. if a friend is willing, they can wear the antlers on their head for you to aim at instead!

—  DEER PONG  ╱  the classic party game, with alcoholic and non-alcoholic versions. some say that the non-alcoholic one misses the point of the challenge, but at least it lets everyone play, right?

—  HEADLOCK  ╱  in a classic show of strength, stamina, and bravado, it's time to wrestle like the stags do! put on a headdress of real oaken antlers ( not light, that ) and lock heads with your opponent to throw them to the ground! no use of other body parts or implements allowed.

GUIDELINES:

reblog this ask meme to indicate that your muse is participating! anyone who's reblogged the meme is automatically accepting asks, so no need to double-check. 　

please be mindful of not only waiting for interactions to come to you, but try to be proactive about sending to others too. it's not quite polite to always expect others to do the work! 　

muses from any house are welcome! it's a celebration meant for everyone. 　

this is still narratively part of BOEL, but to keep things separate from the BOEL tags, you may use the tag #GDPride2024 for related posts if you wish!

[gx-gameon]

I think Jaden's room would be the coolest to hang out in for the AU. You know that Jaden took some of Yugi's "vintage" games like Capsule Monster Chess, Monster Fighter, and some older video game systems and such. Sometimes it's good to take a break from Duel Monsters.

100% you are correct.

Yugi is a lover of all games. That was the original point. That man loves board games, video games, and of course card games. He absolutely has a collection.

Then you have Seto ‘I have more money than god’ Kaiba who also loves games.

Then you have Grandpa Muto who runs a game shop.

Uncle Duke, the creator of Dungeon Dice Monsters.

And self proclaimed ‘Uncle’ (“your not is his uncle” -Seto Kaiba) Pegasus. Owner of Industrial Illusions

Jaden has access to just about everything growing up. And you know he brought his favorites with him to school. They are in the Slifer Dorm room. He brought them his freshman year and Syrus and Chumley played with him mostly. Eventually as the year goes on Bastian joins them. If they take one to a common area Alexis will join in (she’s not visiting the boys dorm yet.) Chazz doesn’t join in until much later (first with him being at North Academy and then with him wanting to ‘maintain a distance from the Slifer Slackers’) Once Atticus is back he drags Zane over to join them.

By year two when Chazz sets up that fancy common room he sets up an area just for Jaden’s retro games. Which he’s in luck cause Jaden brought more this year.

I can see mini dungeon dice monster tournaments as well as Calle monster chess matches.

It’s a nice brain break for the kids while also being a challenge. Even though Duel Monsters is their passion it’s nice to have a break every now and then

[reallyromealone]

Figure skater! Ran x chess player! Reader

⭐warnings⭐

Fluff, male reader, two dudes being cute

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Ran was exhausted.

From the plane to his manager's constant talking he was ready to pass out on his bed, the man walking through the halls to get to his hotel room.

Looking down he pulled his card out from his sweater pocket, glancing up only for a second to see an angel.

At the hotel room door beside his own stood a well dressed man in his twenties, a cool and calm expression as he glanced over to see a stunned Ran before saying "it's rude to stare" his voice was so powerful and delicate, like a lotus in a hurricane.

"My apologies... My mother always told me to admire beauty at its finest" Ran said smoothly and the other just rolled his eyes before going into his room.

Ran couldn't stop thinking about him during practice, he and his brother worked on their choreography for the upcoming tournament in a few days.

Then he saw it, a magazine one of the other skaters left behind "greatest chess player of our generation..." Ran mumbled as he stared at his angel on the cover "(name) (lastname)...."

Ran spent the rest of the day watching his matches and he was in awe at how he destroyed his opponents without batting an eye, he once ended an opponent who was supposed to be really good in 45 minutes... It was insane.

They ran into each other again, both going to the same place surprisingly.

"Pleasure to see you again" Ran said to the chess player who begrudgingly sat beside him as they waited for their appointments "it seems we have" (name) said simply while looking out the window of the tailor's shop "how was your day?" Ran asked the other "fine"

"I spent the morning doing my routine with my brother, were figure skaters"

(Name) didn't say anything so Ran continued speaking, taking about his routine and the song and everything "why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want to"

"(Name)? Heres your outfit" Mitsuya said with a kind smile to the man "thank you Mitsuya" (name) said simply before taking his items and rushing out "you know him?" Ran asked the fellow former Toman member who looked back curiously "(name)? Yeah, he's been coming here for a few years, usually to get his tournament outfits tailored better, he tends to wait till he gets here to do it" Mitsuya explained "he's a tough nut to crack, took me three years to learn he had siblings"

This just made Ran want to pursue him more.

The two sadly didn't see each other again till threw months later at one of Mitsuyas fashion shows where (name) sat a few seats away from Ran, watching the show with a passive expression seemingly unaware that Ran was constantly glancing at him.

"Trade seats with me" Ran said to his brother and Chifuyu, the two looking confused but complied at the intensity of Rans stare, looking at each other confused "we meet again~" Ran said resting his chin in his palm "unfortunate"(name) Said as he kept his focus on the models and the clothes they wore "what are your thoughts on figure skating?"

"Never thought about it"

"Well, my brother and I are set to do the winter Olympics next year for Japan"

"Ok"

Ran chatted (name) up the entire show, the poor chess player oversocialized by the end of it all.

He was walking to the entrance when Ran walked beside him "leaving so soon? There's still an after party"

"I have to go practice" (name) said simply, his cab pulling up "I have a proposition" Ran said said to the elegant chess player who looked at him with an intensity like no other.

"And what's that?" He asked with crossed arms"

"If I beat you at chess, you go out with me"

This was the first time he heard laugh, even if mocking it was still beautiful "do you like humiliation?"

"If it means a chance to take you to dinner, absolutely"

And that's how (name) and Ran ended up in a small park infront of a chess board, the two having been playing for three hours.

"And mate" (name) said for the sixth time "you are very bad at chess"

"In my defence! I only learned yesterday night on a YouTube tutorial" ran said getting a small laugh out of (name).

Every time they happened to be in the same location Ran would challenge (name) to a game, the chess player not even aware that the Eldest Haitani was using chess to get close to the other.

"So wait, he just tossed the chess board?" Ran asked incredulously as (name) nodded "yeah, and then two months later I officially beat him"

"Chess is wild" Ran said as he lost once more "once more?" Ran asked with a lopsided smirk and (name) sighed "fine"

"Why do you insist on playing chess if you keep losing" (name) asked softly and ran smiled "because I learned you started chess when you were four from your aunt who smelt weirdly of malt and peprika, you can't stand (food), you don't trust weirdly shaped trees and you want to see a desert"

(Name) looked at him wide eyed before a look of amused disbelief fell upon his face "you sly son of a bitch"

"Guilty"

"Well played Ran Haitani, well played"

"So will you go on a date with me? Or are you still having fun making me look like an idiot?"

"...fine, but I chose the place"

"Deal"

[giftedpoison]

Okay but hear me out. I relate to Andrew (minyard) so heavily with the way he views exy. like i don't get Olympic sports or sports at all really because what is the point. so much is out of your control and frankly it doesn't mean anything.

ironically tho. I do have a kryponite, the same one that Neil and Kevin have, the same one, that if you , allow yourself to touch after it being dormant, you'll find it being the forefront of all your waking thoughts until it feels like it's the only thing worth doing.

chess. now. i've known I love chess since queen's gambit came out. (i've played chess previously but was never exposed to it being more than just a board game you keep in the basement). I've been looking into chess for 2 years hedging on the edge of just doing the damn thing, actively playing, actively seeking out tournaments, and not.

anyway I started to read Ali Hazelwood's book Check and Mate (the only book I've ever read by her) and it's like i set off a fucking bomb in my brain. because I'm chugging through this book like I'm in middle school desperately looking for an escape. because all I want is to listen to people talk about chess the way I feel about chess. and they are a lot. obvi not the main plot but that's what I can't get enough of.

Anyway anyway I started playing chess in my head so chess is a disease and I finally bought the travel chess board I've been eying for two years refusing to let myself buy it despite it being 10 fucking dollars.

[antialiasis]

Chess (the musical)

So Chess is a 1984 concept album and subsequent stage musical with story and lyrics by Tim Rice and music by Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus from ABBA. On the surface, it is called Chess because it is about some chess grandmasters vying for the chess world championship and the woman who leaves one’s employ and enters a relationship with the other. Under the surface, the real reason it’s called Chess is that the real game of chess is the one played between the US and USSR throughout the Cold War (when it was written and set), in which the characters are all pawns being played against each other to serve the interests of the warring states.

That’s a cool concept! Definitely the sort of concept you’d come up with and think, I have to make something about this, and then you try to come up with the details. Tim Rice, apparently, has tried a whole lot of times to come up with the right details: apparently every other production of this musical tries to rewrite the plot, to the point Wikipedia has a comparison table of plot points between different productions. That’s not as in just changing little details around or cutting or adding a song here and there, like you get with many other musicals; it includes stuff like turning a plot involving two chess tournaments against two different opponents a year apart into one with just a single tournament against one opponent, flipping pivotal character decisions and motivations around completely, making the ending the exact opposite of what it was, etc. etc.

For the purposes of this post, the production we actually watched was Chess in Concert from 2008, with Adam Pascal, Josh Groban and Idina Menzel, which is heavily based on the original West End production from 1986 but with some modifications. I will be doing some character analysis rambling, but be aware that with respect to other productions half of what I have to say may just be blatantly wrong. Man, it must be a trip to be in the Chess fandom. (Hello if you’re here from the tag.)

All in all, I have extremely mixed feelings about Chess. On the one hand, I have two big, major writing problems with it that made me just not enjoy watching the full production very much. On the other hand, it has some genuinely really good interesting bits that I like a whole lot, and also there are some real banger songs. Going to be my work soundtrack for a little while, probably.  Summary and lengthy complaining and rambling below.

In an alternate 1979, the chess world championships are being held in the town of Merano, Italy. American reigning champion Freddie Trumper, loosely inspired by Bobby Fischer, is widely considered the wild boy of chess for his unpredictable behaviour and aggressive personality, which he plays up for the press because there’s no such thing as bad publicity. He has a lucrative deal with a company called Global Television that broadcasts the tournament, and his contact with them, Walter, is secretly some kind of undercover CIA agent. The challenger is Anatoly Sergievsky, a mild-mannered Russian who feels increasingly trapped despite his successes, kept on a tight leash by his handlers from the government, particularly scheming political operative Molokov.

Freddie’s second (sort of a chess personal assistant) is Hungarian-born Florence Vassy, who was sent from Budapest to the UK when the Soviets invaded in 1956, when she was five years old. She has grown weary of his antics over the years and tries to persuade him to please stop making remarks like “All Soviets deserve abuse” and assaulting reporters at press conferences, but to no avail. During the tournament’s first game (the actual chess games are staged as symbolic ballet between dancers dressed in black and white and it’s pretty neat), Freddie flips the board over and walks away. (That’s what appears to be happening in the staging, at any rate, though Global Television goes on to describe it as if who flipped the board was ambiguous; hard to tell if they’re meant to be describing it in a “Who can say!” way because they’re American, or if the situation is actually meant to be more ambiguous than it looked in the staging.)

Florence arranges a meeting between the two players to talk it out, prompting Freddie to lash out about whether she’s even on his side or the side of the Soviets who invaded her country, and how her father would be ashamed of her if he were alive. By the time Florence gets to the proposed meeting, Freddie isn’t there, leaving her awkwardly alone with Anatoly, who briefly wonders if she’s working for them – I mean us (he doesn’t think of the Soviet political machine as his own side). They vent their frustrations, find each other pretty, and start to connect. Freddie finally arrives, revealing he was late because he was working out a new deal with Global Television to get them even more money for participating, and now that they’ve got that he’s perfectly happy to continue the match.

Anatoly plays masterfully and soon leads five games to one. Freddie channels his agitation at being near-beaten and jealousy at the connection he saw between Florence and Anatoly into a paranoid, misogynistic rant at her about how this is what she wanted all along and it’s all because she’s a woman. She’s disgusted and quits; Freddie calls her a parasite. After a moment of angry self-pity, Freddie concedes the match altogether, leaving Anatoly the new world champion. Anatoly immediately sets out with Florence, who he has entered into a romantic relationship with, to defect to the UK to escape Soviet scrutiny.

Act II takes place a year later, at the next world championships in Bangkok, where Anatoly will be defending his title against the next Soviet challenger, a loyal Russian ‘chess-playing machine’ named Viigand. Freddie is there to commentate on the match for Global Television.

Molokov arranges to have Anatoly’s wife Svetlana, whom he left behind with their two children when he defected with Florence, sent to Bangkok to stress him out. He also secretly coordinates with Walter to get Freddie to do a barbed interview with Anatoly where he shows him video of his wife, until Anatoly storms out. Later, Walter and Molokov launch a multi-pronged plan to pressure Anatoly to just plain throw the match and return to the Soviet Union, in exchange for the USSR releasing some political prisoners. Molokov successfully threatens Svetlana into imploring him to come back, while Walter tells Florence that her father is alive in prison in Russia (something Molokov had told him) and they’ll be able to put him at the top of the list for prisoners to be returned if she persuades Anatoly to lose. Florence refuses the deal but is deeply upset, unable to let go of the thought of being able to see her father again. Walter then orders Freddie to approach Anatoly about it with a veiled threat to his employment; he does, acting all friendly, but Anatoly’s not buying it for a second. Freddie then goes to Florence instead, also apparently on their orders but trying to appeal to her based on their previous rapport instead, telling her they can work things out and imploring her to come back to him, but Florence and Anatoly are both as disgusted with him as ever, refusing his pleas.

After a dark moment of reflection about his issues, Freddie approaches Anatoly again — to help him. He’s noticed a flaw in Viigand’s strategy and implores Anatoly to win the match, for the integrity of the game and so that Walter and Molokov won’t get what they want.

Anatoly and Viigand play their final game, and in the end, Anatoly follows Freddie’s advice and wins the match like he was always capable of, in spite of how it alienates both Svetlana and Florence, because it’s the only way he can remain true to himself and retain a shred of symbolic freedom - but he decides to return to the Soviet Union anyway afterwards, to give himself up in exchange for Florence’s father. Anatoly and Florence regretfully reaffirm their love and say goodbye to each other before he leaves. Florence is left alone with Walter, who tells her they’ll get her father, if he’s still alive - oh yeah, they don’t actually know anything about that, who knows, but then again she already never knew if he was actually dead. No change there! Goodbye! (I don’t think we know whether Walter just distrusts Molokov’s information, which would be reasonable, or whether Walter is just telling her they don’t know to cover for not actually planning to bargain for her father at all.) In short, politics screwed everyone over and everything is terrible, but at least Anatoly managed to stay true enough to himself to refuse to let them fix the tournament.

My biggest problem with Chess, at least this production, is that it feels very padded; the pacing is atrocious. Based on my plot summary, do you want to take a guess at how many songs it takes for us to get to the very first chess match, the one I talked about in my second paragraph? Did you guess “Chess Game #1” being song number thirteen?

We have an entire seven-minute song about the town of Merano, Italy where the first act is set (minus a one-and-a-half-minute interlude where Freddie and Florence are introduced), sung by its anonymous inhabitants. Which would be fine, except the town of Merano and its inhabitants have no role whatsoever in the actual narrative, as evidenced by how half of the productions of this thing just casually move it to take place somewhere else entirely. The Arbiter, the tournament’s referee, gets a two-part “I am” song, despite not being a character - he narrates some things and makes a couple of brief inconsequential comments, but at no point is he as a person or his arbiter role actually relevant to anything (he doesn’t even actually arbitrate in the actual dispute that comes up), so why do we need to spend a song on that? We have a full song devoted to all the merchandise for the tournament, which I guess makes a point about the marketing of the whole thing but that point is already made heavily elsewhere and we certainly don’t need an entire song to do it. We have a choir singing a hymn to the game of chess, which is nice and all but please, Tim Rice, just get to the actual story you’re trying to tell, I am begging you. A musical can get away with a song or two that’s not super meaningful but just good fun, but you can’t just write a whole array of inconsequential fluff songs and stuff them all in there before the first significant event of the plot even happens!

(Which is to say, of course nothing will stop you doing this, and this musical is successful despite it, and I feel like the sort of base cultural stereotype of a musical consists of exactly that sort of thing, where sometimes the story stops so we can have a fun musical number. But as that one musical fan whose passion for musicals is driven entirely by appreciation for their potential to tell compelling stories in an especially hard-hitting way and not at all by desire to just see some fun singing and dancing, I hate it, please stop.)

Some of these songs are fun on their own – as I mentioned, I like the soundtrack, though it took me a couple listens; the ABBA guys are good at composing catchy bits and nailing a vibe – but within this narrative, they’re simply filler. All in all I honestly found Chess just tedious to sit through at times, with the general sense that nothing was happening a lot of the time and that the story progression was glacially slow – the show is two and a half hours but could easily have told the same story equally effectively in much less time. It gets better once it gets going, but like, it still finds time to have a substantial choral piece slowly singing the names of all the real-life previous world champions before the final match (“Endgame #1”), which sets a nice mood but goes on way longer than it needs to to do that, only for the song directly following it, “Endgame #2”, to also feature a choir singing the names of all the previous world champions in the background anyway but better. (Did they make two versions of this concept and end up including both of them in full for some reason? Surely they could have started with just a few champions to set the mood and saved the full list of champions for “Endgame #2”? I just do not understand the choices being made here.)

I was earnestly surprised by this because Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, Jesus Christ Superstar and Evita are all good at not doing this. Evita has a song about Buenos Aires, but it’s not just there so we can have a song about Buenos Aires; it’s there to show us Eva’s attitude as she arrives in the city and her determination to rise to the top. I had figured Tim Rice seemed to have pretty good instincts on making sure each song is playing a legitimate part in telling the story. But that’s eminently not the case in Chess - so maybe it’s Andrew Lloyd Webber who brought that sensibility to their partnership (I mean, he did write Cats, but that’s also decidedly not meant to have a central narrative other than, “Here are some cats as described in T.S. Eliot’s poetry,” so that’s probably understandable either way), or maybe the ABBA guys wrote songs he liked that tempted him to include them even when they didn’t really belong, or maybe it’s just that adapting other material gave him lots of ideas for meaningful songs to drive the story forward, while now that he was doing an original story he had a harder time thinking up enough meaningful material, or simply wasn’t sure enough what material was going to be meaningful (I can easily picture the Arbiter having been intended for a more significant role at some stage, for instance – I was kind of surprised when he wound up completely irrelevant), and then never quite managed to decisively distill it down to what mattered.

Aside: I like “The Story of Chess”, the opening song going over the history of chess. But one of the things I liked about it was that it felt like intriguing symbolic foreshadowing for the overall shape of the story, talking about a queen whose sons fought over the throne until one killed the other, leading to the grief-stricken queen telling the remaining son she can’t forgive him for this, while he invents chess to try to demonstrate to her that it was all the dead brother’s fault. I’d heard vaguely that the story was a love triangle, and it seemed to check out that this could symbolize where the story would be going – woman loves both of these chess players, one of them destroys the other in a literal or figurative sense in the course of their competition for the title and perhaps her attentions, she’s devastated and ends up cutting ties with the one who won, who nonetheless can’t accept fault. Only then… that’s not at all what the overall shape of the story is? Sure, Freddie’s aggression about Anatoly drives Florence away from him while he staunchly insists he was in the right. But that’s just some stuff that happens in Act I, and meanwhile Anatoly wins the tournament, and Florence and Anatoly only really start to care about each other after this, and the whole main thrust is entirely unrelated? “The Story of Chess” feels like the ghost of some very early draft of the story, still there despite the plot having evolved into something completely different. It feels really strange to me - this whole narrative about the queen and her sons is kind of odd and pointless if it’s not foreshadowing!

(Another aside: I would kind of object to the notion this musical is ‘about a love triangle’. In this production it’s not explicit exactly what the nature of Freddie and Florence’s relationship was in the first place, but even if it was romantic (which I do think is a sensible reading of how it plays out, don’t get me wrong), Florence leaves him early and there isn’t the slightest hint she has a shred of romantic feelings left for him after that. Freddie may have lingering one-sided feelings for her, but at no point is there tension regarding who Florence loves or whether she might go back to Freddie, and even if you could call it a triangle with the one-sided Freddie-Florence, that side is basically a minor aside and not at alllll the main point of any of this.)

This brings us to my other main problem with Chess, which is that I don’t care about the romance, at all. The musical never properly makes me believe or get invested in Florence and Anatoly’s relationship, and then a whole lot of it is about that, and I just don’t care if they end up together or if Anatoly goes back to Svetlana or whatever. I care about Anatoly feeling suffocated by the endless political games and machinations going on around him, and about Florence’s trauma from the Budapest invasion that gives her trust issues and makes her lash out at Molokov for trying to reach out to her as a “fellow Eastern European”. I even care about her relationship with Freddie – in the sense that he is hair-raisingly toxic and manipulative towards her and I’m glad she gets the hell away when she does, but at least I care. But Florence and Anatoly, half of the musical is devoted to this relationship and I just don’t feel any kind of way about it. Let’s try to dissect how it’s portrayed a bit and muse a bit on romance writing in the process.

Early in the show, we see brief off-hand lines showing Florence and Anatoly are aware of each other and sort of view each other as the “good ones” on the other side - Florence thinks Anatoly seems like a nice guy, objects to Freddie abusing him, and assumes that the fidgeting that apparently annoyed Freddie was something he was ordered to do by his handlers, while Anatoly thinks someone as civilized and nice as Florence has no business running with someone like Freddie.

In “Mountain Duet”, which is the most convincing the romance ever gets to me, Florence and Anatoly are alone together for the meeting Freddie’s late for, and it’s awkward, and they share a bit of a moment of frustration with Freddie and wonderment at each other being basically pleasant company and why they aren’t getting out of their respective cages. There’s a little bit of vague flirting – “So I am not dangerous, then? What a shame” – and then they’re straight to I don’t know why I can’t think of anything I would rather do than be wasting my time on mountains with you, before being interrupted by Freddie’s arrival. Bit quick for the grand declarations that there’s nothing they’d rather do, but okay, that’s a start, I can see how this might develop from here…

…only the next thing that happens with them is simply that we’re told as part of a Global Television news report that she’s helping him defect to the UK. They stand beside each other as he’s questioned at the embassy, including about his wife and kids and how they’re not coming with him. At this point I was squinting a bit like hmm, so are they meant to be in a relationship now? Did that just happen offscreen?

Then Florence sings “Heaven Help My Heart”. It’s… a pretty generic love song about how the feelings she’s feeling have no reasonable explanation and she worries before long he’ll sort of know everything there is to know about her and maybe then he’ll get bored of her. It’s the sort of #relatable love song that you could copy and paste to have any number of different characters sing about each other. Maybe it wouldn’t work for every conceivable couple, sure – but nonetheless, none of this is in any way specific to Florence and Anatoly. So she’s there telling me about how much she loves him, but I can’t tell why she’s feeling all this about this particular guy at all. Even if her worries were just contextualized in a way where something about him makes her think that, that would make it easier to actually connect it to these characters and their relationship. Does Anatoly act like the only reason he likes her is the idea of her having secrets he doesn’t know? I have absolutely no idea, because we’re not shown anything like that.

Anatoly gets hounded by the press about the whole leaving his wife behind thing, and then sings about his lingering love for his home country as something that transcends politics and conflict, but still nothing on his end on why Florence. The first time we see Florence and Anatoly actually interact since getting together, it’s in the very functional “One More Opponent”, where they’re basically just talking about the plot, followed by “You and I”, where they reflect on Svetlana’s upcoming arrival and how This is an all-too-familiar scene / Life imperceptibly coming between / Those whose love is as strong as it could or should be. Okay, your love is very strong, cool, but I still don’t know what the two of you even like about each other! In “The Interview”, as Freddie digs into Anatoly about Florence and her motivations, he defends her with Chess is her passion! – is chess her passion? Does he like that about her? We’ve certainly never seen her play any chess, or him talk to her about chess. No idea.

Florence and Svetlana then get a distant duet, “I Know Him So Well”, where they’re both simultaneously accepting that probably Anatoly belongs with the other one and that on some level they knew this all along, Florence figuring he needs more security, Svetlana that he needs fantasy and freedom. I like that fine in principle, it’s a nice duet with a good melody and pretty harmonies, but once again I just don’t think the setup has made this hit well enough, not when I don’t have any visceral sense of Florence’s feelings for him or why she doesn’t want to lose him, just kind of a series of declarations that she loves him, super loves him, their love is so strong.

During “Endgame #2”, despite Florence’s own refusal of the deal, and as far as we could see not having encouraged Anatoly to accept it at any point, she sings about how everyone will fall to fame and possessions in the end while “1956 - Budapest Is Rising” plays in the background, implying that she wishes Anatoly would deliberately lose to help her reunite with her father, but worries instead he’ll just fall to fame, which I think is a bit of a stretch with regards to his possible motivations for not doing that but okay. “Endgame #3/Chess Game #3” features presumably imaginary versions of Florence and Svetlana berating Anatoly as he contemplates what to do during the final game (at least I assume he didn’t literally stand up from the chessboard in the middle of the game to loudly argue with his wife and lover about whether he should win the game or throw it). He hates the thought that right now everyone sees him as a man who they think has just lost his touch, or who can’t focus because of personal baggage, and he hates the thought of giving in to these demands and having to live with that and being perceived that way. His imaginary Florence is vicious:

Since you seem to have shut out The world at large Then maybe I should cut out Your tiny inessential World-- inconsequential In the kind of game you're playing How do you do it? I tried to be that cynical but blew it I only changed your life You left your home, your wife I'm not surprised I slipped your mind

We don’t know if this is something the real Florence said to him or something his mind is just imagining she might say to him, but either way Anatoly’s agitated conclusion to this mental debate in the moment is that Florence and Svetlana both hated his success, never understood him, just want to steal his work and success and freedom, and his only obligation is to himself. I think this is the most interesting moment of their relationship – supposing imaginary Florence here really is representative of what the real Florence had been saying or thinking, then they’re both having minor breakdowns under the pressure of Walter and Molokov’s manipulation, her feeling as if Anatoly not playing along means she doesn’t really matter to him at all, and Anatoly feeling like she’s just one of everyone around him continually playing politics with him and suffocating his own passions and freedom, when both are really brainworm outbursts in the heat of the moment (in reality, again, Anatoly is about to choose to return to the Soviet Union for the sake of Florence getting her father back anyway, and they sing a concluding reprise of “You and I” where they reassert their love for each other and desire to meet again in spite of everything).

But imagine how much stronger this moment might have been if we’d spent less of our time up to this point just sort of generically asserting how much they love each other and more on building better up to their respective issues as they come out here. Imagine if their songs prior had involved, say, Anatoly’s feelings about Florence being significantly tied to the idea that with her he’s free – after all, she’s the one who helps him defect from the Soviet Union – and then when he feels as if Florence just wants to suffocate and play politics with him too it breaks him. Imagine if Anatoly had repeatedly reassured her specifically that he would always be on her side, and she’d always been wary of believing that thanks to her trust issues but it gave her real hope to try to believe it, and then the feeling that he’s breaking that promise after all cracks her. Or even just some kind of real sense that they actually enjoy each other’s company beyond the tiny taste in “Mountain Duet”! A sense that they trust each other! It would have been cool to have a song where they play chess and just have a good time doing it, or a song where Anatoly confesses to her why he wants to defect. Any of the many other kinds of ways you could play this that’d establish meaningfully what their relationship actually means to these specific characters, in this story, in a way that would get us invested and lend punch to the drama, instead of generic empty declarations of love where we just have to take the lyrics’ word for it.

Character relationships become real and impactful when there’s something unique and specific about them that hits home. Individual moments of them having fun together, of them caring about each other, of them knowing each other and interacting in a way only those two characters would. If you just keep telling me that they love each other, with the exact same words you could apply to a million different couples, and don’t actually show it, I’m not really going to believe it, and ultimately I’m just not going to care one way or another if they have to break up, or feel any feelings at their parting.

In my rambling on Evita, I grumped about how an Icelandic production seemed to think the core of the story was a romance, which it isn’t. But Eva and Juan’s relationship isn’t not a romance, despite starting as a mutually beneficial political arrangement. He genuinely falls for her drive and passion over time (at one point he suggests they just retire from politics and live in comfort together and she adamantly persuades him otherwise) – and in “You Must Love Me”, the late song added in the movie, Eva notices in wonder after collapsing from cancer that Juan is still by her side, worrying about her, even though in her current state she can’t benefit him at all, and feels emotions she never names about that. “You Must Love Me” is simultaneously a realization – he must love her for real after all – and a wish – she needs that to be true right now, in a moment of unusual vulnerability. All of how their relationship plays out is weird and messed-up and kind of fascinating and does not involve a single “I love you”, but because it’s weird and unusual and specific to the odd, complicated relationship that these two people have, I find myself feeling a lot more feelings about this obsessive problematic determinator woman realizing her literal dictator husband genuinely loves her than I ever managed to feel about Florence and Anatoly.

I do like “Endgame #3/Chess Game #3” a lot; it’s legitimately interesting, good character-driven drama and the music is great and intense and makes for a gripping climax. I like the core of Anatoly and Florence’s characters individually, even though they end up spending a whole lot of their time on their romance that I feel absolutely nothing about. But… confession time, my favorite character in Chess is Freddie. Or, at least, my favorite character in Chess in Concert is Freddie.

Freddie is terrible. But I think he’s coherently, interestingly terrible, and winds up having an arc that I actually like a lot. For the whole of Act I, he acts mostly concerned about money and publicity, and is viciously mean-spirited and manipulative with Florence when he feels like she’s taking Anatoly’s side instead of his. In Act II, Walter has a tight grip on him, using him against Anatoly - but we can see he’s not happy about it. He does the whole cruel interview, and makes it personally nasty, but afterwards, as Walter compliments him on it, he just walks away without a word. While subtly threatening him into pushing Anatoly to lose the game and go back to Russia, Walter says, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, huh?”, trying to play on his personal jealousy and spite, but Freddie doesn’t respond to that. He plays his part, says the lines, all while Anatoly insults him and asks who put him up to it; afterward he makes the desperate bid for Florence only to get roundly rejected and treated with disgust again. And then…

The moment of reflection that I mentioned Freddie has here is the song “Pity the Child #2”. It’s relatively straightforward tragic backstory exposition about his childhood: he was neglected by his constantly arguing parents and learned to just shut himself up in his room and to survive by not caring, practicing his chess, and simply not asking if they were arguing because of him, just in case they said yes. When he was twelve his father (who’d called him a fool and probably queer) moved out, and he hoped that’d bring him and his mom closer together, but instead she just kept on neglecting him and having a string of relationships with other equally abusive men. He sank himself deeper into chess to cope. Then:

Pity the child, but not forever Not if he stays that way He can get all he ever wanted If he's prepared to pay Pity instead the careless mother What she missed, what she lost When she let me go I wonder, does she know? I wouldn't call, a crazy thing to do Just in case she said, "Who?"

He’s fine! He’s successful and has lots of money now so he can get whatever he wants. No reason to pity him anymore, he is fine. You should really pity his mother for what she missed, losing out on him! He’s not sure if she even knows her son became world chess champion. But he’s not going to call and tell her, because she might answer the phone and not even know who he is, and he can’t face that possibility any more than he could face the possibility his parents’ fighting was his fault, so he just doesn’t. Ouch.

(I enjoy the inconsistent use of third person in this song, adding distance to some of it. I had my game to play, but pity the child with no such weapons, no defense, no escape from the ties that bind. You should pity this other hypothetical child with no coping strategies who’d have no escape from it, definitely not him, because he had chess to play so he was FINE.)

And sure, tragic childhood neglect backstory™, but this really does pretty specifically explain everything about why Freddie is Like That. He’s obsessed with money and infamy because as an adult he convinced himself that having money means he can get whatever he wants now so none of it matters anymore, and his mom’s the one who’s missing out on him, and he wants her to know how successful he is but can’t bring himself to actually contact her so all he can do is be prominently featured in the media and hope somewhere she’s watching. His burst of vicious misogyny triggered by the feeling Florence was betraying him in favor of some other man whose company she prefers is presumably rooted in his mom constantly neglecting him in favor of seeking out ill-fated relationships with random abusive men. And he would respond to his feelings of rejection and neglect by turning inward, to his coping mechanism and singular passion: chess.

Which is what he does now. He hated doing whatever Walter told him to sabotage a chess tournament. He hated being used like a puppet, and the sting of rejection and humiliation, but also, Viigand is just a mediocre chess player. And hence, in his own little final act of rebellion, he defies Walter and approaches Anatoly to tell him that you see, Viigand’s King’s Indian Defense – and when Anatoly says I don’t understand why you’re helping me, Freddie responds:

Because I love chess! Does nobody else? Jesus, sometimes I think I’m the only one! How can you let mediocrity win?

These lines right here, and the song “Talking Chess” in general, were one way or another my favorite bit in this whole musical. After the whole thing has been a tangle of political drama behind the chess tournaments controlled by the bigger players where Freddie and Anatoly were constantly at odds, Freddie wriggles out from under Walter’s thumb and manages to get over himself enough to just come to Anatoly and tell him no, actually, fuck it, win this thing, you can win, because you’re a better player than Viigand and you shouldn’t give any of these manipulative chucklefucks what they want. This competition is supposed to be about chess.

This is Freddie’s final scene here. The progression from “The Deal (No Deal)”, where Freddie is repeatedly scorned and rejected in the process of going along with Walter and Molokov’s schemes, to the raw lowest point of “Pity the Child #2” that makes his character make sense, to this little act of blazing defiance in reaching across the aisle (which also implicitly means he’s finally willing to swallow his pride about Anatoly and admit that he fully deserved to be world champion and Freddie always knew that) for the sake of the integrity of the game that he grew up with as his only passion and companion, is just really good and cathartic to me. I feel like it makes Anatoly’s decision to go for the win feel more satisfying, too – makes it implicitly represent more, a rebellious act of both players against the political operatives playing them. I just enjoy it a lot.

And… this song/scene apparently only exists in specifically the 1986 London West End production and its particular derivatives. All other versions, Freddie doesn’t do this and “Pity the Child #2” is just a bit of expository self-pity that doesn’t lead to anything and also may be placed way earlier in the show. The liner notes on the original concept album apparently explained that by the end Freddie has completely stopped caring about chess and only cares about politics and Florence rejecting him. I am appalled! This is the best bit and it’s what makes Freddie’s whole character worth it! Freddie caring about chess most important part of Chess the musical 2k23.

(At least presumably in every version Freddie still spends “One Night in Bangkok” explaining to a bunch of sex workers that he’s just here for the chess, thank you very much. You’re talking to a tourist / Whose every move’s among the purest / I get my kicks above the waistline, sunshine […] I don’t see you guys rating / the kind of mate I’m contemplating / I’d let you watch, I would invite you / but the queens we use would not excite you. In the Chess in Concert choreography he definitely seems to be enjoying the physical attention during the instrumental break, and you can definitely validly interpret these lines with a certain sense of irony, but honestly is it just me or do the lyrics as written make him sound super ace. I am very here for Freddie just legitimately thinking chess is better than sex. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had issues with sex regardless based on his whole being neglected while his mother brought random guys into bed thing.)

So, I think this is a distinctly flawed show, I have some notes, but one way or another the bits I do like have stuck pretty firmly in my head, and somehow I have now spent a couple of days banging out 6000 words about it. All in all Tim Rice appears to be quite up and down for me but when he hits he really hits, bless him. Interesting characters and character dynamics really are my one true weakness.

Also the ABBA guys are good at this. I’m trying to convince myself not to make a musical motif chart for this too.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

the counterpart

chapter 7 — potion approaching, shield your eyes

word count: 5,8k

i don’t have much to say. only that i’m sorry in advance. hit me up if you need a hug after reading this. or if you feel like beating me up with a chess board. i don’t mind providing you with either opportunity.

—

Imposter syndrome is a behavioral pattern, strongly associated with self-doubt of one’s accomplishments, skills and value. Imposter syndrome is a nasty stare you bear with you everywhere you go — a little sharpened weapon to pierce through whoever you don’t fancy, a chiselled ‘the fuck are you looking at’ for each overly curious opponent – the necessary pettiness to conceal your hesitation. Imposter syndrome is a termite in the steel veil of your presumptuousness, it chews on your facade and recycles it cruelly into a shaky, implausible thing. 

And you can roll your eyes as flashily as you like, intimidatingly chain-smoking between games to convince them all of your mind being just as nimble as your lungs are doomed, a pair of old loafers a threatening statement in its dirty elegance — she’s badass, she’s smart, she’s graceful. Her post-checkmate tremor is entirely her business though, and it should be preserved for bathroom breaks only. No meddling eyes are welcome, except for those gawking spitefully from the mirror. Girlhood at its purest. 

The tournament took place at a local chess club — a humble event within their college’s funding: a rather usual location for a small chess open. The premise smelled of chalk and cheerful hostility: all cacophonous chatter, old chess sets, a herd of other contestants and two annoyed boys sitting grimly by the registration table. They seemed to recognize Viktor when he offered them a nod, and their inquisitive gazes rushed to roam all over your entrance by his side, lingering slyly on your arm, so tightly wrapped around his lankier one in a subtle little tangle. 

Or maybe you were just seeing things. Scratch that, not maybe. Most likely. Probably. Definitely. If nowadays people don’t bat an eye at some not very sneaky public masturbation, then they certainly aren’t grabbed by a mere innocent touch. 

And yet here you both were: full of ambitious malice, hand in hand and grinning — a pair of flawless disasters, walking into the room like you owned it. Both limping: him — by default, you — by delicious accident. If only this snobby audience knew what their sophisticated chess-man did to you in that backseat. You even swallowed a giddy chuckle when someone ran up to him to steal a respectful handshake before retreating to excitedly exclaim a not-so-quiet ‘That’s Viktor. He beat me in four minutes once.’ 

“Now that must be flattering,” tauntingly devious, you managed to offer him a kiss — a little secret placed precisely under his flushed ear, all snickering bliss as you caught a whiff of his hair, then dared to tenderly  push it back. A gentle thing just for him to melt into while the clutter of players kept obliviously conversing. Viktor merely cleared his throat and smiled at you weakly. Precious delirium flowed sweetly out of half-lidded eyes. 

“Not really.” A hint of a laugh as he shrugged, growing a bit contrite when you clung off his shoulder.

“And why is that?” Quizzical, you arched an eyebrow at his dismissive little confession, turning on your worn-down heels to cross the long room. Heard him follow along, soft sounds of footsteps mingling with clinks of cane. 

“Beating a mediocre player in a few minutes is not exactly my ideal perception of great accomplishments,” he retorted innocently. Had you leering at him sharply over your shoulder, showing off a demonstrative eye-roll. Such a smartmouth. Unbelievable.

“Don’t brag.” You huffed, half-annoyed, approaching the registration desk. No doubt purposeful in your choice of motions when you hovered above it ever so slightly. Snatched a pen swiftly out of an unknown helpful hand, felt the weight of someone’s judging gaze on your hind-head as you quickly scribbled your name on a small piece of paper, peeking up to find two pairs of eyes observing you with rude curiosity. 

Those who were handling the registration usually never participated themselves — you remembered that much from Viktor’s guidance.

Both boys looked snippy, with their arms crossed defensively over their chests. Synchronised, as if they were somehow related — but their appearances were too diverse to convey a brotherly bond. Perhaps it’s the snobbiness that made them all look alike. 

You hastily threw your name into a wooden box. His name joined in shortly after. It landed softly in the corner next to yours, clearly separated from the others. How haphazardly sweet. 

A curt humm as you counted the signed papers. Sixteen names — yours and Viktor‘s included. Winners play winners, losers play losers. Nothing special.

“What’s your rating?” the bolder boy inquired carefully. How rude of him to remind you of that little problem. 

“I’m unrated,” you answered sharply. “Yet.” 

“You’ll have to play the lowest rated person here first then.” 

You sighed. “Fair enough.” 

“If the clock by one of the boards happens to be broken — come back here and we’ll try to find you another one.”

“Shouldn’t you provide us with serviceable equipment?” You failed to suppress the urge to tease, hard teeth digging regretfully into the tip of your tongue, biting down on whatever other taunts you might have in there. Viktor snickered behind your back, still fumbling thoughtlessly with a pen. He can ask you to be less snappy later. For now, he had a tantrum to enjoy. The boy you addressed, however, chose to ignore your reasonable reproach. 

“We start in ten minutes. Good luck,” the man muttered dryly, writing something down with an appalled humm. Your hand curled around Viktor’s forearm, softly nudging him to lean forward. 

“I want to look around,” you informed him with a weary exhale — already fed up with that pretentious interaction. He smiled with a knowing nod. 

“I wish you’d stop smoking every time you face a minor inconvenience.” 

“I wish you’d stop scolding me at any given opportunity,” you retorted full of false resentment. Let a chuckle betray your flawless silly act. “But I suppose that’s incorrigible. As are my ways of coping.” 

Such ostensible sass: one could never tame that smooth of a taunt. You still stung him sometimes — and not only deliciously. Caught him watching your mouth closely as you sneered, lightheartedly cruel — a remorseful flick of copper eyes over the swollen pink of your upper lip: his tangible little claim, his whimsy attempt at soothing. He craved resumption, contemplated pushing a punishing lick against your redundantly sharp tongue right then and there — but the ambience wasn’t exactly fitting for any non-covert affections. 

He settled somewhat bitterly for a gentle squeeze of your wrist, so earnestly worried about his hot-headed, fervent darling. And his hand shook — the living evidence of nervousness being contagious.

“Please, don’t be late,” he pleaded, letting go of you with a reluctant little frown. “And don’t run away either.” As if you would dare to. As if you needed that reminder at all. Mama might’ve tried to raise a quitter, but did she really succeed? Exactly. 

So beware, everyone. The ‘quitter’ is coming after you. As soon as she’s done polluting her lungs.

—

The first boy they sent you to devour was oddly skittish. He toyed with his hair a lot, anxious to the point where a strand rubbed a little red circle into his digit: that’s how tightly it was interwoven around his clumsy finger. Confused and grouchy, he thought out loud and refrained from looking you in the eye — not out of disrespect, but out of pure tremulousness. He didn’t look anything older than sixteen and was clearly a first-timer. Almost had you considering showing him some mercy. 

You went easy on him. Not for the sake of being kind, though — it simply couldn’t escalate any other way. His strategy was predictably messy, and he managed to lose both his queen and two rooks within the first ten moves. Playing White didn’t really save him either: the boy clearly lacked comprehension of both attacking and defense. He’ll work on his potential soon enough. After he’s done sobbing in the bathroom.

For now, his hand rested in yours, palpably sweatier than it was during the pre-game handshake. Poor thing. He’ll grow out of it. Eventually. You’ll buy some coffee to flush down the easy victory.

Don’t forget to steal a quick glance at Viktor — the way he sat there, slouched all the way across the room. And yet you lingered to admire the nape of his neck, so teasingly charming as it was, peeking from his spotlessly white collar. White pieces at his side too — his ultimate forte. His opponent — head in hands and frowning already — looked miserably defeated. Good. Not that you expected a different outcome though. 

A regular ‘black and three sugars, please’ kicked in by the time your next victim finished her match.

You liked this one better. Viciously elegant, she introduced herself in a hushed tone, her name being something bizarrely classy you didn’t bother to remember. Her freshly manicured hand started your clock, nails short and crimson like yours, except for the neat part. Beautiful, and she knew it: eyed you just as respectfully from under the row of long lashes, so thickly covered in jet black mascara. Certainly a vision, but sadly not really a skillful one. She still started off strong: with Scotch Game and a polite smile — had you grinning back as you killed her softly with a bishop. Almost made you feel bad for that gentle checkmate in twenty seven moves, but her bitter pout didn’t hold much power over you. She still allowed you to steal her away for an umpteenth smoke of the hour, lovely flushed when you insisted she helps herself to your cigarettes. 

“It’s the least I can do after ruining you there.” You laughed, lighting one for her. How nice it is to sometimes be a gentleman. 

“You’re good,” she praised through a deep inhale. “Really good.” Her eyes gleamed in genuine awe. 

You retreated, hoping she wins her next game. Hastily looked at the nearest clock. Found Viktor through with his match and quickly traded smiles in the hallway. A sacred, sneaky exchange: I won. I might kiss you later. Lovely tacit nothings for you to recall later. 

But the competition must go on. Someone roughly called out your last name. 

…And he was brusque. Unappealingly so: gray eyes beamed with insolence, and an irritating graze of something else — deeper, filthier, slyer. You knew exactly what that gaze conveyed. And it made you despise him. Instantly. 

Because lust only comes in two flavors. First one is flattering — an overwhelmingly sweet thing, all shoulder kisses and desperate confessions mid slow thrusts. Slurred words and incoherent pleas. Sweaty palms, lower backs and temples. Lust like a Depeche Mode song, ‘let me see you stripped down to the bone’ kind of sex. A tremulous gasp at the sight of a bare clavicle. Something tingly, and beautifully salacious. Something you could always find in a certain gentleman’s eyes — so want-struck only for you, flawless devotion prominent in each pretty amber. Something you loved, and welcomed, and requested daily — because Viktor serves his lust with yearning on the side. 

And then there was this. The embodiment of rude, all-consuming thirst — a weapon used to diminish countless women. 

Spread legs you ached to close with a rough push of a heel against his insufferable crotch. Evil, contentious curiosity roaming timidly over your form. A grabby handshake you, sadly, didn’t have an option to refuse. Pouted at the sound of his name — something exquisitely snobbish. Dreamt of twisting those nasty fingers hard. And, perhaps, even feeding them to his obscene mouth. Especially when it spat out an audacious ‘Good morning, darling.’ 

You took a seat, shoulders painfully tense. 

“Don’t call me that.” It was a classy hiss. Your patience is made of terribly thin rubber, and it might, and will snap right into his face if the bastard fails to learn some respect quick enough. And that fancy suit too — who the fuck comes to a regular tournament dressed like this? He must be bold. Or simply really, really dumb. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” Ah, there it is. Both adjectives apply, then. “I’m thrilled to play such a charming thing. Too charming to be good at chess, even.” 

Thing. Gods, perhaps getting disqualified is not that huge of a price for making him swallow a tooth or two? 

“Charming or not, I’m your opponent. Don’t fraternize with me.” Oh, the irony. How hypocritical of you to not practice what you preach. It didn’t mean you’d ever indulge in ‘fraternizing’ with this prick, though. A feisty one, and you were determined to show him to what extent. Eyes flickered angrily to the board and narrowed into a pleased squint.

White pieces at your disposal. Random finally felt kind. Your intentions, however, didn’t. Destroy him. Show no mercy. Open aggressively. All that threatening, standard bullshit. 

You made a move and started his timer. Cleared your throat and watched him meet your pawn with his own, a demeaning grin still plastered across his muzzle. Oh to see it grow pale and scared shitless, to make that vile throat go dry. But not yet though. It’s impolite to play with your food, but you weren’t exactly famous for impeccable manners. Subtle, you toyed with him meticulously slow: let him have his way and build a decent-ish defense. And god was he petty. Kept making these smug, soft whistles everytime you sacrificed a pawn here and there. 

It entertained you. The way he considered each captured piece an ultimate victory, the way he failed to see through your carefulness, yet was so utterly transparent to you. Sure, he knew his game: seemed more skilful than your previous competitors, didn’t rush to attack and appreciated diligence. Only on the board, though. 

But confidence is a dangerous virtue. Especially to those who underestimate their enemy — or pay their appearance a little too much attention. So you budged. If the asshole craved to eroticise you more than he wished to win — you’ll give him precisely that. Knight takes knight. Bishop to c6. Gather up, everyone. You’re about to witness some actual fuckery. 

“Resign,” he spoke, lasciviously disgusting. “You’re not going to get out of this.” 

You kept your eyes on the board, giving him nothing but insistent radio silence. 

“Resign.” Gods above, he’s just gagging to be slapped, isn’t he? “Don’t waste our precious time.”

“Got somewhere to be?” Knight e5. He kept smirking, oblivious to what you’re planning. 

“Yes, in that bar around the corner. With you.”

“I don’t recall making that arrangement.” 

“That’s a no, then?” Bishop takes pawn. 

“Now you’re getting it!” 

Twenty nine moves in, he initiated the exchange of queens. A little compromise he thought he was in charge of. How generous.

“Oops,” he muttered through a hoarse, repugnant chuckle. Leaned his head against a huge palm and fixed his collar, watching you frown with a heavy sigh. Little did he know your rook was about to strike.

“Oops indeed,” you snarled, nailing a pair of malicious eyes into his appalled face. Savored the drop of a shit-eating smile when he noticed the newfound threat, gulping when he realized that running away to c6 wasn’t an option either: your bishop (conveniently moved to that exact diagonal earlier) was blocking the possible safe spot. And when his gaze stumbled, taking in the utter horror of his quandary, you bit down on your thumb, trying to muffle an evil chuckle. He’s doomed. Murdered. Devoured. You only had to lick the plate. 

“Fuck.” He sighed. Hooked a finger into his collar and tugged, evidently strangled. 

“Resign, darling.” Oh, how good it is to return those acidic favors. To push the poison he fed you back into his mouth, hoping he chokes on it. Figuratively, of course. Unless… 

“No.” No? Gods, and you thought your audacity was unbeatable. 

“But it’s clearly a checkmate in one move.”

“Aha.” He hummed. “I can see that.”

“Unless, of course, you want me to finish you off properly. But, frankly, the idea of spending one more minute with you is making me sick.”

“God, you’re so harsh. Was that really necessary?” 

“Was the eye-fucking necessary?” You jerked forward. Hovered above the board with an alarming glance — all blown out pupils and pale lips. The pieces beneath you staggered, completing the furious warning. “Resign.” Another enraged hiss. A husky one — threateningly so, the kind of tone people used to announce death sentences in. Too bad yours was only chess-related. 

He dared to hesitate: froze under your stare as clumsy fingers trembled above his king. Gray eyes snapped open, suddenly reluctant to follow your cleavage. So pathetic in his utter spinelessness. So violently flushed. You could’ve slapped him and it would still feel vastly less humiliating. Too bad you didn’t feel like giving away small mercies.

And he complied. A perfect wimp — he pushed his king off the board and instantly rushed to seek praise in your lancing eyes, scrawling bitterly when he failed to find any. Tried to reach for a handshake but was firmly dismissed with a push— a much gentler one than you intended. A much gentler one than he deserved. 

You rose to your feet with a heavy sigh. Your victory, albeit sweet, still scorched with an exhausting aftertaste. 

More coffee. Yes, that’s precisely what you need — and maybe another helping of nicotine. Preferably a huge one. 

“Wait, what’s your rating—“ But you were already running away, fists so tight the crescents of your nails would probably be engraved into each soft palm for days. Needed to get all that out of your sight before the nearest wall ends up with an impressive dent, and your knuckles with crimson, thick crust. 

Though when you reached for the door handle, haste and breathless, something possessed you to look up. Weary eyes stopped on the table with assigned opponents, searching for your next one. 

And, oh fuck. 

Viktor’s last name was written next to yours in bold. 

— 

How many more of these nervous, picturesque balcony trips can you endure? That number definitely wasn’t a two-digit one anymore. 

Terribly shaky fingers failed to tame the cheap lighter, and you groaned, grimly thumping your jaded head against the wall, letting a cigarette dangle weakly from your open mouth. It stuck to what little spit glistened subtly on your chapped bottom lip, as hopelessly drained as its shabby smoker. Viktor was still finishing his game: you caught him torturing some pretty boy in a checkered shirt before proceeding with your haste escape. 

Viktor. The spark wheel budged to the thought of him when you pressed it, cursing the absolute heck out of the unfortunate thing when it gave you yet another callus, the tip of your thumb now as red as the remnants of your nail polish. Squeezed eyes shut and inhaled until smoke erratically tickled the sore walls of your throat. A canonically greedy first drag. Free hand caught the turbid chain of your pendant and toyed with it in frantic, harsh jerks. 

Viktor. It’s not him you were afraid of — but snoopy gazes, your own, notorious anger and possible interventions. The private tournaments in your room sure did sustain your poise, but would you abide by it when you’re encircled by a dozen of curious contestants? All eyes on him — their decently rated man of the day, and you — not yet a rising star, but much rather a lucky (and, concurrently, bashful) gorgeous mess, armed to the teeth with vigor. Would they mock you if you lost to him? Would they despise you if you beat him? Would they be scared of you?

“Fuck, are you always this fast?” 

You flinched. Smoke got into your eye and pinched at the retina, drawing  a frustrated hiss from between clenched teeth. You rushed to wipe that stinging tear, hoping to outpace the mascara before it stains a flushed cheek. Your thumb took the damage instead — a black smear now squashed atop the red, swollen spot on it. Gods, you really owe that poor finger a break. 

That nosy someone chuckled — familiarly so, with a crude, hoarse note to it. Murky gray irises stared down at your hand, then timidly retreated to the watch on their owner’s wrist. And that peculiar haircut — so instantly recognisable. It pissed you off the most, and you kept peering at it throughout the whole match, wholeheartedly wishing for it to end so you no longer have to observe that irritating rust-colored strand covering the arc of his cocky brow. Pretentious, rich chess-club kids have always been guilty of questionable fashion choices. 

You grunted. “No. Only when I run away from rude ginger pricks.”

He grinned again. You flicked some ashes on his polished fancy shoes. He pretended to not notice. 

“Fierce, aren’t we?”

“I believe I’ve already made that clear.”

“I’m not a ginger prick though, thank you very much. I’d like to think you cared enough to remember my name.” He introduced himself again. Insisted on a handshake, still audaciously certain you owe him one. Dejavu.

You didn’t move. Smoke kept slowly spilling out of your mouth into a livid, misty cloud. 

“Oh please.” His eyes rolled, tongue protruded into an irritated ‘tsk’.

“I get it, I had an attitude. I’m a changed man now. You enlightened me. Now is there anything I can do to appease you?”

“Appease me? I don’t know, mate. Have you ever tried fucking off when you’re told to do so?”

“Not that I can recall.” 

“Of course.”

“Seriously, am I not your type or something? Is it the height?” 

“Aha. You’re what, about five feet?”

“And eight inches.”

“Well, I prefer my men six feet under.” 

He laughed. Took a step closer in a much too obvious attempt at pinning you where you stood — with your back pressed to the wall and his chest in your way, close enough for your nose to wrinkle as you caught a smell of his cologne. The utter atrocity of his smugness. The spark of your cigarette, visible in his pupils. His breath right in your face, so disgustingly warm. Everything he did was purposeful and screamed of cruel contempt: the bastard knew exactly what personal space is. He simply didn't care about yours. 

“Leave me alone,” you ordered, voice firm. Clenched your jaw and squeezed the filter tightly between trembling fingers. Felt the rage fill every inch of your viscera. Wondered if his face would make a nice ashtray. 

“I don’t want to.” 

“And I couldn’t give two shits, so I’m going to ask you again. Leave. Me. Alone.” 

“Then allow me to take you out. Give in already. You’re a smart one — I can’t resist a woman as masterful as you are.” He leaned in with a brazen nod. Sent a skittish shiver down your uncomfortably arched spine. Made you realize just how dangerously screwed you actually were. And yet you didn’t hesitate to hitchhike further. 

“What if I told you I get off to kicking cocky bastards in the balls? Still eager to take me out?” 

“Well, whatever makes you happy. So? Will you finally give in?” 

“No!” You frantically shook your head. “Nein. Non. Ne. Piss off already. Look— This entertained me at first, but I’m at my limit now. I’m done asking nicely, and I can and will get violent if you don’t leave right this minute.”

“Then your next opponent wins by default — because you’re not showing up to your next match until I get a ‘yes.’ Or ‘ja’. Or ‘vi’.” 

“Unfortunately for you, her opponent is already here to collect her.” 

Oh? 

Eyes snapped open when you registered the interference. Didn’t take you long to identify the hard, rhotic ‘r’ of the intruder’s accent. Even sharper now that he stood there, visibly worried — thick brows drawn together into a frown, long fingers resting atop the handle of his cane. 

Viktor. To your rescue. Beautifully hostile. 

“…so I’d rather you vacate this balcony. Or, even better, the premises altogether, since your participation is no longer required. Unless, of course, you’re eager to lose a few more games.” 

You took the opportunity and slipped behind the bastard's back. Caught him eyeing Viktor with an irritated pout.

“We were having a conversation,” he muttered, even more distraught now that you retreated to a good arm’s length distance. 

“Really? Because it seemed to me like you were trying to converse while she repeatedly requested for those attempts to be over.” Viktor shrugged, his lips pressed into a tight, unimpressed line. He held a breath when scrawny shoulders slumped, sternly narrowed eyes lunged to the harasser’s neck — perhaps envisioning something vengeful too. You froze, unsure of where to look: on your confident, collected defender, or on that pathetic, corrupt with anger man. You picked the former. And regretted it instantly. 

Defender. Yes, that’s what he was now — a helper, albeit greatly appreciated at first, yet still pretty much uncalled for. All firm, all ready to go for the braggart’s throat — but what for? Your hands are just as capable, your wit is just as sharp — if not more alarmingly so. 

This role is preserved for you. Only you. The ticking clock, the impeccable menace, the revenge dish served so hot it instantly melts off the insulter’s tongue. And you were so close to dissolving another one, if not for his aid, his chaperone, his valor. Oh, his fucking valor—

It’s you. Only you. Always are, always have been, always will be. How dare he doubt it. How dare he intervene. 

And there it was again. Ugly, crippling rage abruptly twining into your thoughts. And you obliged, ready to be led by its leash — ten spikes of nails poking through palms with concerning force. 

“It’s none of your business.” The prick grumbled towards Viktor. 

“She has a game to play. With me. Therefore, she is my business.” 

You kept spiraling into fury, staring at bedraggled, scraped toes of your shoes. Pondered just how mad you’d look taking one off to throw it into the wall (though someone’s head was an option in vastly stronger preference). Heard a few more insistent ‘please, leave’s, kept crushing the fireless cigarette bum in a trembling fist. Enmity and nicotine are not to be mixed.

And then, a few heavy footsteps later, it was finally over. No boy in a fancy suit pressing up against you, no corrosive banter — it left with that moron, pushing Viktor out of the way. But he stayed urgently gentle when fingers reached for you, worried sick. Kind hand an instant caress between your shoulder blades — the softest of attempts at rubbing the tension out of each column of your spine. The utter confusion in his big, sad eyes when you shrunk away from his touch, offering a deep, spinous gaze from under clumped lashes instead. 

He stepped away, mouth agape. “Are you alright?” uttered tremulously, his tone thick with anguish. He didn’t perform any more endeavors at touching you. Just stood there, a tad disheveled and pale, desperately trying to find the reason for your frustration. 

“Did you feel good?” 

“Excuse me?“

“Did you feel good?” you repeated even more spitefully. Looked askance and kept violently biting your tongue, iron mingling with the aftertaste of smoke. “Surely, claiming me in front of that idiot must’ve felt nice.”

Viktor frowned. “Claiming you? I don’t suppose I—“

“Oh please. ‘She’s my business’? Is that why you did that? Because he was being a dick and you wanted to show him that I’m already owned by you?” 

“Owned? Moje laska, I couldn’t possibly— Why would you ever—“

“Don’t fucking ‘moje laska’ me right now, Viktor. Just answer the question.” 

That did it for him. He stepped away, chest forward. You witnessed the darker shift of his face: eyes back to their narrowed, cautious state, lips twisted into a perplexed, inward arc. Cane rested in a white-knuckled restraint of his hand. 

“You’re accusing me of terribly wrong— not to mention disgusting — things,” he spoke after a curt cough, and you caught another crack in his breathy voice. “I never thought that way, nor did I attack him out of some primal, silly… possessiveness.”

“Then why would you chime in? I was handling that perfectly fine on my own.”

“Because I despise men like him!” He exclaimed, and meant it — pressed a shaking fist to his sternum, as if to support that claim with a vow. “I despise his crudeness, his ugly audacity, and his shameless, unabashed disrespect.” He took a breath, then mumbled in addition, “…And I can’t stand seeing you in distress. It enrages me.” 

You scoffed. “Then close your eyes next time.” 

Viktor stammered. Managed to return your death stare before pretty eyes softened, filling with genuine, all-consuming disbelief. Is that really you? He couldn’t quite place if. That same witty, perpetual tease, that same brilliant mind — his gentle, artful darling? 

Though if that’s your perception of his good intent… were you really ever his? 

“So what, you’d rather have me stay silent while you’re getting mistreated?” he concluded. But his attempt at appealing to your rationality wasn’t appreciated. You didn’t possess any at the moment. 

And maybe you should’ve stopped to consider crawling into his arms, mumbling wholehearted, teary ‘sorry’s against the crux of his slender neck. Maybe you could already foresee the remorse — sturdy, and raw, and endlessly sincere. But you were already committed to the fight. And, of course, to the bitter end — even if it might hurt your own taste buds. Must be inertia. Or the utter horror of your independence being questioned. 

Or maybe you’re no better than a persistent man. Because you fume “I didn’t ask for your help” with a face so furious Viktor winces. Because you add a harsh “I didn’t need it”, leaving him behind in painful consternation. And while he stands there, crushed and bewildered, you don’t bother to throw him a quick glance over your shoulder. 

You leave the crime scene in silence, only feeling something heavy nailed into your back. But it was merely regret, catching you in the doorway through a pair of sad, copper eyes.  

—

There’s no need for introductions when he sits down next to you. His name is a regular in your mouth — you wheezed it out mid erratic streaks of laughter and savored the soft, ticklish whisper of it against his earlobe. Screamed it when he sweetly fucked you in the mornings and sighed through it dreamily when he no longer laid beside you. You thought you’ve tried every flavor of it already: husky, breathless, sometimes upset — but more often cheeky, appeased or, simply, content. 

But now you knew it could sound like a brazen hiss, the aftermath of it still stuck to the back of your throat — a figurative, yet tangible nonetheless lump, preventing you from erupting any more insensitive nonsense. 

He shakes your hand and it feels overwhelmingly tense. Random decides that you no longer deserve to be lucky, and you accept its subtle punishment. Sixteen black pieces laugh at you from the board. Leg drumms a rhythmless funeral march under the desk. Viktor avoids looking you in the eye. He starts the timer. White to move.

 e4. e6. Don’t gawk at him like that. d4. d5. Eyes on the board. Eat another nail, or two, or three — eat as much as you please but don’t shiver so fucking treacherously, and don’t think of his face. Don’t steal worried peeks at that wrinkle between his brows. Don’t denote the slight twitch of his lip. Yes, you’re guilty of that one too. What else is new? White activates the knight. You respond with a bishop. Silently dream of stuffing your mouth with a whole pack all at once. Maybe that could fix you. Sting your tongue a little at its insufferable tip. e5. c5. Don’t listen to his breath too closely. Don’t think of his tender voice calling you soft endearments. 

‘Don’t fucking ‘moje laska’ me right now, Viktor.’ Unbelievable. 

First capture of the game: pawn takes pawn. Pat yourself on the head, preferably with this very board. He hums in that subtle condemnation of his — still much too polite for your atrocious stunt. Queen g4. Knight e7. Watch out for his threat. Lose a bishop and seek justice by taking his knight. Dance a three-move back and forth around his queen and give up by abandoning yet another pawn. Listen to him exhale with a heavy, nasal sound. Gasp at the way he grips his pencil to record the move. Don’t look at his hands. Stare at them. Think of the salvation you used to find in them. Think of the salvation you fucked up by recoiling. Let the shame eat you alive while he eats your rook. Fuck. 

Sorry. So, so sorry. It’s written all over your face, but he doesn’t want to look at you. His eyes have seen enough. He shields them — he keeps his head down. You both castle. 

Thirty minutes and ten moves later you consider ripping your vocal cords out — because the checkmate is unachievable, and you don’t want to be held accountable for a shriek that could break a few windows. Responsibilities. You’re not exactly good with those. You know Viktor sees the calamity too — his temples hurt, and he cracks his knuckles for a thousandth time. Probably chews on his cheek too. You can tell, even if he refuses you a proper glimpse. 

Rook takes bishop, queen takes knight. You’re both left with a mess of lonesome remaining pieces scattered all over the place. No options, just ugly hopelessness, because no one can move — literally. Terrifying silence rings through your ears. Deafens you so immensely, that you almost miss it — that monosyllabic little something he whispers to you hoarsely. And his voice sounds strangled. 

“Draw?” It’s somber and barely audible, and you realize that it’s the first thing he said to you in about an hour. He’s tired, and it’s visible in a glance he finally spares you — face more hollow than usual, eyes two amber voids staring through you with numbness. You nod and stop the timer. He shakes your hand again. It’s devastatingly warm when you reciprocate, and for some reason you decide to savor the feeling. Perhaps because it might be the last time you touch it. Perhaps because it might be the last game of chess you shared with him. 

For some reason, you think of your dorm room. It’s almost symbolic, even — to overlook the debris of whatever it is you had with him precisely when you’re about to part ways. And, indeed, he leaves without you — painfully graceful while you crumble completely, recalling all the dear vestiges your home still hosts: a pile of unwashed mugs, a borrowed shirt and that pretty, lonely rose. 

Viktor doesn’t look back. 

—

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

[hedgiwithapen]

for dammit hedgi day, i would like to humbly request cisco and hartley coming together to deal with their lingering scars from being wells’ favorites: hartley’s constant painful noise and cisco’s persistent terrifying visions.

“It’s not a competition,” Cisco said, eyeing the half set up chessboard with disdain reserved for supervillains and spice cabinets that contained only black pepper, salt, and paprika that had a bestby date starting with “19” . Would it kill people to include some tarragon or cumin? “Everything’s a competition,” Hartley said, digging more pieces out of the box. “Or did you miss that day of Kindergarten?” “I skipped kindergarten,” Cisco lied out of spite. “And sure, some things are competitions. Like, I don’t know, actual competitions. The olympics. Whatever the fuck happens with chess.  Pokemon battles.” “You can’t compare chess grandmaster tournaments with pokemon.” “Sure I can, just because you lost  doesn’t mean anything.”

Hartley threw  a piece at Cisco. Cisco caught it before the black bishop could hit him in the chest. He deposited the piece back in the box. “...sorry.” Hartley muttered with only the smallest of gestures.  Cisco shrugged. “You didn’t aim it very well.” “I could have.” “And yet.” Cisco pointed out.  Hartley went to put the piece on the board. “I already told you I’m not playing.” “I’ll play against myself.” Hartley shrugged. “It’s more of a challenge.” “You know, if not everything out of your mouth was a veiled insult, maybe--” “Maybe what, we wouldn’t be in this mess?” Hartley asked, one eyebrow raised. “Maybe we could figure something out.” Cisco shot back, starting to pace.  The silence, with only the gentle click of chess pieces on the board, itched at him. “You’re right,” Hartley said, again quietly, turning the board. His fingers hovered over the elegant pieces, staring at the trap he’d set for himself. “Oh yeah?” Cisco asked, tracing a crack in the wall. “Enlighten me.” “It’s not a competition. But if it was…” “You’d win, I know. You saw it all coming and tried to warn us.” Cisco slumped a little. “I never said thank you, for helping with Ronnie.” “I can still hear him.” Hartley said. “Screaming. It was… almost okay. When I thought he was going to be alright after all.” Cisco swallowed against the sob that wanted to break out of his chest. “It was my fault,” he said. “I locked the door.” Hartley swiped the pieces off the board, sending them clattering. “Bullshit. I know Snow told you the same thing. It was Harrison’s fault. He did this. To Ronnie. To us. And I wanted to say…. You’d win. “ It was a hollow laugh. “I can make gadgets. I can fill my ears with everything but the sound of screaming. You can’t even close your eyes. I hear all those deaths he caused. You died. It doesn’t take a MENSA membership to weigh that out.” Cisco picked up one of the pawns. “It’s not a competition,” he said again, rolling the piece in his fingers. It made the cut on his palm, where his powers had backfired on him earlier, ache. He did it anyways. “Are you done with your pityparty? I’m about done with mine. We need to find a way out of here.” “You think we’re going to find something we missed the first twelve times?” Hartley asked, but he stood, too, eyes cast upwards as if the ceiling might materialize a trapdoor at any moment. “There has to be something,” Cisco said. “Or he wins.” “I do, don’t I?” Eobard said from the opposite side of the room, the doorway already sealing up behind him. Cisco’s gaze narrowed in on the gloves of the yellow suit. They looked almost like Wally’s, red blending into the sickly yellow. It wasn’t a modification, a dull, matter-of-fact voice cut through panic to inform him. It was blood. “But that doesn’t mean you have to lose every time. I told you you’d always be my guys. So. Are you going to help me, or are you going to keep playing stubborn hero?”

join the discord!

[justforbooks]

Things you didn't know about board games

Many of us loving playing board games and people have been playing them for millennia. Here's some fun facts about this excellent pastime

1. We have been playing board games for millennia

Chess, checkers, backgammon and Go all have origins in the ancient world. King Tut was buried with multiple sets of an Egyptian game called senet. Hundreds of pieces of Greek pottery depict Ajax and Achilles hunched over a board in the midst of play. And the Ashanti people of Ghana are believed to have created a board game called wari, which you may know as the count-and-capture game mancala.

2. It wasn’t until the 19th century that board games began to be sold commercially

The first, The Mansion of Happiness, came out in England in 1800. The “mansion” was heaven, and players raced to get there. Decades later, an American named Milton Bradley reworked— and rebranded—it as The Checkered Game of Life.

3. Ludo has roots in ancient India, where it was called pachisi

Pachisi is from the Hindi word for “twenty-five,” the highest possible outcome of a single throw. But whereas Americans only tweaked the name to Parcheesi, the British decided to call it Ludo (‘lew-doh), Latin for “I play.” So when Englishman Anthony E Pratt developed his murder-mystery board game in 1943, he called it Cluedo, playing on Ludo. (In some countries, it’s called Clue.)

4. Around the world, the colourful cast of Cluedo can look quite different

Professor Plum was originally called Dr Orange in Spain. Mr Green goes by Chef Lettuce in Chile. Mrs Peacock is Mrs Purple in Brazil and Mrs Periwinkle in France, and in Switzerland, she’s Captain Blue, a man.

5. Board games occasionally inspire screenwriters

There’s the 1985 mystery Clue, the 2012 action movie Battleship and the 2023 fantasy film Dungeons & Dragons: Honour Among Thieves.

6. At least one board game is being adapted into a television show

The game's creator was a famous French filmmaker , Albert Lamorisse, who wrote and directed the 1956 Oscar-winner The Red Balloon, also created a board game he called La Conquête du Monde (Conquest of the World).

Parker Brothers, an American toy and game manufacturer, introduced it to the US soon after, and renamed it Risk.

7. Another game inventor, Alfred Butts, called his game a couple of other names before Scrabble

Butts first called his creation Lexiko, then Criss Cross Words, before settling on Scrabble—a word that means “to hold on to something.” The hugely popular game has been translated into 29 languages and more than 150 million sets have been sold around the world.

8. Over a game of Scrabble, Canadians Chris Haney and Scott Abbott came up with the idea for their game, Trivial Pursuit

Its success launched a years-long legal battle with an American encyclopedist who claimed Haney took trivia from his books, something Haney readily admitted to doing. In the end, the courts decided you can’t steal trivia and dismissed the suit. During the 1980s, Trivial Pursuit outsold even Monopoly, racking up $800 million in sales in 1984 alone.

9. At the highest levels of play, it’s not all fake money

The winner of the World Chess Tournament takes home up to 60 per cent of the €2 million purse, with the runner-up receiving the smaller share. Even the Monopoly world champion takes home real cash: US$20,580, the amount that comes in a standard Monopoly game.

10. Arguably the wrong person is credited with the creation of Monopoly

The American who sold Monopoly to Parker Brothers in the 1930s, Charles Darrow, often receives the credit for creating the game. But it was another American, Elizabeth Magie, who, decades earlier, earned a patent for her invention, The Landlord’s Game.

Players purchased railroads, paid rent and occasionally ended up in jail. Ironically, Magie’s aim with the game was to show the evils of accumulating wealth by bankrupting others.

11. Monopoly was a polarising game in communist countries

Fidel Castro banned it in Cuba, and it was also banned in China for much of the 20th century. But an even more dramatic bit of board game history occurred during the Second World War. Since prisoners of war in Germany were allowed board games, American troops hid maps, compasses and real money inside Monopoly sets to help them escape.

12. The idea for the kids’ classic game Candy Land came from Eleanor Abbott, an American polio patient

In 1949, Abbott wanted to create something for children to play in quarantine. In fact, illness has served as game inspiration many times. In the British mobile-app-turned-board game known as Plague, players take on the role of deadly diseases trying to mutate and spread across the world. Conversely, in Pandemic, created by an American, players try to contain the spread of diseases and discover cures.

13. Thousands of new games are released each year and there's annual awards for the best

How can you tell which ones are worth buying? One reliable indicator is the Spiel des Jahres (“Game of the Year” in German), a prestigious award given each summer by a jury of (mostly German) game critics who volunteer to play and vote for the winning games. Previous award recipients include Settlers of Catan, Dominion and Ticket to Ride. 

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[kiranapassionategamer]

Board Games and Technology: How Digital Platforms are Reshaping the Gaming Landscape

The intersection of technology and traditional board games has given rise to a new era in the gaming industry. Digital platforms have revolutionized the way people engage with board games, bringing about significant changes in accessibility, gameplay, and community interaction. This article explores the profound impact of technology on the board gaming landscape, highlighting both the opportunities and challenges it presents.

The Rise of Digital Board Games

In recent years, the popularity of digital board games has soared, making games more accessible to a wider audience. Digital versions of classic games, such as Ludo, Monopoly, and Chess, are now available on various platforms, allowing players to enjoy their favorite board games on computers, tablets, and smartphones. These platforms cater to a diverse audience, from casual players to dedicated gamers, offering a range of games from strategy-heavy adventures to quick, family-friendly entertainment such as Scrabble and Carcassonne. This shift not only broadens accessibility but also introduces a new dynamic to traditional gaming by integrating modern technology.

Advantages of Digital Board Games

Digital board games offer several advantages that enhance the player's experience. Portability is a significant benefit, as players can access their favorite games anywhere and at any time, without the need to carry physical game sets. Furthermore, many digital games feature innovative enhancements such as animated game pieces, interactive elements which can provide a richer gaming experience.

Impact on Traditional Board Gaming

While digital platforms have popularized board gaming among a broader audience, they have also impacted traditional gaming communities and retail stores. The convenience of online access means that fewer people visit brick-and-mortar stores, which has led to a shift in how these businesses operate. Additionally, player preferences have evolved, with many favoring the instant accessibility of digital games over traditional board gaming sessions.

The Role of Technology in Game Design

Technology has dramatically influenced game design and development, enabling creators to explore new possibilities that were previously unfeasible. Digital tools and software have streamlined the game development process, allowing designers to experiment with complex game mechanics and themes more easily. Moreover, technology facilitates the incorporation of multimedia elements, such as sound and video, enhancing the narrative and immersion of games.

Community and Social Interaction

Digital platforms have been instrumental in fostering online communities and facilitating social interactions among players globally. Online multiplayer modes and community forums allow players to connect, share strategies, and compete against each other, transcending geographical barriers. Features such as leaderboards, chat systems, and online tournaments promote ongoing engagement within the gaming community.

Challenges and Considerations

Despite the many benefits, digital board gaming faces several challenges. Issues such as digital rights management, game piracy, and the management of online player behavior are significant concerns for developers and publishers. Additionally, there is an ongoing debate about how to balance digital and physical gaming experiences to preserve the tactile joy and social interaction that traditional games offer.

Future Trends and Opportunities

Looking ahead, emerging technologies like augmented reality and blockchain are set to further transform the board gaming world. Augmented reality offers a tantalizing prospect of blending physical and digital gaming elements, creating immersive experiences that could redefine board gaming. Meanwhile, blockchain technology promises a new level of security and fairness in game mechanics, potentially encouraging wider adoption.

Conclusion

Technology has undeniably transformed the board gaming industry, bringing about a new age of digital gaming that offers unparalleled accessibility and innovative gameplay. As the landscape continues to evolve, embracing technology will be crucial for the continued growth and diversification of the gaming community. For those looking to enjoy a blend of traditional gameplay with modern technological enhancements, platforms like Zupee offer a chance to play ludo with friends online, combining classic fun with contemporary convenience.