#you could call all the chess pieces pawns because it is the game master who is king

[whereisthedamndaddymanual]

You know I just went around and picked up things that fell out of Dad's van when he was out rambling.

[fairyhaos]

seventeen and monopoly

how seventeen would play monopoly w/ each other

notes: im woozi. every single game i play, i always end up being woozi.

masterlist

seungcheol:

most competitive when it comes to monopoly. calls out jeonghan's cheating whenever possible, can never figure out how or when shua cheats, but is also totally down to cheating himself to win. has once engaged poor dokyeom in a bid for a train station that he raised way too high before suddenly pulling out, leaving dokyeom with -769 when he originally had 980. poor thing looked at his leader with the utmost betrayal in his eyes for over a week. also has totally owned almost the whole board before, calls it one of his biggest achievements in life

jeonghan:

the Biggest cheater (1). steals everyone's 50s when they're not looking. somehow manages to empty the bank of all the 500s, even though dino's been watching it like a hawk the entire time. has also definitely upturned the board during a game when it wasn't going the way he wanted, and has also definitely been nearly strangled by seungkwan because of it. asks if he can do aegyo or offers to do a dare instead of paying rent when he lands on someone's property, succeeds in making a deal 50% of the time

joshua:

the Biggest cheater (2). takes the little hotel buildings and puts them over properties that he doesn't even own, demands that people pay him anyway. has mastered the skill of looking all innocent while lying through his teeth and pinning the blame on a totally different member (jihoon or mingyu). gets extremely competitive when it looks like he has the slightest chance of winning and starts bending the rules like crazy, but if he's losing then he loses interest really quickly and gives up all his money and property to whoever looks like they're most likely to drop out any second

junhui:

makes up rules that sound really weird but also really plausible so the members don't know if they should trust him or not. has managed to convince mingyu that landing on the jail square when you roll means that you're in jail permanently unless you let the other players give you a dare to do. is somehow also passing Go every other turn of his. never wins, but never loses either: is always one of the last players still playing the game

hoshi:

attempts to be a cheater, is terrible at it. wants to win so badly, but he has such bad luck that he always lands on other people's properties and has to pay up. once spent the majority of the game in jail, bc he kept paying to get out only to end up back in there again, and didn't have money left to bail himself out or the 'get out of jail free' card. was the most upset when he had to play using a pawn from a chess set they had lying around somewhere (monopoly never comes with enough pieces for all 13 of them to play. weird, right? you'd think they'd make 13 pieces) and complained that even being the hat would be better than this. was then hit on the head by seungkwan, who was playing with the hat piece

wonwoo:

before they start playing he's constantly preaching that monopoly is basically based on luck and luck alone but as soon as it looks even the littlest like he's winning, he's telling them that monopoly is all about strategizing and budgeting and really the members could learn a thing or two from him—. only plays if he's in the mood to deal with all of their yelling tho, n normally says no thanks to the game when offered

woozi:

loses the most terribly all the time. 70% of the time, is the first one to give up on the game bc he's basically 100,000,000 in debt and he doesn't even know why. gets so angry this one time that he steals all of mingyu's money bc the dumb fool was stupid enough not to take it with him when he went to the bathroom. ended up losing all of it before mingyu even came back from peeing. tells them after every game that he'll never play monopoly with them ever, always ends up joining in the next time someone busts it out during game night

minghao:

always starts the game looking like -__- but as the game goes on and he keeps on gaining money, he slowly gets more and more excited and soon he's giggling every other minute bc people keep landing on his properties or he keeps getting good chance cards. the fates love him. has never gone into debt before. was so close to winning that one time that jeonghan flipped the playing board, wouldn't talk to him for five whole days after that. once owned both of the 'get out of jail free' cards in one round, refused to give them out to the people in jail unless they promised to do him any favour he asked for

mingyu:

never loses, but still loses. had jihoon steal all his money from him when he needed the bathroom one time, and came back to find out he'd pathetically lost it all. somehow always ends up playing the ship. doesn't know why he needs to mortgage his property, or how he even does it. asks the bank for loans, and chan refuses, saying he won't give him a loan unless he does aegyo. ends up still not getting the loan. has knocked over people's houses dozens of times while moving his ship round the board. ends up dropping out of the game halfway through bc jihan keep cheating too much for him to keep up and besides, seungcheol owns half the board and he doesn't even have any money left :(

dokyeom:

managed to almost win out of pure luck one time. has no idea what he's doing, asks his hyungs for help on every go. wants jeonghan to give him advice on whether he should buy a property or not: jeonghan either advises him genuinely or says the complete opposite of what would benefit dokyeom, depending on how he feels at that moment. has lost all his money bidding for a property before. finds it super unfair when jihan cheat him, starts whining and pouting so badly and throws his cards down in frustration. rarely sticks around till the end of the game, giving up and just watching the others battle it out across the board

seungkwan:

competitive. could almost be as competitive as seungcheol, but since he's competitive about every game they play it kind of cancels out so he's placed under him. fights any member who so much as looks at the dog piece, because that is his thank you very much. spent the entire game in a foul mood one time when he lost the dog piece to joshua. always ends up throwing something at someone during the game. never lasts until the end, throws his money in the air in exasperation and dramatically flings himself down onto the couch to watch the rest of them fight over the game

vernon:

monopoly is one of the few things that vernon can get truly competitive at. loves yelling at jeonghan every time he cheats, has also had to dodge flying pawns before as seungkwan threw them at him in anger when he landed on his ridiculously expensive property. always owns only a few streets, but manages to upgrade them so high that he's raking in money if ever anyone lands on them. almost lasted a whole game one time, before hoshi physically wrestled his cards out of his hands. he still doesn't know why he did that, or even why he let his hyung do that. 

chan:

is the banker. knows that he's terrible at games involving money, especially if it's against yoon jeonghan, so decides, for his sanity and his mental health, he'll never play a monopoly game against him. is also a great banker, apart from the times that money mysteriously disappears from the box. likes to sit back and enjoy the chaos that happens, knowing full well that their entire game could descend into even further catastrophe if he decided to withdraw the bank from them. 

request guidelines

reactions tags: @jeonghanis ,, @magicaltonaru ,, @milkbreadnotmilkcoffee ,, @weird-bookworm ,, @minhui896 ,, @turningcarat ,, @nakedgrapes ,, @bunnyiix ,, @slytherinshua ,, @haowrld ,, @belladaises ,, @iheartyujin ,, @summery-bat ,, @newgirlygirl ,, @moonlitskiiies ,, @interludezjk ,, @ejspencer14 ,, @cinnamoroxie ,, @wonranghaeee ,, @saythename-chess ,, @yonabutnotyuna ,, @youthoughtiwasfeelingyou ,, @crackedpumpkin ,, @wqnwoos ,, @butiluvu ,, @sunshinekyeom-sang ,, @ocyeanicc ,, @uramarica ,, @zozojella ,, @thesmellofcoffeeandrain ,, @kthstrawberryshortcake-main ,, @kawennote09 ,, @a-wandering-stay

[houseofhyde]

ii. a game of westerosi chess.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis. the six chess pieces in the king’s game and how your uncle calls checkmate. read the first part here !

warnings. niece!reader, targcest, possessiveness, themes of sexual/romantic ownership, alicent slander (im sorry, i love her, but this is daemon’s pov and we all know that man wakes up every morning and makes the conscious decision to be a hater), daemon being a filthy pervert (affectionate), smut ( masturbation, breeding kink, voyeurism, dacriphilia, virgin kink- if that's even a thing-, implied bi!daemon )

word count. 11.3k

taglist. @nyctophilic0vitnir​

hyde’s input. yes, i could have just made them get married after the events in part one. no, that wouldn’t be as fun as watching daemon suffer. i went and fucked myself over a little though because i never realised how much i’d struggle to write from his point of view without the fear of making him too out of character or his behaviour feel, idk, fake? empty? idk what the right word is but yeah. i caught the flu and have had sick-brain the whole time while writing this so who knows if the writing is even comprehensible lmao :)

disclaimer: i’ve never played chess (i'm too dumb for that) so pretend any incorrect comparisons are simply because there’s different rules for chess in westeros <3

when daemon targaryen was five years old, no more than a mischievous little babe who haunted the halls of the red keep, there was no one greater in his eyes than his older brother.

his older brother who bonded with the largest dragon; who snuck wine into his cup when the adults were occupied with their political indiscretions; who stood up for him even in times where he was the culprit. 

his older brother who had the longest winning streak in the whole of the red keep when it came to chess.

from maesters to the king, and ladies in waiting down to his own mother, there was not a single person within the castle who could face viserys targaryen in the game of strategic moves and walk away undefeated.

it was an understood fact: viserys targaryen was a master at chess.

one day, after catching his younger brother, moon-eyed and fresh-faced from wondering the dragonpit in search of a dragon to claim, and now spying upon his winnings against a pretty maiden, viserys had called the boy over. with daemon captivated by the sight of the chess board, the older of the two felt the cogs in his brain turning, an idea spawning.

you see, when one becomes the best at something, there is no more challenge. no fun to be found when you’re no longer sat at the edge of your seat wondering if this person will finally be the one to best you. and, so, viserys thought if no one else was good enough to beat him, he’d need to create a worthy opponent.

enter onto the scene, daemon targaryen.

with him being but a child still, viserys began his teaching with what captivated the little boy most: the figures which sat atop the checkered board.

“this, brother, is the pawn. it’s the least worthy piece, but do not let that fool you into thinking it is weak, for anyone may wield power if they work hard enough. a pawn may become a queen, just as a fool may become a lord.”

the rogue prince, now a man of three and thirty, awakes with one thing on his mind: his niece.

he’s always been a restless sleeper, not even in dreams would he escape the havoc of his own head and the inner-workings of it. and, though he’d scarcely recall the images his sleeping mind would conjure, the evidence comes in the state he’d find himself in: sprawled diagonally across the bed, the pillows which had once provided rest for his head now scattered along the floor and the bedsheets- which scratched uncomfortably on his skin, a slick of sweat oozing from his pores and leaving him looking glazed, like a freshly cooked hog at a feast- now a wrinkled tangle around his waist, trapping his legs in the cotton confines.

he spies the familiar lick of sunlight casting through the closed curtains, affirming that dawn has indeed passed and a new day is upon him.

running a hand over his face, a disgruntled sound escapes him, sluggishly moving himself to sit up right, that familiar yet new ache in his back flaring up and begging for release in the form of stretching limbs and extended muscles. age has begun to sneak up on him, grabbing him in it’s clutches and reminding the egotistical man that he is just that: a man, not a god, much to his own displeasure.

the hand departs from his face only to pause midair. a smell, heady and musk infused, reaches his nostrils. it’s dirty and grimey in every way yet enticing him to seek it out again, to sniff out wherever the odour is coming from and bury himself in it till he suffocates.

tentatively, he retraces his movements till his fingers dance over his face once again and realisation kicks him like the hoof of a horse, hard and with a lingering pounding.

only, the pounding comes from his crotch rather than his skull.

the smell is you, in all your dribbling, soaking, honeysuckle glory, stained on his skin like the slaves of volantis are stained with ink.

another inhale floods his senses with the memories from last night, replaying the feel of your bodies pressed together in dance, and your hand squeezing his almost painfully tight as he leads the way to your chambers, and the eager spreading of your legs as he at last satisfies his hunger for you- a hunger which had started sometime after you’d first began to present the figure of a woman, all supple breasts and pouting lips and silhouettes made of dresses that hid from view the naughty parts of you your uncle’s cock ached to see.

the voice in his head, which more often than not drives him to behave erratically, this time is but a whisper, a seduction of craving and curiosity that has him slipping his hand further down, brushing over the fine line of his lips and awaiting entrance as he parts his mouth open, brushing his stained digits over his tongue.

a jolt of heat burns down his spine while the sweet tang of your taste invades his senses. like biting through a lemon, the taste should repel him in every way, flood his soul with shame and leave him disgusted in himself.

instead, he licks his tongue in a silent plea for more.

the thought of never bathing again crosses daemon’s mind, unwilling to wash away the evidence of the peak he’d driven you to with nothing but his fingers. gods help the world when he finally gets his cock in you, for he’s likely to become a deranged, dirty shell of a man too busy getting fill after fill of your pulsing cunny to ever plunder himself into the oil-infused waters of a bath.

you’d be so sweet for him, a little harlet for him to mold and bend and break into every which-way he desires you. and it’s that thought, plus the taste of your dried essence, which has the rogue prince’s cock stirring beneath the tangled sheets.

desire awakens much like a dragon would: slowly and, then, all at once, eyes wide, chest huffing and puffing, and body arising from the ground.

the prince kicks the tangled sheets off, no thought given to whatever corner in the chambers he tosses them towards, eyes and hand and mind too focused on the once flacid organ between his leg growing more solid and red in the tip as the moments pass.

“fuck...” he means to only think it, yet speaks it aloud into the solace of the room as the warmth of his hand makes itself familiar with his cock.

he gives himself a tug, dry hand meeting the movement with resistance yet the layer of skin which conceals his soon-to-be seed soaked slit retracts enough to allow the blushing head of his cock to poke through. while he’d typically prefer to wet it with a whore’s cunt, or slicken it with whatever mindless ointment he could find laying around, daemon finds himself gathering his own saliva and spitting a fat drop of it into the palm of his hand.

the glide of his digits over the organ becomes easier, allowing him to work himself into full-blown hardness, cock taking over the use of his brain and sending him into a state of restless lust, demanding to be fed and satiated with the emptying of his stones, preferably into the warm, pulsating, tight cunt of his little dove.

while the prince does debate his ability to throw on a robe- or, even, roam the halls in his nude glory- and seek out your likely sleeping form, to watch as you startle awake with the breaking of your maidenhead and cry out for your uncle to fill you with his spend till you’re swelling with his bastard, he decides he prefers the thought of making you wait a little longer, see how much he can test the limits of your impatient desires.

after all, a maiden always feels best when her cunt’s as soaked as her crying eyes and her mouth’s spewing plead after plead, begging for his cock.

while one hand works over himself, the other sneaks it’s way back into his mouth, lust bursting into bright colours as he licks over the taste of you, soaking it into his bloodstream and making you part of his genetics- just as he is part of yours.

daemon allows his eyes to slip shut, sinking into sweet fantasies and mental pictures of bouncing tits and blood stained sheets, only to reopen them within an instant at the sound of his chamber door slamming against the solid wall.

“oh my!” a young girl dressed in rags turns her back on him as quickly as she notices his naked form, as if allowing him to compose himself and make himself presentable. “i’m so sorry, my prince! i would have knocked but he said i should simply let myself in!”

daemon makes no attempt to find cover.

“do whatever it is you need to do.” he speaks with a tone far too relaxed for a man who’s still got a grip on his cock. if anything, the raggedness in his breaths comes from his frustrations of losing the flavour of you on his tongue. “don’t stop on my account.”

she hesitates upon facing him again, eyes clearly wandering off from her own commands and glancing down at his exposed crotch more times than he imagines she’s comfortable with. from the look of her, she’s young in age- likely only recently blossomed into a woman- and, at the thought of his being the first cock she’s ever seen, he feels himself grow closer to his peak, a sick and twisted satisfaction buzzing through his veins at the possibility of giving the sweet girl her first sense of visual arousal.

when the shock passes, yet still lingers in her features like a harsh cough irritates the throat, she makes her way fully into the room. in her arms, a tray with a mass of food, enough to feed a lord and his men for several nights. without a word, she lays the assortment out on the large table within his chambers, hands shaking under her own nerves.

meanwhile, daemon slows the flick of his own wrist, teasing his cock with the impending satisfaction. a smile, too faint to be seen yet present enough that he feels the slight stretch of his lips, births itself as he considers who this offering of a feast may be from.

“what’s this about, girl?” he throws the question out into the air, clear amusement in his tone.

“the king, my prince.” just as he expected. “he’s ordered this be sent to you.”

and so it begins, he thinks.

his brother is buttering him up, showing a sign of good-will to have daemon in his good graces when he orders the rogue prince betroths himself to the king’s pretty daughter, her supposed virtue now a pile of crumbled ruins in the eyes of the court. as if he needs convincing to take such a sweet young thing to wife, the perfect little bird made of blonde hair, valyrian blood, sugar-coated cum and the sweetest song of whimpers and pleas.

“then make sure you let my brother know how eager i am to receive his feast.” he can feel himself reaching the edge of his peak, tethering off the edge and seconds away from painting his hand white with wasted seed.

perhaps the serving girl will lick it clean for him.

“of course, my prince.” once finished with the arranging of the feast, the maiden straightens out some wrinkles in her skirt- though it does nothing to clean up her looks- and begins to make her way back toward the entry to his chambers. “the king will be surprised to see you so agreeable, though it will help soothe his unease, my lord.”

“his... unease?” daemon’s movements stop, the air runs dry and the girl visibly stiffens, hand curling around the door handle and clenching it as if it is the only thing giving her support.

clearly, she’s said something she shouldn’t have.

“i must go, my lord.”

“unease over what, girl?”

“you... you don’t know, do you?” she’s beginning to irritate him, speaking in riddles and shaking like a leaf in the winds of winter.

“answer me clearly or i’ll have your tongue.” the girl can not see the way he moves off the bed, nor the way he spies his eyes towards his trusted sword propped against a wall, but she certainly hears the loud thud of his feet meeting the floor, feels the darker shift of energy in the room as the rogue prince makes a threatening advance towards her.

“ser gerold royce, my prince...” he’s near certain she lets out a pathetic whimper, like a wounded doe. “he’s proclaimed himself as lord of runestone.”

the world comes to a stand still as her words flood over him.

while the prince is frozen in his spot, face an empty canvas devoid of emotion, the young girl makes a swift exit, wise enough to not wish to stick around long enough to bare witness to the hot-headed prince’s reaction. the slamming of the door on her way out seems to startle him back into motion, naked limbs striding across the room and grabbing at the door. he twists the handle and gives a harsh tug, strong enough to have the wood smash as it collides against the wall.

the door does not open.

he attempts again, and again, and again, and is met with the same resistance each time. only then does it dawn on him- the feast, the unease- this was never about his brother keeping him in his good graces.

this was about the king keeping him locked away in his chambers.

“next, you’ve got your knight. while still not a very point-worthy piece, this holds power in the way it moves, jumping over pawns like a real knight slices through his enemies with the point of his sword.”

four days pass by slowly within the confines of his chambers.

at first, he rages. pacing the floor till the plush carpeting runs thin, hacking away at hand-crafted furniture his ancestors had sat upon and broken fast at, mouth dropped open in a bellow of impassioned words of all the things he plans to do once he gets his hands on his older brother, most of which start and end with his grip on the king’s neck.

then, he tries rest.

it’s a hopeless attempt, though, as the thoughts are running far too rampant for him to ignore the fact he’s confined within his room, not a clue of what his brother has done in regards to runestone’s rebellion. then come the thoughts of you, his little dove, likely hurt, and confused, and needing your dear uncle’s guidance on how to continue onward, how to outsmart the wretched ladies within your father’s court, how to ensure you do not wind up married off to some boring oaf of a lord, with not a drop of valyrian blood in his veins.

after sleep evades him, and rage consumes him once more, he switches to pleasuring himself, hand squeezed tight around his cock and working over the sex organ till he’s completely spent, his sack drained and nothing but pathetic droplets of seed painting his skin by the eight, ninth, tenth peak he drives himself too, fuelling the fire of his lust with past rendevouz- the pentoshi whore he’d fucked in front of her own husband, the nights he’d spent in the streets of silk in rooms where cups and cunts were shared amongst the crowd, the young knight who’d sought him out after a tourney and cried out as daemon stretched the tight pink hole of his arse- and with future desires- the slapping of his stones against your pearl as he takes you from behind, your pretty eyes struggling back tears the first time he fucks his cock into your silky wet hole, the sick, and nasty, and down-right degenerate want to bend you over the small council table and shoot his seed into your womb for all those wrinkled cunts to bare witness to.

ultimately, it’s the memory of how you taste that sends him spiralling for a tenth time.

the rogue prince is a sexual deviant, that was the very first whisper that had flooded the keep about him. and oh how he’s worn it with pride over the years, a twisted joy found in watching their outrage each time he speaks of crass and acts on sin.

even so, there is only so much he can take until he reaches his limit. and, thus, with his cock feeling like it may fall off if he does not give it some recovery time, the prince returns to raging.

that is how the king finds him, sword in hand and the expensive fabrics that once made up the curtains leading onto a balcony now nothing but tattered rags on the floor.

“i must say, daemon, this takes me back.” viserys’ tone carries amusement, which licks at daemon’s ire and coaxes it back to life, hand gripping the hilt of his sword as the prince reminds himself- despite how infuriating the king may be- that he cares deeply for his older brother. “me entering your chambers and finding you amidst a temper tantrum.”

the prince is quick on his feet, turning on his ankle till he finds himself gazing upon the face of his brother. he’s dressed in his finest robes, a mixture of reds and blacks, yet daemon does not miss the green jewel on one of his fingers. the crown upon viserys’ head reflects the sun, shining offensively in the prince’s face as if to more harshly remind him of the inheritance he’ll never claim, the throne he’ll never sit.

“what is the meaning of this?” daemon bellows and instinctively raises dark sister, the tip of the blade pointed directly at his brother.

the sound of kingsguards drawing their own weapons floods the room yet the raise of viserys’ hand halts them all in their defence, calling his brother’s bluff.

“i had some business to attend to.” the king speaks so casually, as though he’s discussing the recent weather or what he’d eaten for his supper the evening before.

“so you imprison me in my chambers as if i am some ill-behaved child!” daemon means to question him yet his words come out as more of a statement, an acceptance of the matter at hand.

“yes, well, what kind of idiot would i be to let my brother wander free in my castle while i’m grasping at straws to prevent a war?” the room grows more tense with every exchanged word between the two brothers, a feat which doesn’t go unnoticed by the guards who stand by the king nor the maidens who had rushed in after the reopening of daemon’s chambers, scrambling around to tidy the place up. “a war which you started in the first place.”

it irks something in daemon, the way viserys remains level headed whilst he’s pacing the room, and gripping his sword, and releasing his frustrations in bursts of loud voices and disgruntled grunts. condescending in every way, it sends daemon into a headspace where he’s no longer a man-grown and, instead, a tear-stained child being reprimanded by his king and grandsire.

he liked to torture young daemon who, despite his best efforts, was always prone to outbursts of emotion- outbursts the old man liked to meet with calmed expressions and tired words of disappointment, dismissing his grandson to bed.

it seems to be a commonality shared among kings, antagonising daemon.

“a war i started?!” and yet he falls for the trap every time, meeting viserys’ passive with his aggressive, striding those few steps closer till he’s a hair away from touching the king with his blade. still, his brother holds off his guards. “and how do you suppose i done such a thing while being imprisoned!?”

“cool it with the theatrics, brother,” viserys punctuates his exhaustion with an eye roll and gives a single nod of his head, giving the kingsguards the go-ahead to swarm around daemon.

a pair of them, both young in their knighthood and matching in face, grab at the rogue prince’s arms and hold him in a stand-still while another guard plucks the weapon from his hand. daemon shoves against their hold and is met with more resistance.

dark sister is passed among the guards, each hand that touches it being added to a tally of people on daemon’s list of men to disembowel. finally, viserys holds the weapon, examining it like it is the very first time he’s seen it.

“daemon, it brings me no joy to do this,” the king starts up again, eyes meeting the glaring amethysts of his brother. “but with the tensions arising and war creeping over the horizon, i can not afford to risk anything going amiss.”

“get to the point, brother. you’re speaking in rhyme as if you were some bard.”

“very well. from now until i decide you are not a threat to this kingdom, your confinement will be stretched from your chambers to the red keep. you are to carry no weapon and you will step no foot out of this castle.”

“you’re a fool if you think i’ll agree to this.”

“it is an order from your king!” viserys lets the mask slip, intentionally or not, and his irritation shines through like the stars paint themself across the dark sky. “and if that’s not enough to keep you in line, you will also be monitored at all hours of the day, every move you make within these walls will be shadowed by that of a knight of my choosing.”

daemon targaryen considers murdering his brother.

“and i see no man more fit for the job than ser criston cole.”

for the first time in his life, daemon targaryen may just go through with it.

“the bishop may be similar to the knight in it’s point count, yet it moves differently. while a knight can not move three times in the same direction, a bishop must stay within the colour it started in. think of a bishop like a maester: chained to an oath it can never break”

he’d rather be forced to endure a lifetime of self-flagellation than another moment of this conversation.

“it is in your best interest, your grace, to cut this state of anarchy out from it’s roots before any other houses chose to follow in the footsteps of runestone.” the new hand of the king is certainly an improvement from the hightower cunt, daemon can’t deny it. yet a part of him feels the knife of betrayal twist deeper into his back upon realising his brother had not only ignored his own warnings of the green lord till rhaenyra brought them up too, but he’d once again given the role to a random lord in his court rather than his own brother. “we have cause to believe that the dandarrions may be next to follow, given the less than kind words your daughter had for them during her tour for a marriage.”

“then there is the matter with the lannisters and, of course, the never ending tensions with the dornish folk. they’re more weary than ever, since someone,” maester mellos has never been a subtle man, despite all his supposed wits and knowledge, and so it flies over no one’s head when he takes a glance at the rogue prince and his standing guard, the insufferable man who’s made himself daemon’s shadow. “went to war with the triarchy.”

“my apologies for riding you all of that tyrant crabfeeder!” daemon speaks for the first time since he’d been forced to sit at the small council. “i’ll be sure to stand by and allow the next one to rip you all to pieces.”

daemon drowns out the rest of the meeting, uninterested in hearing his brother grovel at ways to keep his subjects at bay, as though they are the ones that rule over him.

gifts of gold for the dandarrion, a knighting for the lannisters’ youngest lords, peace-offerings in the forms of poetic words, and sweetened fruits, and lavish silks for the dornish. each gift more empty than the last.

it’s the mention of your name that brings him back into the room.

“were she here, we could have used her as a bargaining plea for one of these stronger houses,” ser lyman beesbury is the one who speaks and, with each word, the rest of the councilmen grow wider in the eyes and stiffer in their seats.

daemon explains their otherwise odd reactions away with them simply feeling uncomfortable discussing you in his presence, everything changed and nothing the same since sometime between the night he had you pressed against your door and his confinement within the keep.

upon release back into the castle, he’d searched for you first of all, paying no mind to criston cole as the knight struggled to keep up with his rushed footfall, mind too focused on the renewed anger he wished to placate with his cock in your mouth and the further destruction of your purity, all in the name of spiting your father.

when he’d reached your chambers, however, he’d found nothing but a mess of emptied trunks and an unkept bed.

“the princess is not here.” ser criston had spoken between gasps of air, chest heaving beneath the unnecessary layers of chainmail and armor his position forces him to wear.

daemon had demanded an answer for your whereabouts, only to quickly realise the knight was none-the-wiser. it was the new hand, ultimately, that clued him in, over sips of wine and looks of caution from other council-men amid a private feast.

“driftmark, prince daemon.” he’d dabbed at the corners of his mouth with poise and composure, everything about the man seemingly perfected for politics, serving only to irritate the prince further. “the princess has accompanied her older sister and her new husband on their trip to laenor velaryon’s home.”

that was the last daemon had heard of you.

a near moon later and you were still out of reach, likely turning your nose at the smell of salt that coated the walls of the velaryon household and wondering why a certain red-speckled dragon had yet to swoop in on the island, carrying the cause and answer to all your problems upon it’s back.

“dare i say i agree, your grace,” another of the men chimes in, his words barely a whisper at first, glancing nervously toward the king. “perhaps we may write for her return and see to it that a betrothal be made.”

daemon chooses to observe viserys in this moment, eyes trailing over his features and taking note of every wrinkle in his brow, every greyed hair within his unshaven face, every upturn and scorn of his lip. there’s a wave of unease that’s fallen over his brother, and it only grows with every moment that the lords speak of you in the rogue prince’s presence, the air thick with the discussion the two brother’s had yet to have regarding the rumours of your deflowering.

“and, tell me, my lords, what you suggest we tell the princess’ current betrothed?” maester mellos, ever incapable of holding his tongue, barks across the table, deathly unaware of the looks that befall the council nor the tensing of daemon’s shoulders. “the king is trying to avoid war, not further instigate one by implying her current betrothal is not good enough, that house-”

“that’s enough!” the king rises from his chair all at once, slamming his hand down on the table and commanding the attention of everyone in the room, more so when he recoils in pain. all at once, the rumours of his declining health and the effect it’s had on his body feel all too true. “there will be no further discussions of my daughter nor the prospect of a new betrothal. what’s done is done and i will not go back on my word to appease your fear-mongering speculations. we will continue our diplomatic relationship with these houses and ensure they do good to remember who sits the iron throne.”

the men obey like sheep, each bowing their head and mumbling false reconciliations.

one by one, they all take their leave.

first, lyman beesbury, who with pale face and solemn eyes lays apologies at visery’s feet. next, the master of laws and maester mellos, neither of them wasting time with niceties and opting for a mere bow towards their king. when all the chairs lay empty, save for daemon’s and the king, silence runs thick through the room. neither brother moving, each testing their unnamed opponent and awaiting the first blow through the tension to be made.

daemon grows impatient.

“unless corlys velaryon fucked a new son into our lady cousin and had the babe birthed in a matter of days, i do wonder who you’ve betrothed my niece to on driftmark.”

“do you know what your problem is, daemon?” though viserys’ words come out with inquisitory tones, he leaves no space for the prince to answer. “you’re so busy with your own schemes and plans that you fail to see when you’re the one being played.”

daemon feels small.

for a moment, he’s no longer a man grown into a soldier, with a mighty sword and a fearsome dragon. instead, he’s frail and weak, and staring across at his older brother as he beats him once more in the game of knights and checkered spaces, a taunting look on his face as he knocks over the little boy’s king piece and declares himself victor.

when the moment passes, he straightens his posture and rises from his seat, and reminds himself of the words his mother would comfort her crying babe with each time he failed to win, whispers of how there’s always something to be gained in any loss he finds.

he settles with leading his brother further into the trap of rumours him and his niece have conjured up together.

“i hear your new wife is fond of the seven, brother.” the prince reaches to grip the hilt of his sword, only to find an empty space and the reminder that he carries no weapon as of late. “ask her to pray for your daughter, i don’t believe she tasted the bitterness of moon tea after our evening together.”

the king does not call daemon’s bluff.

“this right here? the rook, worth more than the bishop or knight, yet less than the king or queen, it is an allusive piece. play the game wisely and your rook may trap the king, leaving it with nowhere to run.”

with the passing of another moon, daemon plunders deeper into insanity.

he’s always been a man of possession, the kind who owns and conquers and takes. objects, lands, people. they’re all the same in daemon’s chequebook of ownership. and, while living a rather messy and unkept life, he enjoys the pleasantness of having his possessions in his line of sight, like the sword he’s worn at his hip since the old king bestowed it upon him, or the seating he takes at every royal feast, chair angled perfectly to keep his eyes on the brother, nieces, family he possesses.

with dark sister out of reach and his most recent favoured family member out of sight- the pretty niece he’s silently layed his claim on-, destruction is imminent.

no longer does he debate with his own inner-turmoil over if he will go against the king’s orders but, rather, he questions when.

when will he redeem his previous loss against ser criston cole, beat the knight to the ground and steal his weapon as he lays unconscious?

when will he slip through the cracks in the castle walls, making use of the secretive halls built by maegor the cruel himself and slice through any guard who may attempt to get in his way?

when will he take the skies atop his fire-breathing mount, fleeing the city of whispering cunts and chees-playing fools?

the answer to each questions comes back to one thing, one person, one possession he needs to locate first.

you.

the events to follow the council meeting had lead him to several conclusions.

the first, and most obvious one, was that you clearly were not on driftmark, as lord strong had so boldly claimed. the second took him a few sleeps to fully decide upon but, remembering the words spoken of your betrothal among the council men and the apparent greater houses they could have given your hand to, daemon crossed off the possibility of you being in winterfell, the young stark lord likely too prideful to entertain the king’s earlier propositions of marriage after the way you’d left him amid a feast to go and- falsely rumoured- fuck your uncle.

with the dandarrions, the lannisters and the dornish folk already ruled off the list, it left daemon with few options.

his strongest lead is the baratheons, a long-standing connection between the two houses and a recently widowed lord who’s previous wife had gifted nothing but girls from her womb, it took no genius to assume a targaryen bride would serve him well.

daemon will soon find out he's wrong.

there’s an unease that takes over someone’s chambers the moment they notice something has been tampered with, whether it be as silly as a glass moved a few inches across a table or something as significant as a chest of drawers laying open when they’d clearly been left shut.

it tickles the back of the prince’s neck this very evening, skin rising to mimic that of a goose as he trails his eyes over his surroundings.

he’d returned to his chambers later than usual this evening, the day spent cornering council-men and threatening them- daemon had quickly discovered they feared him less with no blade to slice through them and his own personal minder at his back, that ridiculous kingsguard armour reflecting every ray of sun and every burn of candlelight.

daemon had taken to tormenting the poor ser crispin only a matter of days into their forced companionship. he figured that, if he may no longer seek joy in the streets of silk or the bloodshed of his enemies, let him at least take pleasure in the squirming discomfort of a man he loathes entirely.

“my niece,” he’d spoke as the two sat through their usual quiet supper together. “did you enjoy fucking her?”

“i did not fuck princess y/n.”

“well, of course not,” daemon pushed his spoon back and forth, passing time while he thought up his next taunt. “my younger niece has always had the more refined taste out of the two of them. rhaenyra, on the other hand, well she’d fuck a hound if it licked her the right way.”

“all this from a man who preys on his own blood for his sexual deviance. you and i both know what you done to your niece, how you seduced such a-”

“my nieces have always seemed so alike. both pale haired, both sharing the same smile, both wearing the same dresses.” the knight and the prince had long abandoned their food now, discussion heavy with daemon’s accusation of ser criston abandoning his own vows and committing what he can only imagine would be declared treason, deflowering a princess. perhaps soon the two will share something in common. “now i wonder if they feel the same. you must know, so tell me, did rhaenyra’s cunt grip your pathetic cock in a vice that threatened to ruin any other woman for you? or is that a trait only my youngest niece possesses?”

even now, hours into the late night and several more cups of wine drowning in his system, daemon can not bite back a dry laugh as he recalls the astound look upon the knight’s face, a mixture of disgust and discomfort.

he’s seated- more accurately speaking, he’s draped- upon a chaise, muscles tense and mind racing, in need of distraction. most of his nights end like this now, several emptied pitchers of wine along the floor, red staining his mouth and his own figure collapsed over whatever surface he finds first. occasionally, he’d attempt to have his way with a serving girl, ignoring the looks of ser criston as he stands guard outside his chambers and watches the prince enter with his partner for the evening, yet most were dismissed before daemon could satisfy himself, a mixture of his own drunken incontinence and their far too placid natures.

at least the whores of the silk street make him believe they want him.

letting out a groan, he sinks further into the seat, legs bent at the knee and feet planted firmly on the ground as he lets himself lay back fully. he’s contemplating taking rest here for the evening, and weighing the likely-hood of awakening with a new pain in his neck. 

it would certainly be a more comfortable sleep than the would he’d taken last night, back slumped against a wall and body sat atop the cool marbled floor.

he makes his choice, limbs too tired to make the few paces to his bed, and resigns himself for the night, twisting once more to find the most comfortable position upon the chaise and closing his eyes.

only to reopen them instantly.

something rustles. that feeling of unease creeps in once again, slow like fog over the horizon, hazy and threatening, and cold in every sense of the word. someone has been in his chambers, is in his chambers, and they’ve left something askew.

his eyes dart over the room, trying to assess every nook and corner and crevice within it in hopes of spotting a pair of spying eyes or unsettled objects. struggling due to all the blind spots his position has created, daemon heaves himself back into the upright position, figure slouched and back curved uncomfortably.

the rustling happens again.

he shoots up from his seat, wondering if his inebriated state has begun to create delusions, or if the psychosis caused by staring at the same red walls of the keep nonstop has finally begun to take over. he must be going mad, he thinks, eyes scanning over the whole of his room as he turns in place, cursing the more he notices nothing out of the ordinary.

until he sees it.

there, placed exactly where his tired limbs had been mere moments ago, lays a note.

it’s folded over and sporting a strange yellow blotch in one of it’s corners while, in the centre, written in the blackest ink so delicately and flowery it near stirs his cock in his breeches, kepus.

he snatches at the paper, near tearing it in two with the speed he unfolds it, eyes racing over every scribble and every swirl of pretty inked words.

the rain is the only thing that brings me comfort these days.

the letter begins and, while the writer has still not identified themselves, the prince is more than certain he knows who is speaking.

i’ve never been a fan of change (i’m sure you recall my horrid tantrums as a child whenever my mother assigned me a new handmaiden), yet never have i faced one so large. where in the capital i spent my days with books and needles and rides upon dragon’s back, here i am told to sit quiet as a mouse, as though i am merely another ornament within the lord’s home. where i once spent nights rolling my eyes and wishing to be excused from public feasts, here i cry and ache for a morsel of socialising outside the lord’s inner circle. where once i slept sound over the small folk screaming and cheering into the late night, here i sit awake by the window and listen to each raindrop.

i am not built for the cold, both in weather and in people. they frighten me here, which is a thing i never thought i’d need admit to. there are no whispers here, only silence. but their eyes, they speak paragraphs of hatred and disdain and ill-intentions with a simple glance. i need not worry if they will eat me alive here, but rather whom will be the one to do so. in the capital i’ve always felt untouchable, first because i was my father’s daughter, a princess of the realm, and, when that began to lose effect, you stepped in and taught me safety can be found in another, with your advice and your combat training and your inability to let me fall asleep without you on my mind.

i’ve developed a sick obsession for you, uncle, and it is entirely your fault.

he’s sunk back onto the chaise, hand gripping the letter tighter as a mixture of worry and anger stirs up in his loins. worry over the tales you tell, anger for the possibility of this being a sick game, a note written by some pathetically bored serving wench aiming to ruffle some feathers.

he decides he must keep reading to uncover the truth.

and so, now, it is with heavy heart that i must admit i’m disappointed. don’t perceive me as foolish, for i am wiser than some maiden who believes the things i feel for you to be love. but i always believed there was understanding between us, two different souls yet so completely immersed and knowing of each other’s drives and needs. even when i was a child, you were always the first to notice once i was too tired to continue with the festivities or when i craved the thrill of sneaking down to the dragonpit to spy upon the great beasts. i thought you’d understand, too, that this is not the life i wishfor: a husband with the personality of a wet piece of parchment and a life of silence and gloom.

i am a dragon, just like my sister, and my father, and our ancestors. and a dragon can not grow in a cage, so why have you let them put me in one? you agreed to help me, to ruin me for any other lord so that my father would have no option to but to wed us, leaving us both to our own devices. you, gaining that valyrian wife you always wanted while not changing your whorish ways, and i, earning the freedom i would not find shackled to some low achieving, overbearing, egotistical man. yet i now have a betrothed who’s hair is brown and who’s house has no dragon.

i will risk writing this only once, for the spiders may not spin their thread here but they still bite, and ask this of you: speak sense into my father. tell him i’m with child, tell him i’m a threat to the realm, tell him i’m plotting my own death. tell him any lie you need to put a stop to this betrothal and bring me home, to where i belong.

or, outsmart him and simply come rescue me yourself, like some knight on his white stallion (caraxes would likely singe my hair off if i ever dared call him such a thing in his presence).

i’ll be awaiting your next move, uncle. be sure you play wisely and don’t lose both your princess and your king.

coldest regards,

your little dove.

p.s. i have cum to learn that, while my fingers are indeed skilled, they are nowhere near as good as yours were, kepus.

the intensity behind the stare he holds the note under may just set it alight.

no longer does he doubt who could have written such a thing, the mentions of your joint ploy to deceive the courtiers and the wording used to describe the connection shared between you both marking the undeniable truth of the letter’s author. 

perversion brings him to reread the final sentence, mind fully registering them and flooding him with pink hued paintings of his pretty niece, as nude as the day you were born, now flushed skin and hardened nipples and honey dripping down your thighs as your dainty hands fail to fuck themselves as deeply as his had.

daemon can’t help but wonder what his little dove must think of in moments of self-pleasure, questions of whether you were depraved enough to think of men doing unspeakable things to you or if you merely blush over the memory of your uncle.

reading over the last part two more times, his eyes scatter back up the page- first, in an effort to avoid having to deal with his own impending arousal, and then because he feels compelled to read over the letter once more, eyes scanning over every detail.

it takes an unknown number of reads for him to notice a code among the words, a subtleness of ink layered to appear harsher, darker, more noticeable than the other words upon the parchment.

i’m, where, you, once, were.

i’m where you once were.

an inexplicable sense of pride comes over him, the fact his little dove has found a way to tell him something whilst, simultaneously, telling him nothing. were your worries true of spiders and the risk of one of them reading this letter in the time it took to reach him, he doubts any of them would be wise enough to notice the message, much less decipher it’s meaning.

and, while he applauds your display of wits, he despises his own inability to comprehend it. if you are where he once was, where had he been?

just about everywhere in the seven kingdoms, is the unfortunate truth.

by the time sleep at lasts takes over him, daemon has gained two things: the letter you’ve sent and the unbreakable will to move in on the king at last.

“the objective of chess is to protect your king while attacking your opponent’s. you must back the king into a corner, leave him with no way out, place him in check. only then will you be able to call checkmate and win.”

daemon nudges the knight with his foot.

as they’d sat for supper that evening, the prince had felt doubtful of the contents in the vial. he’d pinched it from the grand maester himself and, though he payed no real coins, the prince would argue he payed a grater price: feigning interest in conversing with old crone. a near three hours he’d sat, listening to the man drone on and on, till at last he’d excused himself to relieve his bladder and left daemon with a window of opportunity, his ointments and medicine all in a neat little display.

having little time, he’d grabbed at what he was sure to be milk of the poppy- a significantly smaller dose remaining within the vial compared to the rest- and tucked it in his trousers, at last excusing himself from the bore of a lifetime.

it wasn’t difficult to slip the liquid into a cup of wine, nor was it particularly hard to convince ser criston to drink from it, inviting the knight to join in on his empty toast towards the hightower queen and yet another pregnancy.

hours later and ser crispin lays slumped over outside his door.

daemon gives one more nudge for safety and, when the man merely slouches even closer to the ground, he grabs at the knight’s weapon and nestles it in his own scabbard, making use of it for the first time in two moons.

the hour is late and most of the keep have given in to the temptations of rest, yet the prince still travels the halls with caution, one eye looking over his shoulder. he half expects every guard he passes to seize him on sight, spewing some nonsense of his wrongful weapon or non-permitted solitude. with luck he reaches his destination, no one to spy upon the way he enters into the emptied library nor to witness as he shoves a bookcase aside and steps into the tunnel.

his memory serves him well, even after all these years, navigating himself through the interconnected secrets of the keep. he passes rooms of lords laid in bed with women they do not call wife, and ladies disrobing for the evening, and the still empty chambers of his little dove, till, at last, he reaches where he wants to be, not bothering with patience before barging his way out of the tunnel and into the regal chambers of the king.

“it took you longer than i expected.” daemon had counted on his brother being the one wearing shock upon his face, yet it is the prince who plays the fool, stepping into the room to find his older brother sat at a table, goblet in hand and a familiar checkered board in front of him.

it irks him to hear the king even imply he’d been expecting his arrival.

“don’t you have a wife to be bedding, brother?” he steps deeper into the chambers with caution, eyes on the empty bed and the lack of sight of his brother’s breeding mare.

“pregnancy, daemon. it works wonders on a woman’s body,” he takes a sip of his drink before reaching to pour a second cup meant for the prince. “it’s just a shame one of those wonders comes in the form of my wife snoring louder than a lion roars.”

it’s strange to hear his brother discuss details of his new bride.

daemon had never sought answers for their marriage, yet he’d forever questioned what had driven his brother to marry such a girl, childhood friend of his eldest daughter and so clearly lacking the backbone needed to stand up for herself against the injustices forced against her by her own father. were the prince a more gentle person at heart, perhaps he’d find it in him to pity her.

instead, he sees her as just another thorn in his brother’s side, waiting for the chance to poison his mind and seat one of her wretched babes upon the throne.

“come, come,” dragging him out of his thoughts is viserys once more, now half-hovering over the table and moving his limbs back and forth, hands carefully placing each piece upon it’s designated checker. “sit down! let us play!”

only as he’s seated across from viserys does he notice he’s been bestowed with playing the blacks on the board. never before was he allowed, the older of the two always insisting black was his lucky colour and refusing to play the whites.

in truth, daemon has always suspected his brother had been to fearful to play white, not knowing how to make a good first move and relying on his opponent to instead kickstart the game and give him places to move his pieces.

“isn’t it a beautiful board?” the elder must confuse his staring as a sign of fascination, gawking at the splendour of it. “it’s the very same one mother gifted me after i bested her for the first time.”

there it is, that familiar lick of envy, a sick and cruel twist in his guts as he stares down at an object viserys gets to remember their parents by, while all daemon ever got was disapproving looks and half-hearted embraces. perhaps the rumours are true and the prince has a complex which forces him to pity himself, to cast a shadow upon his own image and declare that it was a wrong forced upon him by others.

or, more likely, the consequences of watching his parents prop viserys up on a mantelpiece whilst leaving him in a corner to collect dust had lead him down the path to the destructive man he’s become.

even when he’d claimed caraxes, he could only imagine what his father’s reaction would have been, were he still alive to witness it. 

impressive, but your brother claimed the greatest dragon to have ever lived, the one who the great conqueror rode upon and forged a throne under the black dread’s flames.

“‘tis exactly the same as any other chess board, brother.” he lets petty feelings spin lies on his tongue, rolling his eyes and disregarding the clear etherealness, the intricate carvings on each piece and the extravagant linings of the board, and each of it’s shimmering onyx and quartz squares.

daemon downs half his cup in one sip, eyes trained on his brother’s first move.

king’s pawn forward two spaces, a strong start and an immediate attack to the centre.

it’s fitting, daemon thinks, for this to be the first move his brother makes while leading a game. while a powerful start, it’s rather obvious, one he’d seen viserys defeat in a manner of mere seconds. perhaps age has taken away his astute mind and skill for the game.

daemon retaliates, moving one of his bishop’s pawns forward two spaces.

with the crease that forms in viserys’ brow, daemon delights. his brother was not expecting him to move in such a way, likely expecting him to do something erratic like bringing his queen’s pawn forward.

the pair continue to move in silence, sips of wine and scratching of pieces echoing around the chambers. it’s deceivingly peaceful, nothing like the confrontation the rogue prince had geared himself up to walk into. while he’d awaited bursts of anger and scathing accusations and marks of betrayal, the two sit like children once more, moving empty objects in an imitation of politics.

the only difference is daemon appears to have the upper hand, a growing collecting of white pieces stored to the right of his long-ago emptied and refilled cup.

as always, it’s daemon who takes the first bite.

“i’m afraid i must pay you your dues, brother.” his words slip through his own smirking lips, satisfaction rolling in by the hundreds as he spies the white king, slowly losing places to hide on the board. “it’s truly applaudable how you managed to not only secure one daughter a marriage amid questions of her virtue, but two! young helaena will follow in her half-sisters’ footsteps, surely.”

viserys’ hand pauses mid-air, his remaining bishop held in his grasp. his grip tightens with each passing second. the older has always been more level-headed, that no one can dispute, but the rogue prince will forever swear up and down, high and low, that it is his brother who carries the more foul temper.

viserys’ anger is just harder to weed out from behind false niceties and calmed breathing.

“if you mean to say that helaena will be so lucky as to marry a noble man, filled with honour,” he lays his bishop down at last, not managing to capture any of daemon’s blacks. “then yes, i should hope so. both the betrothal of my eldest daughter and my middle-born were to good men, faithful lords. my helaena will be lucky to do the same.”

“you never did quite tell me about y/n’s betrothal, brother.” the king chuckles at daemon’s words, empty amusement in the obvious statement the prince makes. still, he makes no attempt to stop him, letting him string the conversation along to the dreaded topic between them: the rumours of what daemon had done to you. “last i spoke with her, she was rather... occupied with something other than the prospect of marriage. when you announced her future union to her, did she drop on her knees and kiss your feet in gratitude? or did she spit at you and-”

“did she drop on her knees for you?” the raise in viserys’ voice is minimal yet enough to have daemon smirking over the rim of his cup, amused to see his brother being led into his trap for once.

he makes his next move on the board fist, plucking his knight and moving it over one of his own pawns. if he plays is cards right, messes with his brother’s head just the right amount, perhaps he won’t notice how he’s moving in on his king.

his only hope is to keep talking about his little dove.

“so that’s what you wish to discuss, brother? how it felt to fuck your young daughter?” for the first time he speaks the lie out loud, no hiding behind innuendos nor insinuations. they need to believe you’ve stolen my virtue, kepus, were the words you’d whispered to him, face still fresh from dried tears and teeth stained purple with the wine he’d let you sip from his glass late into the night as the rest of the world had slept, they need to think that you fucked me.  he’d sworn an oath to you, to put on a show and ruin you beneath the judgement of others. he’ll be damned if viserys becomes an exception to this oath. “because i can go into detail, you needn’t beg. i can tell you of how it felt to have her squeeze around my cock, and how she arched that little back like a cat, spine curving deeper each time i pounded into her. i can tell you of how she begged for her uncle, her kepus, to shoot his spend into her aching womb and-”

a screech rings out as viserys’ chair flies backwards, the king rising to a stand and glaring down at his brother, who only sinks deeper into the velvet lined seat and allows himself another sip of his glass, face painted in pure amusement as viserys’ reflects that of an angered dragon.

“enough! i will not have you speak such atrocities about your own niece!”

“oh spear me the lecture of the seven, brother!” the hypocrisy to shun him for lusting after his own kin, it has to be the hightower cunt’s doing. feeding lies into her new husband’s head, any means to have his true-blooded targaryen daughters removed from the line to the throne. daemon at last feels himself begin to irk, a scowl engraving itself into his forehead. “your own beloved, your late wife, shared blood with you and you never once objected to bedding her. it is our family’s birthright to keep the blood of the dragon burning hot, not dampen it with that of lesser folk. i mean our parents, for gods’ sake, they were siblings! are you going to tell me it’s wrong?”

“this is not about you being her uncle, daemon. this is about you being you! and her being my sweet girl, one of the last pieces of aemma-”

daemon can’t help himself, flying out of his own seat with the slam of his hand on the table. the pieces rattle under the impact, the white queen toppling over and sending her pawn flying off the board.

“your sweet girl who you let be slandered by the same lords who break bread at your table and drink from your cups!” the prince stands taller than the king, shoulders straight and head held high as he flips positions, becoming the one staring down upon his older brother, who’s slouched and frailer than he once was, hands searching for the steadying hold of the oak table. “tell me, brother, where were you when she drank herself sick as they spoke on her fertility? what did you do when they mocked her for being scared after an attack on her life, in her own chambers!? did you even ask her what happened between us before you shipped her off like cattle to the slaughter, let her tell you it was she who asked it of me? she detested the thought of marrying some unknown lord so much she’d rather destroy her maidenhood and her honour, but you wouldn’t see that, too blinded by your own downfall into becoming a boot-licker for all these cunts who hold land in your realm.”

viserys can only stare, frozen where he stands and eyes widened in bewilderment at his brother’s own outburst, chest heaving in anger and hands shaking with adrenaline as he points towards the king.

“are you in love with her?”

no more than a whisper, so quiet the rogue prince is almost sure he imagines it.

till the king repeats himself.

"gods, don't be ridiculous!" it’s neither a yes nor a no, and daemon is so painfully aware of this, aware that he gives no real answer to your father nor himself.

the concept of love and all it entails has never appealed to the prince, at least in the way it’s presented in song and written of in history. all his life he’d heard of knights who’s lady love was a gem they sought to hold, to sing songs of faithfulness and dance around with hands entwined by marriage. of men who made themselves better, kinder, more gentle, all in the hopes of pleasing their lover and winning her hand. daemon had never experienced such a feeling.

while love is something most feel in their heart, daemon feels it in his loins.

it’s a hunger that consumes his very being, aching, and growling, and demanding to be fed with bursts of passion and shouts of anger. it’s a possession he needs to take, to mark someone as his, in every sense of the words. his to own, his to touch, his to drown in expensive gifts. his love is not kind, but brutal, and loud, and forceful, never leaving room for the rest of the world to doubt it. it makes him want to march into battle, to burn down cities, to spill the blood of any who dare harm the object of his obsession. his love is a fire that burns him from within, spilling out from his skin and scorching everything in it’s path.

the prince is not sure if he wants you to burn in its flames.

“but i could give her a greater life than any other man in this realm.” what he is certain of is that he will not stand by as your father let’s you be ruined by someone other than him. “a good man means nothing if he can not keep her safe, or even happy. at the very least, wedding her to me would mean her husband is someone familiar. she wouldn’t have to leave her home, or change her ways, or even bare a child if she does not wish to.”

viserys sighs, tired body dropping back into his chair and his mangled hand reaches up to brush over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes squeeze shut. the prince almost believes he sees a flicker of resignation, winning his brother over at last or exhausting him so deeply he sees no choice but to accept his words as truth, if only to silence him.

instead, the king reaches for the board once more, an airy laugh escaping him as he examines the placement of each piece. leaning over, he sits his queen back up and drums his fingers on the table.

he laughs once more.

"after all these years, daemon, you still struggle to capture my queen."

“but your queen, daemon. the queen is where you hide all your power, look for where your opponent keeps their queen and there you shall find true victory.”

the words of years ago spin round and round in the prince’s head.

his eyes, glued to the board, watch as the king moves his queen out two spaces and captures daemon’s knight, snatching it off the board and tossing it over his shoulder. viserys looks up, awaiting for daemon to continue the match, to put an end to it at last.

but he’s too stuck on the phrasing his brother had used, stubborn in his belief that it’s meaning has little to do with the game upon the table and, rather, the one that’s being played with words and whispers and undisclosed betrothals.

the prince thinks of the queen, the hightower girl who parades around the courts in green silks and upon swollen ankles, face downtrodden each time she foolishly thinks no one is looking. if ever he believed viserys held true affection for her, he’d wonder if she was who the king refers to, if otto hightower had truly been sent back to oldtown empty handed or with a new bride on his arm.

but any fool with a set of eyes can see the king loves his second wife like he loves the iron throne: through duty and obligation.

it is, instead, the late queen aemma who viserys must speak of.

and, while her maiden home, house arryn, where she’d spent her girlhood in the days before she’d been betrothed to her cousin, possesses no lord nor man awaiting a wife, a neighbouring house had just recently named a new wifeless lord.

a house which remembers, especially those who wrong it.

“no…”

i'm where you once where.

“you have to understand, daemon, that the actions you take leave me with consequences to bare. after what happened to lady rhea… after what you done,” his brother, so clearly exhausted with the secrecy and the scheming, folds like a house of cards against a gentle breeze, collapsing further into his seat and shaking his head. he does not notice as daemon moves his own queen along the board. “the vale were at an unease. threatened, was the word they used. so when lord royce staked his claim over his house’s seat, demanding i compensate runestone for the marriage agreement you destroyed and the lady you took from them, i had to give them a show of good faith. i had to reassure them of the longstanding trust between our houses.”

“so you gave her to them, sold her like some slave!”

“i made a political deal!” he attempts to defend himself in both words and on the board. in both, he fails. “one where lord rhoyce gains a bride, i avoid war and my daughter gets to finally take on the duties bestowed upon her at birth.”

“you’re a fucking fool, viserys. you would have been better delivering her to the triarchy. least they would make her death a more swift one. that rhoyce twat’ll have her head on a pike, and her tits and cunt will be hand delivered to you. they’ll slaughter her, as payment for their-” daemon swallows every ill coloured word and expression of his despise that comes to mind at the memory of his bronze bitch, giving no out for his brother to twist this conversation into a matter of his own wrongdoings. “late lady.”

with no more hesitation, the rogue prince moves his queen one last time and delights in watching the white king fall into check.

he knocks the piece over, quietly declaring checkmate.

“brother, please,” the king’s words are as fragile as his health, failing and mute against daemon’s scowling features, which refuse to play nice any longer. “do you think this is what i wanted, for my daughter to be used as a bargaining tool for peace? but there’s no going back, what’s done is done.”

“then undo what is done!”

“how can i when they threaten violence and-”

“you’re the king! who gives a shit what they threaten, they have a dozen men to your thousands. you have dragons! if the threat of fire worked on the men of the vale once, it’ll do so again. so regain your pride and write to that cunt royce. tell him to have your daughter cleaned up and sent back to where she belongs, to find fulfilment in his new lordhood and to drop this notion that he even deserves to gaze upon a targaryen princess, much less stick his shrivelled cock within her. i urge you to send this letter post-haste,” that familiar blade of his sits neatly by the entrance of the chamber, attracting the prince over till he clutches it in his grasp at last, quickly returning dark sister to her rightful spot by his side and discarding the blade he’d stolen from ser criston. he glances back at the king, now risen once more, and twists the doorknob. “and pray, dear brother. pray that it reaches gerold royce before i do.”

with the slam of the door, daemon plunders into the halls of the keep, footsteps heavy and echoing with each one he takes. jaw clenched and hands fisted, he paints the image of a man enraged, sick and fed-up with the games being played.

by the time he reaches his chambers, shoving his way past the sleeping knight at it’s doors, there’s bound to be a flurry of gossiping fools who speak of the prince and his defiling of the king’s commands, but he cares little as he straps himself into leathers and steel, hell-bent on reaching the dragonpit before day breaks and the sun paints the sky alight.

daemon is done sitting idly by, waiting for the king to see reason.

because while at the age of five, naive and easily influenced, daemon targaryen had looked up to his chess-genius of a brother, it was at age five and ten that he realised why his brother kept winning, why pawns and knights and rooks would conveniently move to the places he needed them to be.

he cheated.

[sexyglances]

Chief Yong and Her "Chess Moves" vs Yikyung in Inspector Koo

Chief Yong and Yikyung's dynamic is fascinating. They're both used to being the smartest, most tactical and manipulative people in the room. So theoretically, together, they should be a power duo of murder, especially with Chief Yong's money and resources. Burt it's precisely those tendencies they have in common that make them at odds with each other.

By "recruiting" Yikyung, Chief Yong thought she was gaining someone more powerful than a pawn--a rook, perhaps--in her game of human manipulation chess, but by trying to keep Yikyung under her thumb, what Chief Yong really got wasn't another piece to play and orchestrate, but instead, another adversary, an opposing queen in disguise simply because she tried to treat Yikyung as beneath her and not as an equal.

But here's the thing Chief Yong failed to see, Yikyung wasn't found through Chief Yong's efforts. Instead, she allowed herself to be seen by Chief Yong, and she was the one who pursued and who found Chief Yong on the mountain trail, not the other way around. It's just that Chief Yong had been pursuing K first and for longer, so her perspective was distorted and that made her feel like she could still be completely in control with Yikyung. It was Chief Yong's own hubris that made her say to the monk that she was the one found Yikyung (and not the other way around), and it was her own myopia that made her think K was "helping" her thus whole time and not that it just happened that for a brief period of time their goals happened to align. But in reality, it wasn't Chief Yong pulling all the ropes like she thought she was. Yikyung was the one who approached her, Yikyung was the one who was "benevolent" enough to not make a violent move on Chief Yong while she was unprotected by guards, and it was Yikyung who made the proposition that they work together first, saying that she needed, "someone with a lot of power to watch my back," which framed it as Yikyung recruiting help, not Yikyung entering into a subordinate employee relationship.

Yikyung has her own chess master motives at play, and then later when Yikyung asked if her next target deserved to die and Chief Yong tried to pander to her by calling him the "vilest man to have walked on earth," and intimidate her through the idea of fear by saying he "sells girls like you who have nowhere to go," rather than respect Yikyung as an equal, is when Chief Yong really started to lose her game.

Chief Yong has become so spoiled by her money and power that she has come to accept it as an incontrovertible fact that she can outsmart and manipulate anyone for her own personal goals, and if they fall out of line, she can punish them so they succumb back down to her power. We see her do it with her secretary, with Jehui, and even with her own sons. People are her chess pieces, and she is the grand master at play, and she will not hesitate to sacrifice them if necessary.

Yikyung, however, is not intimidated by Chief Yong's manipulations because of three reasons: 1) Chief Yong doesn't really have anything to give her that she hasn't been able to achieve on her own, aside from some slight convenience at clean-up, but as Yikyung found out, it is at the expense of her personal freedom so it's not really that desirable, 2) Yikyung is used to playing the long game (after all, some of her murder cons took months to play out), so she can see as many--if not more--moves ahead than Chief Yong can, and 3) when you have a literal serial killer mastermind under your employ, they don't really have the same boundaries that normal people do over human life and destruction and don't heed any rules you might try to impose on them either. Chief Yong has had people under her that may have possessed one or two of these traits (like her secretary and the secret house henchman who do not care about human life), but combine all three together, and you have someone that cannot be held easily under another Chief Yong's thumb, no matter how hard she tries.

Case in point, Chief Yong thought she would be able to throw Yikyung in the dungeon and torture her to teach her a lesson, but in actuality, Yikyung wanted to go to the dungeon because she was planning her escape. Would a normal person purposefully get thrown into a torture den, figure out a way to trap her captor in her prison cell to kill him, and plan an escape through a sewer system? Would a normal person be able to make that sort of plan? Yikyung is not a normal person, she works beyond the money and power game that Chief Yong is used to playing, and by trying to push her into a box like any other lackey of hers, Chief Yong made the (potentially fatal) mistake that will be her downfall.

Chief Yong thought she could dictate exactly how YIkyung would move like any predictable piece in chess, but Yikyung is a queen of her own and she will move freely exactly how she wishes at any point in time. She isn't a player of Chief Yong's, she is an opponent.

[hacked-by-jake]

Call me 'Master of Chess'

A/N: Hi guys, little random fic for between, hope you like it and have fun :)🤗  Mistakes may be included, excuses this

Pairing: JakexMc

Words: 795

Written from Jessy’s point of view

Warning: Fun fight

-

Watching MC and Jake playing chess is really like watching a war movie. I’ve never seen two such aggressive chess players before, and I don’t know if that’s healthy.

The game’s been going on for two hours.

Richy plays Gta and I watch them play.

MC’s making coffee for all of us as Jake chooses his next move. "Bishop from g7 to e5" tells Jake MC about his train.

"Okay, Knight from b5 to d6" she challenges him.

He looks dissatisfied but puts the figure on the place.

"Jessy?" MC calls me.

"Yeah, I know," I grin, "yep is on the right place, d6," I assure her.

While MC is making the coffee I have to be careful that Jake doesn’t cheat and places the figure somewhere else.

For safety’s sake, she writes every move of him and herself on a sheet.

"Rook from h4 to d4"

"Bishop of b3 on a4"

"Pawn from b7 to b5, thanks for the pawn" Jake shouts and grins triumphantly as he takes MC’s figure off the board.

"Ha! Thank you! Bishop from a4 to b5! Also thank you for your Pawn. A couple of seconds ago you put my Bishop there,  you were too hasty babe"

"Crap" Jake mumbles and removes his figure from the playing field.

"King from e8 to f8" he makes his next move.

"Oh, now you’ve got scared and save your king fast?" you hear laughing from the kitchen.

"Just say your next move," he grumbles.

"Queen from b1 to b3" she announces.

"Pawn from f5 to f4"

"Rook from e1 to f1"

"King from f8 to e8"

"Rook from f1 to e1"

Jake tries to escape with his king because he has no protection from other characters.

She could checkmate him right away.

"King of e8 to f8"

"Rook from e1 to f1"

"King from f8 to g8"

MC turns around and claps her hands.

"Now let me teach you how to lose," she giggles.

"Yes, I can imagine that you are an expert in this, as much experience as you have," Jake answers. MC’s mouth opens and she stares shocked at Jake. Then she pinches her eyes hostile.

Even Richy looks scared, "Oh God, run, bro, run," he mumbles, and I giggle.

"Oups, um, that’s not what I meant" Jake immediately tries to save himself and raises his hands in surrender.

"Come here" growls Mc

"Why?" Jake asks nervously.

"Just come here"

"No, you’ll beat me"

"I would never beat you" MC smiles hypocritically.

"Of course you would" I chuckled in and get a nasty look from Jake.

"Then I’ll come to you" Puffs mc and runs towards Jake.

He jumps up and flees in the direction of the bathroom to hide.

MC grabs a chess piece and throws it behind Jake, who can close the door just in time and the piece bounces off.

"Do you want to kill me?" he asks through the door.

"I’m still thinking about, when you get out, we’ll both see what decision spontaneously come to my mind"

"I’m sorry, okay? I was just kidding, so I didn’t mean it," sounds jakes voice muffled.

MC crosses the arms in front of the chest and taps impatiently on the floor with the foot.

Challenging, she watches the door, waiting for it to open.

"I’m coming out now, please don’t throw anything"

The door slowly opens with a creak and Jake sticks his head through the gap.

MC jerks up her arm and Jake pulls his head quickly back to safety.

MC starts laughing and he realizes that she was faking it. With his hands raised he comes out of the bathroom.

"Truce?" he asks reconciling.

MC grabs with her hand at the chin and acts like she’s thinking about it.

The hacker grins at her crooked to see if he can manipulate her. With time we all understood that sometimes it’s enough when Jake grins. Just like it works the other way around.

"I forgive you if..." She takes a dramatic break.

"If?"

"If we look tonight 'finding Nemo' " she sets the condition.

"But he’s so sad," Jake grumbles.

MC is anxious to take a new figure to throw but he gives up quickly, "Okay, okay! We’re watching Nemo."

A smile as of an angel appears on her face. She bends down to the chessboard and reaches for her Queen.

"b3 to g8! And checkmate! Call me 'Master of Chess' " she winks at him and turns around to go back to the kitchen.

"What? How could I not notice?" the hacker rushes to the board to hit his forehead with his flat hand, "the rook was just a distraction?"

"Do you all want cake too?" shouts MC from the kitchen and I can hear the proud grin.

--

Masterlist

[infinity-squared-comics]

Chess Symbolism in Media.

Hello there. Today I am going to teach you some stuff about chess (not how to play chess though, I’m not very good at chess). I am going to teach you how to write and/or identify chess based symbolism in media. Let’s start with the pieces. 

The King:

The king is (arguably) the most important piece on the chess board. This is because if your king is defeated, you lose the game. Due to this, the king can also be viewed as a representation of the player themselves. A character with king symbolism may be the chess master (pun obviously intended) staying out of harms way and ordering their troops from a relatively safe position, much like many real historical and fictional leaders who would rarely even visit the frontlines. Due to this chess master attribute, characters symbolized by the king are more likely to be villains or antiheroes, as manipulating other characters is generally seen as a bad thing. The King could also be representative of a character or object that is central to either the plot as a whole or to the motives of a specific group, much like how chess strategies are almost always based around the king, either defending yours, attacking your opponents, or both. 

The Queen:

The queen is (arguably) the most important piece on the chess board. They are the piece with the most raw power, being able to move freely in a whole 8 different directions. Due to this overwhelming power characters with Queen symbolism will tend to be the strongest in a group. They can also act as leaders, but unlike the king those with queen symbolism will tend to lead by example, fighting in the frontline alongside others. Due to this fact, if a story has both a “king” and a “queen” they will tend to be foils to each other. A queen will tend to be the single most powerful character in a story, and due to this they will commonly be villains, as it is considered normal to have an overpowered villain, but lazy writing to have an overpowered hero. 

The Bishop:

The Bishop is the piece closest to the king and queen. A character who is symbolized by a bishop will likely be emotionally close to the leader, much like how the bishop on the chess board is physically close to the leader. As characters that are closely associated with the protagonist, and tend to have  a skill set that toes the line between normal and abnormal, many lancers will be good candidates for bishop symbolism, with their close status and diagonal movement. Many bishop characters will be advisors, the people the protagonists turn to when they need help with a decision. 

The Knight:

The knight is (arguably) the most important piece on the chess board. Knights can move in a way that is entirely unique to them, with absolutely no other pieces having mobility even resembling that of knights. In addition, they have the unique characteristic of being able to travel over other pieces, and are the only type of piece that can single handedly threaten a queen. Characters with knight symbolism would be powerful, but not in a traditional way. Instead of brute strength or power, knight characters will tend to have unique or versatile abilities, and will tend to solve problems through more “clever” means. Ironically, this clashes with the typical traits of actual knights in fiction, who will tend to be straightforward characters who leave the more complicated thinking to someone else. 

The Rook:

The rook looks like a castle, and can move only in straight horizontal and vertical lines. This leads to a fairly obvious analogy to the common character archetype of a character that while physically strong, struggles to perform “mental gymnastics” and tend to be more straightforward than any other characters. This fits the typical knight character better than the knight themselves, and due to the contrasting nature of these two types of characters, they will tend to act as foils to each other. A rook will often be the powerhouse, the most dependable character across the board (pun not actually intended this time), whereas other characters will be more specialized in their abilities. 

The Pawn:

The pawn is (arguably) the most important piece on the chessboard. In addition to just the shear number of them (pawns are the most numerous piece on the board, being a whopping four times more plentiful than the runner up [a tie between rook, knight and bishop]), pawns are also the most versatile, as, the moment they complete their journey across the board, they suddenly gain a power level greater than that of the queen, as they can then become either a queen or a knight, depending on what the situation calls for (they can also become rooks or bishops, but doing that is generally a bad idea, as they are both objectively outclassed by the queen). Due to the fact that the ability to grow and adapt is literally written into the rules of the game for pawns, pawn characters are very likely to undergo character development. The journey of a pawn just so happens to map almost one to one with the journey of a hero. They start out weak, but over time, through hard work and effort, they become strong. The pawn symbolism is about equally likely to be given to one character that is highly important to the plot, or to a group of characters that are ultimately expendable and inconsequential. It is however possible to do both at once, by having a seemingly inconsequential group introduced near the start of a story, but having one member of that group become very important later on in the story. This also reflects how, in a game of chess, it is very rare for many pawns to make it to the end of the board and “evolve”.

Pawn W/ A Gun:

The pawn w/ a gun is, as the name suggests, a pawn with a gun. The pawn with a gun represents the breaking of traditions, and the refusal to go along with something just because it’s considered “normal”. Pawn w/ a guns tend to be free thinkers, and are less likely than other characters to accept certain societal norms just because they are, in fact, societal norms. Now, I know what you might be thinking-” Pawn w/ a gun isn’t a real chess piece! You just made that up!”. I have two rebuttals for that. First, I was not the originator of the concept of pawn w/ a gun. pawn w/ a gun has existed for years, spitting in the face of tradition and normality. Secondly- are all chess pieces not “made up?” someone came up with every single chess piece that is commonly used. Calling something a made up chess piece is like calling something a made up word-utterly meaningless. It is important to remember that chess is a game, and, like any game, rules should be changed or discarded if doing so would lead to a more satisfactory experience for both players. 

The Colors:

In chess symbolism, white is commonly associated with good. This makes sense, on the surface. White is the color of light, while black is the color of darkness. White represents all color, while black represents an absence of colors. I would, however, like to point out one small detail. In every game of chess ever played, every single one, white is the aggressor. White moves first, and this paints a somewhat obvious narrative- white are the attackers, while black are the defenders. This dissonance between what is commonly accepted and the actual truth of the game means that a white chess piece makes a perfect analogy for a villain with good publicity, a force or individual that, while seen as a force of good by the public, is in reality a force of evil. This can be seen quite well near the end of George Orwell’s famous book Nineteen Eighty Four.  I won’t spoil the twists for those who haven’t seen it, but a certain character compares the party -a group that while worshiped by the public is in fact one of the most vile organizations in the history of literature- to white in a chess game, noting that, much like how in the party approved chess scenarios “white always checks”.

[love-dreams]

pairing: hoshi x fem!reader

content: based off of the netflix show, the queen’s gambit, with different character names; drug abuse and overdose; lots of chess terms

wc: 3454

note: I FREAKING LOVE THIS NETFLIX SHOWWW!! this is a character study i’m trying to do to make my female y/ns less.. idk meek? wimpy? it’s such a writing pet peeve of mine and i absolutely loved beth harmon’s character so here it is :))

the queen’s gambit masterlist: 1 2

It was quiet in the orphanage basement. With the exception of the dull thumping of childrens’ feet on the basement’s ceiling. Pensive, and tense, the air felt pregnant with strain. 

Your eyes flitted back and forth, from black to white and then back again. They went over the ridges of the standing pieces, and down the curves until it met the checkered board. A criss-crossing maze full of infinite possibilities for strategy. 

Finally, your delicate, little fingers wrapped around the stem of your rook, pushing it so it slid all the way across the board. 

“Check,” came your raspy voice. 

The janitor’s bald forehead creased into more folds, and he raised up a finger to push up the frame of his glasses. “Not anymore.” His voice was rough, like gravel scraping against concrete.

The young girl’s brows furrowed, “Wait, how can you do that? You never taught me-”

The buff man stood up suddenly, interrupting her rhetoric. “That’ll be for next time. Clean up the board now and get to class.” 

“Wait-” you stuttered, feeling confused and cheated, but Mr. Lee's back was already turned on you, already moving in between the aisles of paint. You sighed, letting her gaze brush over the stationery pieces on the chess board once more, before sweeping all of them off into a velvet bag. 

The school bell rang shrilly.

Soonyoung liked to win. Even at the young age of five, he liked crushing his opponents with a gummy smile on his face and curved crescent eyes. 

They called him lots of names: the best chess player in the country since Yoon Jeonghan, the chess champion, etc. 

But he figured he liked the title “Innocent Tiger of the Chessboard.” Soonyoung thought it made him sound powerful and glorious. He used the name “Hoshi” a lot after the Times magazine coined him that way.

“You’re all a bunch of-”

A girl, whom you did not know, was getting dragged from the cafeteria. A teacher yanked her forward by her long, curly afro harshly. One hand held the girl’s hair, and the other hand, you barely noticed, was holding a yellow-tinted soap bar. 

You walked into the cafeteria, naturally standing at the back of a long line of orphaned girls. She moved forward, hesitantly, taking the spot in line from the previous girl. You looked up at the male vendor with large, unblinking eyes, expectantly. His eyes held a glint of remembrance, and slid a small, white paper cup toward you. 

Your fingers reached into the small cup and grabbed the object inside. Small, oval shaped pills rested at the bottom of the paper cup. 

“Ooh, those ones are best saved for the night. Don’t take ‘em all at once, either. Save ‘em.” You turned around. It was the black girl from before. “My name’s Ruth, by the way. You’re new here, right?” Ruth’s voice was sultry and teasing; her brown, chocolate eyes hid a twinkle of mischief that you could already tell made her a troublemaker. She had her own matching green pill in between her large hands. “You’ll see what I mean.”

Then, she walked right back into the cafeteria with the other girls. 

The room where you slept was also occupied by the dozens of other girls in the orphanage. It had large windows with thin curtains, and stone ceilings and floors. The beds were identical with small dressers on the side of them. 

Because the curtains were thin, they didn’t do much to keep the silver beams of moonlight from filtering into the room and onto the beds. 

Your eyes were wide open, staring at the green pill twirling in between your fingers. You debated yourself internally for a few moments, before swallowing it in one gulp. Your eyes felt heavy with sleep, but your mind was as light as feather, swirling and swirling with thoughts. You finally cemented on one event in her day, zeroing in and latching onto it with no mercy.

The chess game with the orphanage janitor. 

As the event seeped into the cracks of your skull, your eyelids slowly opened until you were faced with the dark, blank ceiling above you. 

A spot appeared. Then another right beside it.

Then two more around those, and then more and more and more. They were alternating spots, some dark and some light.

You gasped, pushing herself to a seated position.

It was a chessboard. 

The pieces slowly materialized on the ceiling. You could make out the distinct shapes of the king, the rook, and the many other pieces that she didn’t know the names of. You knew of the pawn, pieces with a rounded sphere as its head. Mr. Lee had taught you about them the first day she played chess with him. 

“The opening,” he had called it. “Openings are the first moves of the game. Learn some.”

The pieces flickered on the board, teleporting from place to place, mimicking a real chess game. 

You almost overslept for breakfast the next morning.

The teacher paused for a moment in her lecture, her hand moving automatically toward the chalk erasure. Her fingers brushed metal and her eyes saw an absent seat.

“Check.”

A piece moved. 

You let out a breath.

“Checkmate.” 

Mr. Lee leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his bloated stomach. He said nothing, instead pulling out a rectangular box from his back pocket. 

“I know all the pieces now.” You stood up, your arms bracing yourself against the table. “And how they move.”

Again, he refused to answer. His muscled, long fingers nimbly hooked under the latch on the cigarette box. You watched as Mr. Lee lit the cigarette and turned away. 

Your internal question remained unanswered.

“Tomorrow,” he finally replied. “Tomorrow, I’ll properly teach you how to play.” 

Your breath hitched in excitement, “Really? You’ll teach me-”

“You should learn the Sicilian Defense,” came his gruff voice. His back remained turned on her. You stood as well, seriousness filling the gap between the two of you. 

Mr. Lee finally turned. 

“To tell you the truth of it, child…” His lips curved upward. “You’re astounding.”

It was the national championship. Reporters and news outlets were crawling around everywhere, shoving their microphones into every chess player’s face. Soonyoung smirked in amusement, letting his gaze drop back down onto the chessboard in front of him.

“Oh, you moved already?”

Chan huffed, “It’s been two minutes, you’re gonna run out of time at this point.”

Soonyoung chuckled, sliding a piece away from him. His aura remained confident and unsettled by Chan’s warning. “I’d be more worried about yourself, brother.”

Chan’s eyebrows furrowed as he analyzed the board. At first glance, he noticed nothing out of the ordinary. All of his pieces were set in motion and Soonyoung- 

His eyes snapped open. Soonyoung was already one step ahead of him. Except this step was a mile in front and already at the finish line.

“H-how did you-” he stuttered in disbelief.

Soonyoung interrupted Chan, “Next move is Anderssen’s mate.” His eyes held a small twinkle of triumph, but anyone who had played Soonyoung before knew that he was never truly surprised about the outcomes of games he played. 

Chan let his head hang low in defeat. “Alright, then.” His hand reached up to knock over the long column of his King. “You win.”

A crooked grin spread across the face of the young champion. 

“Don’t worry!” He smirked. “You’ll always have next time.”

You had been falling behind in math class. You hardly ever paid attention when you were in class, and when you were out, math was hardly even at the back of your mind. Mr. Lee had gifted you a book to read called Modern Chess Openings. Soon enough, you had mastered not only all of the openings in the book, but also the art of hiding a book under your desk and reading.

One day, Mr. Lee had a visitor in the basement. Another man, leaner and taller than the janitor. He was dressed formally and wore a hat. 

“Beth,” Mr. Lee greeted her. “This is Mr. Choi. He’s a representative of the chess club I play at.”

You stared at the stranger, unmoving and unresponsive.

“Hello, (Y/N),” he said, smiling. Mr. Choi was a friendly looking man, youthful too. “Would you care for a game of chess?” He took the chair next to Mr. Lee, long fingers already moving the pieces to their correct positions. His poise was confident and his eyes were shrewd. A completely different player from Mr. Lee was in front of you. 

You won in three moves after the opening. Quick and precise, with no room for error. Mr. Lee looked on from the side of the table. His face showed neither surprise nor pride, but his eyebrows stayed furrowed. 

“Well,” Mr. Choi raised his gaze from the board, turning his head toward the elder janitor. “She’s exactly how you described, Jihoon. I’m certainly impressed.” You waited patiently, unaware of the relationship between the two men. He turned his attention to the young girl in front of him. “(Y/N), how old are you?”

You answered mechanically, without any hesitation. You remained unfazed, an almost bored tone in your voice. “Nine years old, sir.” 

Mr. Choi leaned back in his chair. “Nine years old, huh,” he echoed in disbelief. “That’s amazing. Say,” Mr. Choi reached down beside him. “(Y/N), would you be interested in competing against some other people?” He straightened himself, this time holding something in his hands. “I run a chess club at a high school near here, and I’d love to have you come play with us.” 

You stared at him, shock and curiosity filling your gaping mouth. “Me?”

Mr. Choi chuckled, finally bringing up the object in his hands for her to see. “You can think about it for awhile, I’ll also be in contact with your headmistress. In the meantime, here’s a prize for your win. Nine year old girls like dolls, right?” 

Your mouth refused to answer. You looked helplessly at Mr. Lee, but his gaze was fixated on the ending board pieces. 

“Well then,” Mr. Choi breathed. “I’ll be off.” 

You watched as he grabbed his leather briefcase and his hat, then strode straight in between the shelves and up the wooden, creaky stairs. Then, you turned your attention to the doll in front of you.

You hesitantly grabbed the plastic body, running your thumbs over the cheap polyester clothes. 

Then, you promptly threw it in the trash.

The next time you saw Mr. Choi was not in the cold basement, but instead, in the headmaster’s office. The headmaster was a bitter woman with strict ideals that were brittle and unbending. You had only met her once, and you had hoped that they would never come so close again.

“Well, Miss (Y/N). Is what Mr. Choi telling me true?” Her wintry voice chilled you down to the bone, leaving your head numb and you palms overheating. Without waiting for a response, Headmaster Kim turned her attention back to Mr. Choi. “Mr. Choi, we appreciate the offer and would love for the orphanage’s many talented students to compete with others, but going to a school by herself? I worry for the child.” 

Mr. Choi nods, compromising with a soft tone, “Of course, I will be with her at all times.”

“Hm,” the headmaster pondered. “I’d rather her go with another girl actually.”

He relented immediately. “Absolutely.”

The Headmaster stood up from her seat. “Well then, it’s decided. Young (Y/N) will be accompanied by a fellow student from the orphanage.”

Mr. Choi complied calmly, leaving without another comment. Quietly and rapidly just like the first time you had met him. Your nerves spread out like spindly branches of a tree, bumping against each other until it filled the entire room.

“(Y/N)?” 

It was only until the Headmaster called your name that you realized your gaze had dropped to the floor. 

“You’ve been playing chess in the basement, I hear.” There was a pause, and you quickly recognized that the woman expected a response. You dipped her head slightly into a nod of acknowledgement. “I must say, playing chess in the basement is highly irregular.” Your heart rate jerked upward. Would the Headmaster forbid you from playing chess? A sense of dread pricked her heart. “Ask Mr. Jun for a chess board from the game closet, I’m sure we have one or two. You can play out in the open from now on.” 

A wave of relief crashed over you. “Really?”

The Headmaster dismissed you, “It’s lunch time now. Hurry back to the cafeteria, Miss (Y/N).” 

You left without any refusal, your steps hurried and rushed as your shoes clicked against the cement floors.

The cafeteria had its usual vibrations of friendly chatter, and the line to the pill vendor was just as long as the day she arrived. Inching closer and closer to the vendor, you buzzed with anticipation for your daily collection of green pills.

The man slid the snow paper cup toward you, and habitually, you looked inside for the strange green pill among the scarlet ones. 

It wasn’t there.

“Where’s the green pill?” you asked, bewildered. 

The vendor sighed, clearly annoyed and frustrated with you. His voice was thin and gruff, an unattractive timbre. “New state laws, kid. No more tranquilizers. Now move on, more people waitin’ behind you.” 

You furrowed your brow, but moved aside regardless. 

That night, you counted the leftover tranquilizers you had saved up. There were only five left. You’d have to ration them and not take them frivolously. 

The ceiling remained a blank canvas without its usual checkered illusion projected.  

“Chess is getting kind of boring,” Soonyoung noted one day. He was 18 at the time.

Chan glared at him from his peripheral vision. “God damn it, Kwon. Maybe you need to get a life or something.”

He laughed, sweeping the plastic chess pieces off the wooden board. “Are you suggesting a get laid, or that I go on a date? Because both are well within reach.”

Chan grinned cruelly, “Like hell they are. The only thing you’ll ever love more than yourself is chess. As if a girl could even compare.”

Soonyoung rubbed at his nape sheepishly. “Maybe if she was a girl who played chess..”

“Well then you’d just see her as another bad player who couldn’t beat you.”

“Jesus, Chan. Way to make a guy feel motivated,” he sighed. “I guess I’ll just have a steamy date with my chess books instead.”

Chan huffed in annoyance and turned his attention away from the other male.

The drugs didn’t last you until the chess match and you began to feel the effects of it. Or rather, the effects of not having them. You mind would wander during class and you felt sluggish and tired. Ruth noticed. 

“What’s going on, cracker? You don’t look so slick.” 

It was true. Your hair was unkempt, your eyes were sunken and bruised from insomnia, and you no longer had the energy to hold up a conversation. Ruth sighed and moved closer so that your elbows were brushed up against each other. “It’s because of those green pills, ain’t it?” When you didn’t respond, Ruth huffed. “Alright then, I was gonna help you out with that by sharin’ some of mine, but if you’re gonna be so rude, then I guess I won’t!”

Your head snapped up. “You still have some?” you whispered. 

Ruth smirked, her large lips parting to reveal bright white teeth. “Sure I do! Started savin’ these babies up a long time before you did.”

“Can I have some?” you hesitantly asked, your voice was low and soft. It was only a day before the chess game with the high school team and you were slowly going psychotic without the tranquilizers’ help. 

Ruth denied you a verbal cue and instead, moved closer to slip two pills into your dress’s pocket. 

It was your first time leaving the orphanage ever since you entered through the black, metal gates. Thus, when you, accompanied by Jamie Park, ambled through the high school halls, along with Mr. Choi, you were noticeably a little startled. It was noisy, crowded and ever so chaotic. Kids of all sizes were ravaging the school, lockers were haphazardly open and some closed, there was no sense of the eerie order at the Methuen Home orphanage. 

You found that you didn’t mind the disarray much after all. 

Mr. Choi led the duo into an empty classroom filled with desks that had been arranged into a circle. Only a few kids lingered in the room. You could count the amount of girls with your fingers. He directed you and Jamie toward the edge of the room. 

The pair watched as student after student filed into the room in a steady stream of people, like tap water flowing out until only the last few drops fell. 

Mr. Choi stood in the middle of the classroom and spread his arms dramatically. “Welcome, everyone! Today we have a very special guest,” he announced. Mr. Choi motioned toward you. Feeling compelled, you shyly stood and walked forward. “This is Miss (Y/N). You all will be playing a simultaneous against her!” He paused. “Please take your places.”

The students shuffled amongst themselves, the sound of feet thundering crescendo-ed until all of the seats were filled. You looked around at all of the male students seated in front of chess boards, a somber expression pasted on each of their faces. Some even had smirks. You looked up at Mr. Choi, who had a smile on his face. 

“Mr. Choi?” you questioned. 

He nodded, ushering toward the first board from clockwise motion. 

You stepped forward in front of the first board and looked down at the colored pieces in front of her. You took a deep breath, then moved the first piece. 

It took only eighty minutes to win every single board, even the high school’s best chess player.

When you returned to Methuen, you first celebrated with Mr. Lee. The janitor had prepared a small treat for you when you returned. To the normal eye, Mr. Lee looked neutral and maybe even a little irritated, but to you, the pride in his eyes were as clear as the squares on the chessboard.

“Honestly, I was most surprised about how bad they are. I mean, they made the most basic mistakes.” You paused to swallow a lump of dark chocolate. “Doubled pawns, queen trades, all of that. It was honestly kinda embarrassing to play against them.”

Mr. Lee didn’t interject your rant, watching as brown spread across your lips to your cheeks. He handed you a napkin and stayed quiet. 

“Well,” you stood up, straightening our your skirt. “I’m off now.” The janitor nodded, eyes fixated on the chess pieces on the board as if they were moving by themselves. You looked down at the board and a question naturally floated to the top of her mind. “When’re you going to teach me end game, Mr. Lee?”

Mr. Lee looked up at the nine year old. 

“Soon.” 

Soonyoung was only 10 when he won his state championship. He won the country’s championship when he was 14. 

He lost it when he was 23. 

You ran out of the green pills in a day after the chess tournament. Once again, your body was thrown into withdrawal. It felt like a constant yearning for water. Every single day your gaze would linger on the glass jugs of pills behind the windowed divider. It became tantalizing. Each night you would salivate at the thought of breaking in and shoveling those pills into your mouth. It was a heavenly dream that nudged you closer and closer to reality.

It was during class that you found herself passing the open door of the cafeteria. The cafeteria room was a desert and the oasis was straight in front of your very own eyes. Self-control was a feeble wall that disintegrated under the wave of pent up yearning. 

Your fingers trembled as you undid the lock, yanking it off and sliding over the divider. It was too easy. 

Your heart pounded against the confines of her chest. The adrenaline rushed through your veins and your vision quickly became dizzy. 

The second your fingers reached the pills, you were gone.

All those nights of dreams finally came true. You couldn’t even stop her hands from shoveling those pills into your mouth. 

You couldn’t even stop as your fingers twitched on the ground, your body pressed against the cold tile floor.

“Rumor has it you were drunk while playing Minghao.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered if I was sober anyway.”

next part: here

tag list: @haotheheckk​ @svtantalizing​

[perfectharmonyloveschaos]

Sora Is The Master Of Masters

Part 2:

The design of the normal Chirithy is also bizarre given how, unlike every other dream eater, it has very calming, less vibrant colours compared to the likes of Meow Meow and the other dream eaters from DDD. Chirithy is small in stature but absolutely loyal to their master, to the point of falling into darkness with them to try and help them. Their fur is a grey-ish silver, with bright blue eyes, a blue and cream collared cape, as well as holding a pink pouch with what appears to be lux or a wayfinder around its neck. It’s design is made of a plush, toy-like texture and it has no mouth. Seemingly made by the MoM artificially somehow (much like how Sora would create Dream eaters in DDD), he describes them as “like cats or dogs, and they’ll be your loyal pet.” Unlike its original reveal, Backcover immediately tells us that these are not naturally made creatures but are made by the MoM as he shows it to the Foretellers in a scientific beaker and the Dream Eater theme plays, which directly matches how Sora and Riku would make them in DDD. The reason I call this to attention is due to both how much it reminds me of Riku, with its silver fur and loyalty, as well as Kairi with its pink pouch and blue eyes. It would make sense that, in order to make a loyal creature, Sora would combine qualities of his best friends into a single form. We never see anyone else, aside from the TWEWY gang, use Dream eaters aside from Sora and Riku. And what happens at the end of DDD and directly after in 0.2? Sora visits his dream eaters and misses the others going on their missions for KH3 due to the fact that he “likes to say goodbye to all his friends”. Meaning that Sora, unlike Riku who never uses Dream Eaters after DDD, values these creatures as much as his human friends and even uses them as a summon in KH3, meaning even in the real world he still has power over them.

Now, knowing Nomura, there is also a good chunk of symbolism we can look to that hints towards these two being one in the same. In the opening for Kingdom Hearts 3, we are introduced with Sora’s opening quote “they can take your world, they can take your heart, cut you loose from all you know. But, if it’s your fate? Then every step forward, will always be one step closer to home.” Nomura has confirmed that this quote is Sora’s thoughts after the events of KH3 and follows his change of attitude towards destiny much like his speech about destiny. The actual opening begins with an image of Sora, alone, standing in The Final World and looking out towards the breaking light of morning—daybreak. These two scenes come across as very similar, focusing on Sora/MoM gazing out towards the daybreak sky littered with dark clouds (symbolism for the troubling times ahead ?) as they both proclaim a speech about destiny and talk about how what is to come is inevitable but the aftermath and how they handle that or what happens after is what is actually important. Both know of the hardships ahead; “A great war shall transpire. Darkness will prevail and the light expire”/ “they can take your world, take your heart, cut you loose from all you know.”, but decide to look ahead to the future with hope; “we have to focus on what comes after, there’s no point focusing on events that we know are going to happen!”/ “but if it's your fate, then every step forward will always be one step closer to home”.

This opening scene quickly skips to night, traditioning to Young Xehanort staring at the night sky before seeing a purple light that represents his pull to darkness, suggesting the passage of time given it focuses on the sky shifting to these times. Having Sora be shown before Xehanort is suggestive enough, acting as though he came before Xehanort, while daybreak connects to the MoM's home of Daybreak Town. In recent time, the importance of the sky and its colour was given significance with the box-art showing it shifting from daytime to twilight to nighttime and finally daybreak with the foretellers looming ahead on the 2.8 box-art. A note to make is that this happens in the KH3 box-art also, with all the skies forming an x-shape with Sora square in the middle - Sora is connected to all of these skies and as a result, holds some connection to all these different times that those skies represent. Sora, and his entry into the series, has always been represented by daytime, so to include him at Daybreak, which may represent the death of night (Xehanort) and the birth of a new day (new saga for the series), it could also represent Sora himself coming far before any other character in the series. The end of the opening features Sora’s friends joining him, but it is now daytime.

Xehanort moving his pieces to mark the actions of the villains throughout the games as everything leads up to KH3 and him making his way to Sora and surrounding him with his darknesses. When the prophecy comes to pass, he claims victory, only for Eraqus to pull the biggest cheaters' move in the book and the Dandelions save Sora once he reverses time. The Dandelions are led and their keyblades seemingly summoned by Emphemer, who asks Sora if he wants help... but why? Why would these ancient, dead keyblade wielders help Sora who has no connection to them aside from Ven who was easily murdered by Terranort in the previous timeline? Why would Emphemer, who is apparently long dead, appear to Sora and offer him help? And why, when Sora gazed up in surprise at the Keyblades and their Deux-ex Machina rescue, did his eyes have a green tint to them despite the dry, orange landscape around them much like how they changed to a green-blue colour, much like that of No Name, when confronted by the likes of Xigbar and Marluxia? Why have a close-up shot of his eyes especially? This reason also explains why Sora’s eyes don’t react to Larxene, Luxord or Demyx; they were not Dandelions or as connected to MoM as the Lauriam, Ventus and Ephemer.

The symbolism of the chess pieces continues to the end of the opening, when we see Sora still alone against the daybreak sky, holding Xehanort's piece while Young Xehanort a moment before stared at Sora's lone piece. Untouched. But alone. The symbolism of how, in the end, Sora is at the start of time and Xehanort is his pawn? How he was the one in control while Xehanort couldn't touch Sora? Because he had help from the past.

[sailorgreywolf-legacy]

The Beautiful Game

For @historical-hetalia-week day 6.

Plot: Russia courts a new ally against his American rival. However, he may have underestimated exactly who he is dealing with.

Characters: Russia, Mexico

Content Warning: Mentions of death and abuse

Word Count: 2.4K

----------------------------------

After years of clandestine planning, Russia had finally found a possible ally close to America. There had been hints that this particular ally might soon be within reach. Mexico had broken with America and objected to Cuba’s exclusion.

Russia had heard that there had been fights, though Cuba had declined to say whether he thought the relationship was going to fall apart. He seemed to put a lot of stock in respecting Mexico’s privacy.

But, Russia could see the ripples of the discontent between them, and he intended to take full advantage of it. It was just his luck that Cuba was close enough to Mexico to arrange a meeting.

As he stood in the living room of Mexico’s home he thought about how best to convince the man to abandon America. He thought it best to show how deficient America was as a friend and a lover.

The door opened and Mexico entered. He made a show of closing and locking the door. Russia assumed that it was a kind of assurance that they were alone. Then Mexico turned to him, with a look of expectation. Mexico was handsome as always, and very well dressed.

Russia led since he had been the one to suggest the meeting, “Thank you for agreeing to this. I’ve been eager to talk to you.”

He knew that it would be best to lead with honesty and a bit of flattery. Mexico had to know how important this visit was, especially since Russia had been working for years to find an inroad with him. He was not lying when he said that he had been waiting for this meeting. 

Mexico gave him a small smile that betrayed nothing and said, “I’m sure you have. Good thing that you didn’t propose it by telegram. Those have a nasty habit of being intercepted.”

Russia wasn't sure whether he should laugh at the comment. He understood the reference, but wasn’t sure if Mexico was meaning it to be humorous. Instead he said, “I do suppose I could have called.”

He was trying to make small talk, though he was sure that America was keeping a close eye on who he called. Mexico shook his head and said, “I wouldn’t recommend that either. Alfred has my phones bugged.”

Russia seized on this detail. He had guessed at it, since America was expanding his net of spies. But, he had not been certain if America trusted Mexico enough to spy on him.

He said, “So, he doesn’t trust you?”

Mexico laughed, which caught Russia off guard. He hadn’t expected Mexico to find something so serious quite so funny. Mexico caught his breath and said, “Christ, Ivan, do I not even get a bit of foreplay before you start probing me for information about Alfred?”

Russia noted that he had moved too fast. Mexico was apparently aware of the espionage and was not going to tell Russia whether it bothered him. The rumors about Mexico said that he was reckless and emotional, so he had expected that the realizing that Alfred was suspicious would be an emotional blow. But, that seemed like it was a wrong assumption.

He said, “Forgive me. I do want to talk to you without just talking about Alfred. I think we have more in common than you think.” 

He needed to remind himself that the goal was to sway Mexico’s loyalty, not to get information about his enemy. If he was successful, then the information would come.

Mexico had the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, but it was difficult to know what it meant. He said, “We might.” Then, after a short, mysterious silence he said, “Would you play a game of chess with me? Carlos tells me that you’re very good.”

Russia was confused by the question, since it did not seem related to the politics of the moment. But, he could indulge the impulse. He was confident in his own ability to win against a reckless young man who didn’t have the foresight that chess required.

Once the game was over he could begin to test the cracks in Mexico’s relationship with America. He replied, “Very well.”

That got an encouraging smile from Mexico. In a few minutes, Mexico had set up the board and he gestured to the chair across from him and said, “Take a seat. I like a challenge.”

Russia couldn’t help but smirk. It was quite cute that Mexico thought that it might be an even game. This was a game that Russia loved dearly and could rival the masters in; he was certain that he could destroy an amateur quickly.

He said as he sat, “You know I did not come here to play games with you.”

Mexico started to pull carved wooden pieces out of a velvet bag and place them on the board. He replied as he worked, “Of course you are. You’re here to play the grandest game of all: Politics. There is no bigger game than that.”

There were light clunks as Mexico placed the pieces on the board. Russia was pleasantly surprising with the wit. He had never heard anyone but Cuba say that Mexico was so sharp.

He glanced down at the board, and remarked, “You’re giving me white?”

It was a strange move, like Mexico wanted to handicap himself. A smarter man would have given himself the advantage of going first. Mexico said, not looking at all perturbed, “Of course. You are my guest and I do want a challenge.”

Russia could not fault the confidence, even if it seemed like it could almost be arrogance. Or perhaps he was just underestimating his opponent. Either way, Russia was happy to start the game by moving out his first pawn.

As Mexico moved, Russia asked, “So what will you tell Alfred if he finds out that I was here?” The other looked up only once he was done moving his pawn, and replied, "I will tell him that we played a game of chess and that was it.”

With what they were doing, that would not technically be a lie. Russia was impressed by the forethought. But he was certain that America would not take the answer lightly.

He asked, moving his knight out to open up the board, “And if he does not accept that answer?”

He wanted to know what was at stake, and what would happen if America turned on his Southern neighbor. But Mexico responded with a quickly glance, “I do not make my decisions based on what Alfred will accept.”

He stated it as plainly as one might remark about the weather, and Russia found himself frustrated that he could not sense bitterness in the words. He wanted something to work with.

The play continued on the board as he responded, “I have seen that. You voted in favor of Cuba. No one else dared to defy Alfred’s wishes.”

Mexico took his knight with a bishop and said, “I have done more for Carlos than that, as I am sure he has already told you.”

In truth, he had already heard some of the stories from Cuba. They were intriguing. Mexico hiding Castro right under the nose of the man who wanted to keep Cuba in thrall. Cuba said that his friend had also orchestrated meetings between Cuba and the communist exiles.

It was a strange thing for a man to do when he was supposedly so loyal to America. It was one of the many stories that gave him reason to believe that Mexico could be influenced.

He replied, “I know that you hosted Castro when he was in exile. I ask myself why you would do that if you weren’t sympathetic to our cause.”

He made his move. He was not paying close attention to the game, because he was certain that Mexico would not hand him anything that he could not deal with.

Instead of  making his move, Mexico stood up and walked over to a sideboard where he poured himself a glass of ice water. As he had his back to Russia, he said, “There is a simple explanation.” He turned back and said, “Carlos is my friend, and I wanted to help him.”

He returned to his seat and contemplated the pieces while sipping water. Russia pushed him, because he felt like the answer had been a dodge, “Are you denying that you have sympathy for Socialism?”

He was certain that Mexico had some ideological convictions that he was refusing to voice. Though he had been embroiled in his own conflict, he had heard rumors that Mexico had been with Zapata and Villa during the Revolution. Cuba had refused to tell him anything about it, and he valued him enough as an ally not to push him for information.

Mexico made his move and then said, “Sympathy is a strange word. I feel sympathy for many things."

Russia took a hard look at the board for the first time. He was surprised to realize that Mexico was pressing an exceptionally solid and aggressive attack. He should not have let it get to this point, because it would take a tight defense to push back.

As he stared at the board, Mexico said, “Can I ask you a question?”

Russia moved one of his rooks into a stronger position to protect his king. He answered, still focused on the game, “Go ahead.”

Mexico moved his queen decisively into a position that could quickly evolve into check, and said, “Do you know how hard it is to find an ice axe in this city?”

Russia’s hand paused over his piece as he understood the question. This was about Trotsky and Stalin’s obsessive quest to destroy him. A quest that had culminated in a murder.

He looked up at Mexico. He couldn’t help but appreciate the build up to this moment. As he looked, he saw a man very different from the rumors. He looked calm and certain of himself, and very aware of what he had just said.

For the first time Russia felt like he understood what Cuba had been telling him. As he looked, he saw a man who was brilliant and looking at him over a winning game of chess.

This was no foolish young man that he was facing. This was a bishop, not a pawn.

The handsome face was set in the most impassive expression, but his eyes hinted at a feeling of triumph. Mexico seemed to see that he understood and added, “Alfred’s conduct may have given you the false sense that I do not value my sovereignty. But I assure you, I do.”

Russia could not believe that Mexico had really valued the life of a single Soviet exile that highly. But, he took the point. It had been an overstep, but one born out of the singular obsession of one man.

He finally replied, “Stalin is dead.” Mexico countered quickly, “And so is Trotsky. One was more natural than the other.”

Russia remembered that it was his turn and moved his king out of a vulnerable position.

Mexico spoke while he was moving, “Make no mistake. I had no attachment to the man. Giving him asylum was a favor to Frida as a friend. But he was my guest and he was under my protection.”

Russia had not agreed to the assassination, but it was not his choice. He focused on a different detail, and said, “Frida Kahlo? Were you friends with her and Diego Rivera?"

He knew those names because they were communists. Mexico seemed to be friends with a suspicious number of communists.

He looked down on the board and saw that Mexico had finally made a mistake. He had left an opening in his defense. It was the kind of glaring error that an experienced player would have seen.

Mexico replied, dodging any political implications, “Yes. I thought you saw the mural on the way in. That’s Diego’s work.”

Russia had, and he had been tempted to pause and admire the work. It was beautifully done. He moved decisively to take advantage of the opening.

He nodded, and then returned to the subject of Trotsky, “I promise you that I do not use Stalin’s methods anymore.”

Mexico took a sip of water and contemplated the game. Then he answered, “I would hope so. But how do I know that your promises are any more sincere than Alfred’s?”

Russia could see that he had a path to winning the game, and he made use of it. If nothing else he had to defend his reputation as a chess player.

He decided it was time to use the weapon he would sure have an impact. He said, “You misunderstand my intentions. I want to free the world from imperialist oppression.”

Russia removed his scarf and rubbed his neck to draw Mexico’s attention to the scars. He added, “I think you know that some scars never fade.”

For the first time in the conversation he saw real uncertainty pass over Mexico’s face. He hoped that Mexico remembered the deep scars that America had left. From the look on the other’s face he guessed that his point had made an impact as he hoped that it would.

But, Mexico did not answer until he looked at the board. Then he said, “Ah, a nasty fork. I concede.”

He knocked over his king, and looked back up at the other man. Russia was glad to have at least won, since the game had been harder fought that he expected.

He said, capitalizing on the moment, “If you were betting on a game, you would put money on the better player.”

He knew his meaning was clear. On the world stage, as on the chess board, he was much stronger than America.

Mexico took a long drink of water before saying, “You assume that I have to gamble at all. I think that I can give my money to my friends when they need it. I do not need to do more than that.”

Russia understood, though this protestation of neutrality frustrated him. He wanted to push Mexico to choose a side because his own ideals seemed to align so strongly with communism.

However, he knew that it would be a tactical error to do so. Mexico had shown himself to be clever and calculating. It would take a much more developed strategy to convince him that neutrality was not the way. Russia conceded for the moment.

He extended his hand and said, “Thank you for the game and the conversation.” Mexico took it in his own firm grip and said, “Thank you for the challenge. If you want to play again, do get in contact. You know how to reach me.”

[baby-grayson]

Kind Stranger|GBD|Part 11

Parts 1-10 Word Count: 3k tags: @styles-dolan​ @evergreendolan​ @someonetogray​ @vintagedolan​ @prettyboydolan​ @dolansficsandpics​ @graysavant​ @baby-turtles​

“She used some fancy word—I don’t remember it” Ethan’s whispers mimicked the annoyance of the look on his face. He kept his voice low, trying to keep his conversation with Grayson clandestine to the sleeping Kate on their couch.

“And why is she here Ethan?” Grayson did not try to disguise the agitated edge in his words. His jaw held a tight clench. He ran his hands through his bed head, gripping the strands. He bit a soft piece of his top lip between his bottom teeth.

“The hospital wasn’t letting her take an Uber home because of the pandemic—something about contamination and post-op risks,” Ethan shrugged softly, holding his palms open for Grayson to see. He sighed. A part of Ethan felt like he had just been caught doing something wrong, but another part of him reminded him that he made the right decision.

“So you drove my ex-girlfriend—” Grayson’s face contorted when Ethan interrupted him in a cool tone.

“Yeah Gray. She called me—me of all people—doesn’t that tell you the she had no one else?” Ethan signed softly, displeased with the reaction behind Grayson’s twisted expression. “I was mostly glad she have the sense not to ask you.” “Not to ask me?!” Grayson’s head jutted back as he waved his hands in the hair. His hands scooped up from where he stood, rocking on his back leg. She should have asked him! Grayson was the one who knew her the best. Grayson was the one who spent all those nights with her. Grayson is the one who knew what she looked like when she was upset. But Kate asked Ethan to pick her up to after surgery.

Ethan recognized Grayson’s temper all too well. Where Ethan had always been able to maintain his cool, Grayson was easily swept up in emotions. That summer, Kate was the emotion Grayson all too willingly got swept up in. A few weeks ago, Grayson had gotten swept up in Kate when he declared his love for her on the sands of a Malibu beach. The day after that, Grayson had gotten swept up in the all too familiar hurricane of Kate’s heart when she declared her commitment to her own independence and ended their short love affair. In the weeks between their breakup and finding her on the couch, Grayson bathed in sadness, resentment, and guilt from having lost the most beloved woman he had ever held. That morning, Grayson got swept up in the anger, confusion, and betrayal of hearing about how his twin brother had gone behind his back to care for his ex-girlfriend after surgery. Ethan could read Grayson like the back of a cereal box, “Yeah I’m glad she didn’t ask you—I didn’t think you could handle it and you’re proving me right.” Grayson’s jaw shifted from where it was clenched. He sucked in his teeth while he looked at his brother. He crossed his arms, “I thought we don’t keep things from each other…” Ethan sighed. Internally, he admitted that Grayson had a point. “I was going to tell you,” Ethan licked his lips, “After she was in her own apartment.” Grayson opened his mouth to retort when a distinct clacking side came from the opposite side of the kitchen. When the twins looked behind them, they found a groggy Kate sitting up and reaching for her crutches.

Kate was experienced at waking up after surgery. Since her accident, she hadn’t gone 18 months without needing some kind of major procedure. Where constant operations assuaged any fears she had going into the operating room, waking up after surgery was something she never mastered.

Her eyes fluttered, feeling as if they were being weighed down with lead balls. Her dry mouth tasted metallic, and the back of her throat ached with soreness from being intubated. Her left arm was patterned with splotchy, purple bruises from an IV. Her left leg felt weightless: wholly numbed for the next 48 hours. A few strands of hair stuck to her cheek, tacked into her face with drool from her sleep.

Instinctively, upon waking up she jostled around looking for her crutches. Her crutches were a light weight stainless steel pair of specialty Lofstrands meant for frequent use: a gift from her mother on her twentieth birthday. The crutches had accompanied her through many different medical procedures. On that day, they stood beside her while she recovered from a deep scar tissue removal operation. Reaching out for one of them, the crutch fell from where it was leaning on an armchair and landed on the floor of the Dolans’ living room with a sharp clatter.

Grayson looked back at the exact moment Kate looked up after the crutch fell. Their eyes met. An ominous fog entered Kate’s mind as she realized exactly where she was waking up from surgery. Grayson gulped hard, this was the first time he had seen her since she ran out of his house in his t-shirt and sweatpants. In that moment, she was dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of capri leggings with a dense, wrap around her left foot. Her hair was unruly and unkept; her lips were swollen from drooling; she looked like a mess while Grayson felt like a mess.

Ethan rolled his eyes at the sight of his brother’s eyes going wide, as if he had never seen a woman before. Ethan let out a small cough to break the silence. He stepped forward, resting his hands on the back of an armchair. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Kate blinked a few times, “Or good considering.” She sat up straighter and used a hand to swipe away the strands of hair on her cheek.  Her eyes darted to Grayson quickly before landing back on Ethan. Her heart was beating fast. Had Ethan only said yes to get her in the same room with Grayson? Suddenly, she felt like a pawn in the chess game of the Dolan Twins: the exact thing she wanted to avoid when she broke up with Grayson. “You didn’t have to bring me back to your place Ethan,” she tried to sound gracious but wasn’t sure the tone had conquered the sound of groggy sleep in the back of her aching throat.

Ethan opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a fourth person walking into the room.

“ooo sorryyy,” her voice sounded like an overused chew toy. A tall, lanky blonde stepped out of Grayson’s bedroom door. She had the grace of something between a bumbling barbie doll and a hungover pageant queen. Kate’s eyes went wide. Grayson’s bottom lip curled up. Ethan brought his hands up to his face.

She stumbled over to Grayson while Ethan finally felt like the smarter twin. “Grayson,” if silicone had a voice, this would be it, “My uber is here. Could you open the gate?” A far part of Kate’s mind was surprised when the girl blinked. In her experience, barbie dolls did not blink: but apparently, life size ones did.

“Uh yeah,” Grayson mumbled, “no problem.” He quickly pressed a few buttons on his phone, while his night-time companion scampered into the daylight.

Once again, the trio were alone in the twins’ living room. Kate wished she could melt into the couch and never return. Grayson gnawed at his bottom lip so hard he tasted the faintest twinge of metallic blood. Ethan opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it. Even Ethan didn’t have a comment sharp enough to cut this tension. Kate broke the silence first, her words were breathy and exhausted, “I should go. I’ll call a car—” “No,” Grayson’s voice was strong, “I’ll go.” Kate blinked quickly, taken aback by the offer. Ethan’s voice echoed her thoughts, “Grayson, you live here.” “Yeah,” Kate supported in a hoarse whisper, “I should go.” Grayson shook his head. “No,” his mouth flatlined. “You just had surgery,” he motioned toward her wrapped foot, “You shouldn’t be by yourself, not like this.”

“Grayson don’t be ridiculous. I’m not kicking you out of your home. I’ll leave.” Kate licked her lip softly. Her heart bounded in dread: hearing Grayson’s voice beckoned memories forward: the memories of a happy, love struck couple on a beach during sunset. “Just stay,” his voice was nearly a plead at this point. “I’ll go somewhere,” Grayson offered, “I’ll go to the other side of LA and count the cracks in the sidewalk all day if I have to.”

***

Even though she wasn’t his to protect, Grayson felt a fierce instinct to keep her safe. Even if it meant protecting her from himself. Grayson had trouble comprehending that Kate broke up with him because of his lifestyle, and not because of him. He had trouble separating the two concepts. The weekend after she tore his heart out, Grayson visited his mother in New Jersey.  At night, Ethan would call his girlfriend from his and Grayson’s shared bedroom. Grayson took the opportunity for alone time with his mother to ask her opinion on the situation. He lit a Wakeheart Clarity candle and enjoyed a cup of tea with her on the porch.

“She has a point,” Lisa’s nails clacked on her ceramic mug. Grayson’s eyebrows raised, “What do you mean?” Grayson’s mother had always offered expert advice to him, tender with a mother’s care but with the flavor of honesty he could only find in someone who truly loved him. In his younger days, he had shyly kept his girl troubles away from his mother, feeling the shame of a teenage boy. As he grew older, he slowly started divulging his struggles with women. Of course, he smartly left out his stories of frivolous hook ups.

Grayson placed his mug down sharply. His mind twisted in confusion when his mother agreed with Kate for breaking up with him. Lisa placed her mug down kindly and continued, “If she can’t handle it, she was right for leaving before things got serious.” Grayson’s heart lurched. Before things got serious. What he had felt for her, that was serious. The way she had massacred his heart, that was serious. He let out a loud sigh. His mother seemed to intuitively recognize her son’s broken heart: she placed a hand on his shoulder and rubbed softly, “It wasn’t meant to be. But you’re so young Grayson, I don’t know why you’re so preoccupied about this.” Despite her words, Lisa knew. Lisa knew that her son was near obsessed with finding his soulmate because his heart craved the familiar, warm, comfort of having his own family. Grayson exhaled through his noise, triggering an ache in his head. He sat back, loosing evading his mother’s hand. “I just don’t get it. What did I do wrong mom?” Lisa shook her head softly, “Nothing Grayson. At least, it doesn’t sound like you did.” She took a sip of tea and listened to the crickets in the August nighttime for a minute, “She didn’t want to be…” she chose her next word carefully, “swept up in everything you guys go through, you know with your channel and everything.” “But is that bad?” Grayson’s question was honest and real. Being plunged into celebrity status at a young age, Grayson was often mystified by the parts of normal life that he did not understand. The few times that he watched the news, he would question what someone could buy with minimum wage. When his best friend Deon studied for finals at UC Berkley, he wondered how hard the exams were: Grayson hadn’t taken an exam in six years. When his sister complained about job interviews, he was stumped at what an interview would even consist of. As much as Grayson Dolan was a compassionate, kind, and fun spirit, he lacked a deep cognizance of life outside of LA.

“It’s a lot,” Lisa admitted, “I can see where she would be scared.” “Do you think it’s worthy of being scared?” Grayson hadn’t considered that his mother might have distaste for the attention that he and his brother drummed up over the years. Lisa had periodically reminded the boys that she preferred not to be on camera but wanted to send them all of the love she could from behind the scenes. Grayson had always thought this stemmed from her humble, demure nature: but his heart gaped at the idea that his popularity negatively affected his own mother.

“If you Google me,” Lisa started, “It says I am Grayson Dolan’s mom. Not even Ethan’s,” Lisa chuckled. “There is an entire world of people out there who know me in association with you. Regardless of the business I’ve built, the life I’ve lived, or whether or not I even want them too.” She took a sip of her tea while Grayson found a spot on the porch to stare at. Internally, he replayed her words as she said them. He tried desperately to grasp what his mother was implying. “In choosing you, she had to accept that.” Grayson’s heart lurched at the mention of her, the wounds on his heart and soul were still fresh. “Besides,” Lisa tried to find a positive note, “You wouldn’t want to be with her if your life made her that uncomfortable.” Lisa’s touched Grayson’s forearm in a comforting manner, but Grayson’s internal monologue went wild. If he didn’t want to be with her? Had his mother listened to Grayson ramble about how beautiful Kate was? How brilliant she was? How kind she was? Thought? Wonderful? Perfect? Grayson Dolan could not imagine a world where he did not want to spend the rest of his life next to Kathleen Walker.  

***

Grayson left Ethan to tend to Kate, while he brusquely exited his house. He grabbed his bike and headed Northbound, without a specific destination planned. His chain dangled on his neck as he bent forward to push himself up and around the hills of Ensino. His hair fluffed up into a disorderly shape on the front of his head. It didn’t take long before his body broke out in thick layer of sweat. He hoped that the sweat would replace the layer of tension left on his soul from the morning.

Never in his wildest dreams did he think that he would slink out of his bedroom in the morning, freshly fucked from the night before, and find Kate’s sweet, angelic, sleeping face buried into the cushions of his couch. Kate hadn’t left his mind since she broke up with him. When he was mid-thrust last night, he sneered in disgust at his partner’s juvenile sounds of approval—even though his penis dominated his actions, his heart dominated his thoughts that called for Kate. His heart called so loud that she ended up on his couch the morning after. Grayson found it extremely difficult to flirt with LA girls after tasting what it’s like to love a woman.

Grayson pushed forward on his bicycle, hoping to rid himself of his angst. His legs chugged with the power that his lungs wanted to use to yell at her, to tell her how much he missed her and how desperately he wanted to her to change her mind. Grayson rode his bicycle until his muscles ached with the same soreness that his heart had felt for the past week.

Across town, Ethan and Kate spent an awkward, but sweet day together. Ethan apologized for Grayson’s guest interrupting their morning conversation. In truth, Ethan had not planned on bringing Kate back to the rental. He woke up that morning with intentions to pick her up at the hospital and drop her off at her apartment. But when Kate had crutched into his Tesla, her hair a mess and dark circles planted on her face, Ethan couldn’t bear it in his soul to leave her alone for the day. Despite the fact that she was his twin’s ex-girlfriend, she was a person who clearly needed help.

Ethan had brought her back to the rental and tucked her into the couch thinking that Grayson would be none the wiser until told. Since Kate broke up with him, Grayson had been sleeping until 1pm. Grayson’s mind could not find quiet between the pang of his broken heart, the Wakeheart candle release, and the continued stress of twitter fingers. Ethan thought he could cleverly wait for Kate to feel better and drive her home before his brother woke up and ambushed them all with his one-night stand.

Grayson tossed his bicycle by the side of the rental. His quickly pulled off his sweat soaked tank top and shoved it in his pocket. His entire body was covered in a thick layer of sweat so much so that even his socks were soaked. He sauntered into the rental and stopped in the living room doorway, finding Ethan and Kate playing cards. Grayson had expected her to be gone by the time he got back. Ethan locked eyes with his brother, lowering his hand of cards to the table. Kate followed Ethan’s gaze to find Grayson in the doorway. Grayson swallowed, feeling like a stranger in his own home. “Hey,” he greeted lowly as he hesitantly stepped further into the room. “Hey,” Kate surprised herself by answering him. They held each other’s stare: mouths slightly agape and tongues going dry while not finding words. Kate held her stare at his gorgeous gold eyes, not daring to let her gaze stray to his half-naked, sweat coated body. “Uh, I’m gonna head out real quick,” Ethan stuttered slightly, “I gotta…” he didn’t finish as he smoothly stepped out of the room. He had barely survived the tension between Kate and Gray that morning; Ethan was not looking forward to swimming through it again.

Grayson sucked in his bottom lip and straddles the arm of a sofa. “So,” he started lowly,  “How have you been?” Stupid. He was stupid. She just went through surgery and he asked that. He used the most bland question in the world on the person who excited him the most.

“I’ve been good,” Kate’s tone was steady, “I got assigned to write that chapter for the academy of sciences.” She smiled in a thin line: Grayson saw it as a ghost of the bright smiles she used to share with him.   Grayson nodded, “Congrats, I know you really wanted that project.” Was he really doing this? The woman he so desperately craved was sitting in front of him and they were talking about work? She had him smelling sweet citrus scents in his sleep, and he couldn’t muster up a conversation for her?

Kate swallowed hard, her eyes finding the floor, “You didn’t have to leave your own home today, you know?”

“Yeah I did” Grayson’s voice was flat. He sucked his bottom lip in, immediately understanding the meaning of his words. He was telling her that he couldn’t be in the same space as her, which was true. But only true because looking at her reminded him of the future he had lost.

“Gray,” Kate started but instantly regretted being so informal. “It shouldn’t be like this. We—I mean you didn’t do anything; it just didn’t work.” She rested a hand on her knee and looked up at him, her face twisting quizzically.

“Feels like I did,” Grayson’s voice was low as he rocked back on the arm of the sofa. He wiped some sweat from his brow and inspected his fingers. He looked back at her and rubbed his bottom lip, “I just—I really thought we were—I thought this was…” “I know,” Kate interrupted, “I did too.”

They stewed in the awkward silence of their tense relationship. Grayson pushed a hand through his hair. The numbness in Kate’s leg felt like it had moved its way to her brain. Both of them struggled to make words out of their emotions.

“Look, we didn’t do anything bad to each other,” Kate started. “And honestly Grayson, I do like being around you. You know, when things aren’t so weird,” she hedged, “And I had a nice time with Ethan today. So maybe we could be friends?” Grayson raised an eyebrow. Kate abridged her previous statement, “Or maybe we can try to be friends?” A/N: Please tell me your thoughts! I absolutely love hearing the good, the bad, and the angsty! We are a few parts away from the end but honestly I feel like I could write volumes about these two, so let me know if you would be interested in a volume 2 after this arch ends.  I have so much writing this, but the most fun is getting to talk about to talk about it with other people. I hope you’re enjoying!  😘

[blursed-ninjago-ideas]

Whumptober 5

Ok so this needs a disclaimer/warning. I may’ve....um....well gotten my horror junkie all over this. This is graphic, gory, and dark. I don’t mean lightly so, I mean it’s GRAPHIC! GORY! and DARK!

If you are not ok with graphic descriptions of torture/violence, blood, and just generally that kind of stuff. Skip this, ok?

Prompt: Failed Escape

AU: Serial Killer Nya

--

Harumi had made a mistake. So had screwed up and she wasn’t getting out of it. She had miscalculated and was suffering for it.

She had thought the green ninja would never have the guts to actually hurt her, maybe she should’ve remembered that he had oni blood in his veins.

But that wasn’t the mistake she was suffering for.

No, her grave error was assuming Lloyd’s friends shared his moral obligations.

She never thought for a moment she should fear Nya Smith, the beloved water ninja that fought to protect Ninjago. Harumi was learning the hard way that she hadn’t seen the world as clearly as she thought she had.

She’d been arrogant. Her pride was her downfall. She’d assumed she could walk into fire and come out untouched. Or, water in this case.

Nya had come in with a knife and Harumi had laughed. She had laughed! She taunted the girl and Nya let her for a minute or two, before slicing her chest open with a swallow gash.

“You. Took my brother away.” She had said in a cold voice, continuing to lightly carve into her flesh with the knife.

Harumi squirmed and tried to remain defiant. But Nya just kept patiently tracing her skin with swallow cuts.

“Is that the worst you can do?” Harumi spat.

Nya hummed quietly, but otherwise kept at Harumi’s tearing skin.

“You’ll have to do worse than that if you want anything-“ Harumi was cut off by her own screaming while Nya plunged the knife into her arm very suddenly.

“You don’t get to rush me!” Nya snapped. “I will take as long as I please”

“I’m not telling you anything.” Harumi grunted.

Nya barked out a laugh.

“You’re delusional.” She said, wiping her eyes.

Harumi glared, but Nya smiled back.

“I don’t want anything from you. I’m doing this for me. I’m doing this because I want to. You don’t have to do anything but feel.”

To punctuate the word, Nya sliced open her right cheek, leaving half a Chelsea smile dripping blood down her chin.

Harumi didn’t scream, but she did whimper a bit while cold air entered her mouth through her now open cheek.

“You. Took. My brother away.” Nya repeated, angrily this time. “Do you know how much I love my brother?”

Nya finished what she had started and cut open Harumi’s left cheek to match.

“More than I love killing.” She said darkly. “And I love killing a lot.”

Harumi tried to swallow and spit the blood out of her mouth long enough to speak.

“You…You don’t kill.”

Nya laughed again.

“I kill plenty. I just don’t do it publicly.” She explained, looking intently at her knife. “I never told the others, but I think Kai knew who Mazoku X really was.”

Harumi’s eyes widened.

“You’re…” she choked.

“Guilty.” Nya said in a chipper voice, smiling and waving her knife.

Harumi could barely process her realization before Nya had decided to start prying up her fingernails. She could hear her skin tearing slowly as her nails refused to let go. The blood was oozing and dripping, contrasting to the sticky syrup that was drying on her face.

She cried as all ten of her once perfectly manicured nails were taken from the flesh they belonged to, but she didn’t scream until Nya bent her finger back and started to twist and yank. Nya removed a few fingers with this method, leaving the stubborn ones dangling, Harumi couldn’t feel them anymore anyways.

“Please! Please stop!” Harumi begged.

Nya just moved on to mangling her feet.

It went on and on. Nya started with small attacks and worked her way to larger more painful deeds at an agonizing pace.

Harumi was already spilling secrets by the time Nya plucked out and eye, but none of it made her stop. She was apologizing and groveling while Nya threw her chair to the ground and she fumbled out of her bounds, broken splinters around her.

Her long hair was wet and sticking to her face, blocking her good eye while she shuffled away as best she could. She didn’t see Nya reaching for her, but she felt the yank on her hair, pulling her off the ground. Her locks escaped her scalp painfully with her entire weight hanging from them.

Nya laughed and threw the bloody wad of hair to the side while Harumi tried to crawl away on her belly. She was in no position to get any real distance away, but her instincts insisted on getting any amount of away.

Then her miracle came in green.

Lloyd. Sweet Lloyd who was such a good hero he’d never let her die here like this. He would surely save her!

She choked out his name, begging for salvation.

He looked distressed. He almost started to lean down and help, but then Nya spoke.

“Lloyd. Are you really going to stop me?” Nya asked.

Lloyd’ eyes shot to hers. He had tears as he looked down at Harumi once again.

“No….I’m….I’m not.” He said sadly.

And Harumi’s miracle turned to false hope as she watched Lloyd turn and leave.

She had always denounced his empathy. Called him to weak for it. The irony of her needing the trait she condemned only to be denied wasn’t lost on her.

She sobbed as she remembered that rescue wasn’t coming. She had done this to herself. She’d gotten caught on purpose. She really had honestly thought she could just get out of this. Letting herself get captured was the most reckless and stupid thing she’d ever done, and it would be the last.

Harumi thought she had the world figured out. She knew more and better. She thought of herself as a master of the chess game everyone was a piece in. Life wasn’t a chess game, and she was no master.

She was a stupid pawn that was about to die at the hands of someone who was truly what she only pretended to be.

--

Ok, I sort of love horror alright? I don’t do it often, but it’s a thing.

-Ivy

[thelordstears]

Oh look, more fuckin’ writing, who woulda thunk it????

"There's no heroes nor villains in this shattered mind of mine. Just phantoms that dance in my headspace and leave a haunting echo of what never was.” - Elijah Vanders

“ These fires creep up my skin and leave me horrified of all the burns I've endured, but alas, they are no scald marks of the body, but of the mind.” - Elijah Vanders

“ I miss everything I've lost, everything I used to be.” - Elijah Vanders

“ This world was never for the broken, because people condemn what they might never understand, they tell you it's all in your head, and that's the issue. It is all in my head, and I wish it wasn't, because I'd rather face reality baring my teeth to the sky and bleeding from the lip then face the things I do on the daily.” - Elijah Vanders

“ I could look up at the stars and ask them "Why oh why am I a broken vagabond of this shattered world?" And all they'd do is blink out.” - Darkin Vagabond

“ I must confess, I feel like a monster, and all I can do really is hide from myself.” - Darkin Vagabond

“ Here I am, yearning for a better tomorrow, but all I do is sink into my blankets and know, there is no better tomorrow if I don't fight for it. And so I sleep the night away, fearing what it is the day shalt bring.” - Darkin Vagabond

“ How can I run from all this pain if it's apart of me? How could I possibly escape myself?” - Darkin Vagabond

"We condemn what we do not understand, and thus, we can never learn. Perhaps if the village folk within Salem would've learned more if they had questioned the falsely accused instead of burn them at the stake, they would never howl answers, only pain.” - Ferdinand Lawlor

“ Perhaps we have damned ourselves, but oh well, this is a world damned to Hell, so what is a damned man in a world that's already on fire?” - Ferdinand Lawlor

“ I've learned Heaven is a right, and we've lost it.” - Ferdinand Lawlor

"The end of a rope can either be a saving grace or the thing that kills a man. I've been on both sides of the spectrum, swinging from the gallows of my own sin and pulled to shore by people who care to forgive me.” - Eduardo Villifex

“ I'm not a good man, anymore. I used to be, as most did, but my heart twisted black and pain is all I know these days. But not because I'm in it, because I cause it.” - Eduardo Villifex

"Dis is a long bloody road I walk, dere ain't no end fo' me, just my enemies. So beware me pale red truck and 'eart filled with a desire fo' vengeance, because on dis road dere's corpses litterin' da highway and ain't none'a em gon' be me.” - Randall Lancaster

“I went through da stages'a grief, but dey forgot ta mention da last fokin' one. Anger.” - Randall Lancaster

“ I'm cold as ice, but me 'eart burns wif'a flame so fierce it puts Hell ta shame.” - Randall Lancaster

"I'm on a stage, the audience claps and cheers, but only for my death. I swing from gallows made up of the pain I've faced, I'm choking on my past, kicking air beneath me in a desperate attempt to save myself from this noose. And yet here I am, sputtering up all this darkness in my history.” - Hermann Pastel

“ I am a man, I have never been Pinocchio, and I never needed Jipedo or the Blue fairy to make me a real boy. So oh Mister Kalarook, you are not the whale who swallowed me whole, you are no puppet master, you are a man, and thus you will bleed like one.” - Hermann Pastel

"In a town of wolves, crying wolf will only get you torn to pieces.” - Sav Gothenburg

“ I am no killer, and so I shalt not use this blade for sheep, but instead it shall remain clean until the wolf who tore into me is in front of me with his empty eyes and bloodstained smile.” - Sav Gothenburg

“ I know what he did in the dark, I know what he made in the dark, after all, he made his undoing.” - Sav Gothenburg

“ This world is not so fond of those who're different, I've watched as my father cut men and women down for defying his belief, and though I have escaped him, I have not escaped the memory, of him. I can still see his empty eyes and his bloodstained blade. I will never be whole, because the hauntings of him still plague me.” - Victoria Vaxwington

“ New York is a graveyard of those who committed the crime of being themselves.” - Victoria Vaxwington

“ I have learned sometimes angels must fall so devils no longer fly, sacrifices must be made so the enemy is put at a disadvantage that will lead to their demise in the future, but I do not play a game of chess, I do not put forth my pawns to become Queen's Gambit. I'd much rather call Stalemate then let someone who fights for me, die for me.” - Victor Da Ville

“ This world is full of devils who want to watch angels be torn from the sky on bloodied wings, and so I bare these teeth of mine and scowl at the sky, because in a world of devils, one must become the leviathan.” - Victor Da Ville

“ I am a man of justice, karma to those who have spilt innocent blood, I am a devil to all those who seek hellfire, and refuge for all who seek warmth.” - Victor Da Ville

"When you love someone so much, you know when you have to let them go. Even if only for a small while, it still pains you to do so. My darling Lizbeth, oh how it pained her to see me slink into the night with the stars, but when I returned to her, as the sun always does when it sinks, we danced under the rays of sunshine that slathered across our beautiful dance of shared love.” - Corrie Vendowoft

“ She's beautiful in all her broken pieces, we've both lead lives that left us shattered, but together we molded this glass into a wonderful puzzle that painted a picture of us, and us alone.” - Corrie Vendowoft

“ It is dangerous, to love someone so completely that you'd put your life on the line for them, but so long as I live in danger with her, I will always accept it.” - Corrie Vendowoft

"I could say my life is almost like a photograph, frame by frame I see the beauty through the lenses of love. Snapshots of this love I have force the pain out of my smile, all I know these days is a fiery passion for the woman I stride underneath the sun with, in her arms I feel so complete, so loved in a world that tried to make me hate.” - Lizbeth Samwick

“ I love Corrie, it's not just something I feel in my heart or my mind, but something that trickles down to my very soul and redefines who I am. I fought my desire for so long, I said to myself "She can't be yours, by God she can't." But when she smiled and ran a hand through my hair I knew, by God she's mine. “ - Lizbeth Samwick

“ I would dance underneath the stars with that woman, follow her to the ends of the Earth and charge into a burning building if it mean saving her.” - Lizbeth Samwick

"We yearn for an answer to existence, but I think it's a simple one. To exist is to simply breathe, but the meaning to life is to love the world, as it has always loved you.” - Sabu Thorn

“ Nature has never been sinful, everything in nature has a reason to be there, the cycle of kill or be killed is only relevant for predators, and we were never wolves.” - Sabu Thorn

“ This world was never cruel, we just blame it for it's naturalities, you can not blame a wolf for snatching it's prey, and you can not blame nature for its defense mechanisms.” - Sabu Thorn

"I find that condemning love will only condemn he who damns it. Something so Heavenly and divine could never be sinful, why damn something as beautiful and complex as love? How much hate must you hold in your heart to despise something that never had to do with you?” - Abby Malroodge

“ The only one who can change me, is me.” - Abby Malroodge

“ Where would you pull your strength from if you've never had to be strong? Where would you pull your bravery from if you never knew what it was to be scared? Ya can't truly know what it is to live without a little bit of struggle.” - Abby Malroodge

“ Life isn't awful, moments are, remember this, because it might save you when all seems lost.” - Abby Malroodge

“ We're stars, shimmering in the dead of night, so twinkle on my friend, twinkle on. The world was made for you, so shine." - Abby Malroodge

"I'm not strong because of my past, I'm strong because of my choices, I am not strong because people hurt me, I'm strong because I rose up despite what they did.” - Morgan Mittel

“ I'd rather trek forward than look back, the future is where I'm headed, so why dwell on the past?” - Morgan Mittel

"The only things that've kept me alive are hope, and myself.” - Obi Zenton

“ I've been through plen'y, can't really kill my spirit, because it's always ragin' with some sort of flame that fuels me. Love, hate, anger. All of these things keep me goin', I spose I'm a mix of different emotions that keep my heart beatin'.” - Obi Zenton

“ I'm not just gonna lie down and die quietly, I'm a fighter, a survivor, always have been, and nuffin's gonna change that, nuffin'.” - Obi Zenton

“ I've already faced the world, so what makes you think I can't face you?” - Obi Zenton

“ I look up to the Heavens and pray, "Lord, please save me, we're all damned these days, save me." But all I've been hearing is the dying cries of men fighting for no real purpose.” - Zelene Clifforde

“ We are not wolves, we're human, why don't we act as such?” - Zelene Clifforde

“Savages with bloodstained smiles haunt me.” - Zelene Clifforde

“ People just don't understand, get in the way of history, you become it.” - Richmond Venwokbridge

“ The hounds of Hell could chase me down and I'd face them with a bloodstained blade and sins painted the color red on my sleeve.” - Richmond Venwokbridge

“ I have blood on my name, I'm practically a death omen.” - Richmond Venwokbridge

“ You can't tear my roots from this wicked family tree, because they'll wrap around your throat and swing you from the gallows of my dynasty.” - Richmond Venwokbridge

“ I prayed to the Heavens that she'd come back, she had to be alive. But as I looked to the sky the only answer I ever got was clouds shifting and the sun baring down on me. My mother was my hero, and they say we mimic our heroes, so might I one day bleed like her?” - Ariella Soro

“ If God was real why would he shatter a believer such as I? I used to say Amen, I used to get on my knees and pray. But all that ever got me was the rubble of my crumbled faith asphyxiating me.” - Ariella Soro

"I've dragged buried truths from the dark into the light kicking and screaming, but who ever knew the truth had claws and would tear into me like a lion feasting on a gazelle? How was I to possibly fathom the truth ripping into me just as karma rips into those who've done wrong?” - Lana Peixoto

“ I've always brandished this heart of mine and a pen. They say the pen is mightier than the sword, so why does blood spill while I write of tragedy?” - Lana Peixoto

“This world has stabbed so many knives in my back, and somedays I wonder how I haven't bled out, but the blood trickling down my jacket blends in with the black leather. Because I suppose in a world where the truth is a crime, telling the truth makes you villainous.” - Lana Peixoto

“A man I knew once told me we're all strong in our own right, its what we do with the strength that matters. But how am I to be strong when all it ever got me was beaten into pavement and whipped with the scars of a thousand bloodstained lies?” - Alaina Crossbellow

“Fear the woman with everything left to lose, because she'll fight like hell to keep it that way.” - Alaina Crossbellow

"If love is a battlefield, I'll grab my rifle and go to war. After all, I'd do anything for the woman I love, I'd catch bullets or sling em, I'd kick ass or get my ass kicked, if you love someone, you fight for them, it's as simple as that, really.” - Rachel Vandemann

“ Isn't it beautiful, to be so masterfully intertwined with another that their heartbeat becomes a melody and their smile a song?” - Rachel Vandemann

“ I stare into bloodshot eyes, alvawys vondering how zese hands are my own, zey have spilt so much blood, vatched men go down in spurts of red from zis Tommy gun I sling over my shoulder.” - Sanders Krauss

“ Zis blood on my hands haunts me, zere iz trouble in my daydreams and vickedness in my nightmares.” - Sanders Krauss

“ I shook hands vith ze devil, vith his hatchet shimmering red under ze starless night sky.” - Sanders Krauss

"I'd rather be the final bullet in a chamber than the ones that were fired off in rage.” - Carlita Hellslinger

“ I'm not the best woman in the world, but at least I'm good enough to end you.” - Carlita Hellslinger

“ He holds my heart, this battered scarred heart is his, because I found in all my loneliness, in all my solitude, in all my anger, he loved me. He loved the ugliest parts of me, and he called them beautiful.” - Carlita Hellslinger

“ I've lived in the dark my whole life, what makes you think I don't know what lurks?” - Carlita Hellslinger

"Somedays all I can hear is the echo of my past. But I suppose the sirens of love are louder. I must confess, these scars bleed, and somedays they define me, by God do they define me. But then I remember, it's only a memory, and you have a future to live, girl, so live it.” - Sage Caesar

“ A woman showed me what it is to love, Rosie in all her beautiful strength, showed me that love is no game, there's no losers nor winners, only people in love.” - Sage Caesar

“ This world will tell you you're not worth it, you don't deserve the space you fill, but it tells lies, nasty, vile lies that poison your mind with falsehoods.” - Sage Caesar

“ Fight on, fighter, you're worth the struggle, I promise." - Sage Caesar

"I'm the scary story monsters tell their children to keep em in bed. Beware, beware, sinners of the witching hours, the Midnight Dove soars with bloodstained talons, and her prey cackles underneath a bloodstained blade.” - Elsa Todd

“ May those you've harmed whisper your deeds, may you meet me in the dead of night while my pistol is clean and my aim is true.” - Elsa Todd

“ No sinner deserves grace, so don't beg at my feet, it won't fucking save you.” - Elsa Todd

"I don't believe in normal, I don't believe in a concrete definition to humanity. Because we're all unique, in our own beautiful ways. It's ridiculous, to shackle humanity to a definition, we're all our own people, so how could we possibly define what it means to be yourself?” - Hannah

“ I'd rather be an outcast then someone I'm not.” - Hannah

“ Watchin' your own son fall from grace is tough, 'specially when you raised him ta be strong.” - Betsie Werdelstein

“ Her smile ain't like nuthin' I've ever see, I could compare her ta the sun, or a garden'a daisies and daffodils, but she weren't never just somethin' beautiful ta look at.” - Betsie Werdelstein

“ I's seen what it is, ta be so in pain, that all ya can really do is weep and hope fo' a better tomorra', but sometimes that hope is the very bullet that lodges inta your heart.” - Betsie Werdelstein

“ I could present the truth on a silver fucking platter, and people would say, "Oh how marvelous, but we prefer the lies crammed down our throats." - Marston Calinfranz

“ I must ask the question, why do people fear the truth? Lies are often sugarcoated, but dare you follow the sugar crumbs that lead to a poisoned cube of sugar? You're ants, to the powerful, being led to a poisoned demise disguised as your salvation.” - Marston Calinfranz

"They say home is where the heart is. And so my heart resides in a pitch black forest of wolves. They snarl, they howl, but to them, I am the moon.” - Haymitch Viers

“ I sympathize for the devils of this world, everyone seeks to understand them, but must realize, it is impossible. You must become him, to understand him. Walk a a thousand miles in his shoes, and see why it was that he spilt blood as if it were commonplace.” - Haymitch Viers

”A bow and arrow only draws back in preparation to fling forward. So remember, when you’re being pushed back, soon you’ll be hurtling forward at full speed.” - Cynthia Layden

“ We're all our own, beautiful in all of our uniqueness, fuck anyone who says you shouldn't be you, they don't know your mind, or your heart, so how the fuck can they judge you?” - Cynthia Layden

“ We're all our own Queens and Kings, we rule the castle of our mind and sometimes, your thoughts, the subjects, they want to swing you from the gallows, don't let them man, don't let them.” - Cynthia Layden

"In a kill or be killed world, I will never die.” - Gilderoy Vinefroker

“I made friends with my demons, they wouldn't dare bite the hand that feeds them, but to all those around them that left them starving, they have a feast.” - Gilderoy Vinefroker

“ You can not, and will not, fucking kill me.” - Gilderoy Vinefroker

“ This world was never cruel, but I am.” - Gilderoy Vinefroker

“ In life, there are no winners, no losers, just men willing to get to the end, and those who are left on the board to rot." - Gilderoy Vinefroker

“ How am I to grieve what did happen, if I always ponder, on what didn't?” - Jill Smithens

“ This heart of mine is broken, I could glug down gallons of gin an tonic, inject this poison into me, but it'll never heal my heart.” - Jill Smithens

“ I've given so many life changing advice, as a therapist I know the signs, the warnings, and what someone should do in the circumstance their mind is working against them. But if only, I could take my own advice.” - Jill Smithens

“ Ya know, they say the past is just that, but then why is it always engraved in my mind as a hieroglyphic is in a Pharaoh of old's tomb?” - Shirley Honeybadger

“ They say, to slay a monster, you too, must become one, but I believe it wouldn't be sinful if the rabbits fought back against the coyotes.” - Solstice Moone

“ I am a warrior of the sun, bounding in the pawprints of wolves with crimson claws as to follow them to their cave of slaughter, so one day they might be slain for their wickedness.” - Solstice Moone

“ We are not a bloodstained race, but history paints us as such. We waged war to gain independence, and they call us savages.” - Solstice Moone

“ Sometimes we must raise our blades, instead of our voices.” - Solstice Moone

“ I guess life isn't always gonna be perfect, because what would we do with a perfect world but ruin it?” - June Northutt

“ I spose we're all ghosts of who we were, snapshots of younger versions of ourselves, perhaps who we were is proud of who we are.” - June Northutt

“ I took Thituna's beauty and turned it into darkness, Vialdir's gifts and turned them into curses, but hail me! Hail me! I am a stature of greatness and sinful divinity!” - Destallo Starrend

“ This wicked magic, oh how dark it is, I can see it, the black glow in my veins, the dark blood that flows when I am cut in battle. But I care not, I've been corrupted, and my intention is not to turn back.” - Destallo Starrend

“ The night sky flows through my veins and the stars no longer sparkle, for they imploded and left the nebula in my ribcage.” - Destallo Starrend

“ 'Ow am I ever to know peace, if I don't know if my son, knows peace? I'm terrified of the unknown, because I have no clue what it could hold, does it perhaps hold every single truth I need ta know? Is it where my son resides, or is he in a shallow fucking grave?” - Barbara Alastair

“ I guess all I really got are my memories and the spark of a cigarette, only warmth I feel these days, is in my damn lungs, burnin' me alive from the inside. Only light I could ever reach kills me. I'm like the moth, drawn toward the flickers of fires set to burn me, but because I'm self destructive, I follow the sparks and flickers anyhow.” - Barbara Alastair

“ We have to remember, we were given life, so why not appreciate this gift we've got, huh? I'm a fixer upper, we all are, really, workin' with what we got. Our little flaws, our little quirks that make us who we are, always wonderin' if who we are is who we oughta be. But you know what? Build a castle made of of the hurt, and embrace that you survived it man, you survived it.” - Lydia Hobkins

“ This world is cruel, hellbent on breaking this soul of mine in half, but you don't break the woman with her heart on her sleeve, you don't break me, I only learn.” - Allie Jekylhead

“ This world was never meant for cruel men, people like to think we're all beasts, vying for a throne, but we're people, trying to fucking live.” - Allie Jekylhead

“ I am no barking dog, when I bark, it's a fucking warning.” - Allie Jekylhead

"I'm paralyzed by a feelin', cause all I got these days are memories that poison my bloodstream and leave me as the aftermath of Chernobyl. How am I ta be healthy, when even my heart is got damn poisoned?” - Vector Beckenheimer

“ It's hard, fearin' for the life of the woman you love cuz her mind is ill. But I guess, all I can do is fight for her, cuz she ain't never been allowed ta fight for herself.” - Vector Beckenheimer

“ Alcohol is a poison, and I'm in chronic condition these days, sippin' on poison as if it would fucking save me.” - Vector Beckenheimer

“ I'm sorry, for feeling this way. Is it perhaps demented, to be not okay? Am I a woman sinful to the core, because I have demons in my mind?” - Friella Beckenheimer

“ Life doesn't seem to treat me right, and neither does my mind.” - Friella Beckenheimer

“ My children.. I'm sorry. But I'm a bad influence, I smoke cigarettes to choke on the smoke and down pills to spit up my remaining life span.” - Friella Beckenheimer

“ I'm not much a woman, these days. Just a lost ember in the wind, and one of these days I'll snuff out. I'm the dying spark amidst ash, the last shred of a pencil used over the years and the girl no one can save, because I can't even save myself.” - Friella Beckenheimer

“ I bleed forevermore, what a shame it is, that I hold the bloodied razor and the glossy regret." - Friella Beckenheimer

“ This world is out'a fokes, but I can't be.” - Kiley Swinton

“ I've found just how demented this world is, followin' the shadows of the pine and the regrets'a the wolves. I found a cave of sinfulness, the sirens sang and beckoned me ta the ocean side where they drowned my sense of innocence, and out rose a vengeful beast by the name'a Kiley fuckin' Swinton.” - Kiley Swinton

“ Karma is fair, Karma is just, she always pays her fuckin' dues.” - Kiley Swinton

“ The birds hum, the sun rises, just not fo' me.” - Kiley Swinton

“ I used ta rule the world, at least, my own little world I could call home. But some people don't care, they'll rip the walls asunder just to reach your heart and cut it.” - Beverly Jackins

“ I've been broken, but this tiara of rust and this throne of love will never topple. My kingdom of isolation, may one day become a kingdom of two. All I need ta build an empire is my daughter, even if it's one of pillows and blankets draped over cardboard." - Beverly Jackins

“ Broken and damned, they call me. But you'd be telling the truth if you just called me, broken.” - Warren Shanaghost

“ I am a damned man in the eyes of the public, they think I tormented two young girls I knew. I'm damned if I did, damned if I didn't I suppose.” - Warren Shanaghost

“ I saw that shadowy figure, I saw that beast dressed as nothing more than a child's fantasy. What a damned creature, drunk off the light of the moon and sinning just because.” - Warren Shanaghost

“ I've done some dumb shit, sure, but haven't we all? I mean, come on, if we ain't a little wild are we really living? The answer is no, if ya were unaware. You can't just live in the boxes they've created, you gotta burst out of that box and rip it the fuck up.” - Promise Ryder

“ The world isn't against you, honestly, the world doesn't care about any of us, it's the people on Earth that do. So look around, someone loves you, someone cares. Just hold onto the little moments, cause those are the ones that really count.” - Promise Ryder

“ I've watched angels fall from blinding heights, but I went with them on burning wings, I am a circus act, forced into the cold shadows of the night.” - Jenscella Harburkens

“ Those who are different are not loved by society, they'd tie me to a stake and burn me, if they so could.” - Jenscella Harburkens

“ Psycho! They say, psycho! But I'm just a lost girl with haunted memories, why damn me when you could damn my abuser? But no, the story of the boy who cried wolf is always told, but seldom told is the tale of Jenscella, the girl who told the truth, but was never believed.” - Jenscella Harburkens

“ I'm a fool for her, I'd dance underneath a stage collapsing, or hold her hand in a battlefield.” - Zoey Shurrick

“ Just because my memories reflect pain, does not mean that is my future.” - Zoey Shurrick

“ My sister is a superhero, in my eyes. She doesn't shoot lasers from her eyes or wear a cape. She wears a suit she hates and a smile despite her past.” - Zoey Shurrick

"Way over yonder I would'a looked at my torn wings and think, by God, how far have I fallen? But now, I sit here in the tatters of my wings and realize, not every plummet ends with death.” - Connor O’Day

“ My nightmares haunt me, my sins plague me, but my love saved me.” - Connor O’Day

“ She's a soldier, and I'd say she's mine, but I think what's beautiful about her is, she's her own.” - Connor O’Day

“ I used ta be ruled by my trigger and how fast I could pull it, but nowadays, I'm defined by love, not my past, not my future. But love.” - Connor O’Day

“ So sisters, brothers and none of the above in arms, won't you join me, on this journey home? We're all so lost, and yet found by each other. We found sanctuary in each other's hearts and home in the storms of love. We are no beasts, no sinners, no saints. Just men, women and everything in-between, lookin' for a purpose on the wind, knowin' it was always family and each other." - Connor O'Day

"Life is like a painting, it gets a little messy and mistakes are made along the way, but who ever said one wrong sway of the brush ruined the piece? We're not perfect creatures, so why pretend to be?” - Jane Van Steenburg

“ I know these days sinners play as saints, but I find once you learn to differentiate the two, the wolf's smile flickers.” - Jane Van Steenburg

“ I'm a black stallion gallopin' on a path'a cobble and thorns, follow me or don't, but this world need heroes, so lets be the heroes we deserve. I don't got no cape, just my twin revolvers and some rebellious bones.” - Granville Van Steenburg

“ I got my guns, and I got my name, and I've learned that's all it takes ta survive. That and a little bit of hope.” - Granville Van Steenburg

"The sun don't shine on da soldiers, and so we learn ta accept da moon. We twist and turn, twirlin' in da moonlight in an ungraceful dance dat burns us wif' our sins. But ey, sinnin' hurts, but so does bein' da hero.” - Winfield Coleman

“Me bones are wicked, can'tcha see? I'm a cold shadow'a the man I used ta fokin' be, ever since I stepped inta the fires'a war, I knew what it was ta die, mate. You hear the story'a the boy who went ta war whole, but came out strong. But seldom told is the tale'a da soldier who walked out wif' rage in 'is eyes and a snarl on 'is lip. War is Hell, dey say, but Hell is Hell, war is war.” - Winfield Coleman

“ We're all damned nowadays, we're all sinners, and so I took it ta the highest degree. Murder'a the conscience." - Winfield Coleman

"I suppose in a world of mystery, we too are unsolved cases, and we must find who we are and search for the clues inside our hearts.” - Carlita Lorenz

“ I'm always going to stay on this road that leads to nowhere, because with those two women, I don't need a destination, just them. I believe in myself and my loves, and I'll always be a star, shining on if only to light up the night sky, to help the moon in her lovely presence." - Carlita Lorenz

“ I'm on a highway of red lights, a path of broken glass, but why not keep this dance in my stride and pride in my smile?” - Hailey Courtney

“ She's my hero, even if she feels like nothing more than a villain. I love her, she's taught me everything, to be strong, to be me, to laugh and enjoy what I have. She doesn't have a cape, she just has a chipped smile and an old tattered sweater.” - Hailey Courtney

“ I'm always gonna face the world with a smile, because if I can face a nightmare smiling, who can stop me, really?” - Hailey Courtney

"The world's a scary place, and sadly, with me in it, it's even more so.” - Keaton Devoncross

“ I'm both the cat and the dog, chasing my tail and running up a tree in cowardice, I'm not a good man, filled with such sins that they could kill any normal man, he'd jump off a cliff side, knowing what I do.” - Keaton Devoncross

“ I worry about things I shouldn't, always been an anxious child, scared of the world and scared of myself.” - Keaton Devoncross

“ Oh how wicked we are, with our claws of iron and rows of needles that prod our gums.” - Keaton Devoncross

“ We made a mockery of these commandments, thou shalt not kill, so instead we killed the mind. Thou shalt not steal, so instead we stole memories and joy. We are thieves of happiness, we stole the stars and let them blink out.” - Keaton Devoncross

“ We have destroyed the meaning of humanity, because these days we're monsters, tearing into whatever's left.” - Keaton Devoncross

"Step into the ring! You'll find here we all share one very similar trait! We wear sins on our sleeves and scars on our hearts! And here, the only way to find purpose, is to fight for it. You might die in the process, but it is a price you must be willing to pay! You are gladiators and gladiatrix's, fight, fight! Fight or die! Kill or be killed!” - Jorovany Ringmaster

“ I am Jorovany Ringmaster! Sinner of the highest degree! I wear both horns and halos, because too trick the saint, I must act like him.” - Jorovany Ringmaster

“ Blood stains the walls, ghosts fill the halls, and a mad man runs the show! You can not escape the arena, for it's always in your memory.” - Jorovany Ringmaster

“ Always was I born to be a beast of bloodied fang and crimson talon, but my heart does beat for someone, but it does not beat for the fool who dares trample the wolf. Adraina makes me feel such curious things, she protects me and says my damning acts are not so damning. She calls me fallen angel, but damned I am, and if she is by my side, damned is she.” - Maya Van Hunters

“ I do not regret what I have done, it doesn't seem to be in my bloodstream, my family tree is made up of rotten bark and branches with gallows our enemies swing from.” - Maya Van Hunters

“ Living is such a damning act, we were born so cold, so bloody. So it seems I never escaped the cycle of cruelty, and I suppose I never shall.” - Maya Van Hunters

“ As I have seen it, this bloodline ends with me, because I bare no child to continue our sinful ways. The wicked roots of my history shall fester and rot, the world will remember the Van Hunters name as a wicked one filled with sinful desires and love for a singular woman.” - Maya Van Hunters

“ I've hit rock bottom a thousand times, but I suppose all it takes to find the top is to climb.” - Rayford Gold

“ My brothers are good men, Robert and Crawford, stuck by me in my darkest times, it's hard to find people like them, who you can laugh and cry with. Some people love you only when it's light, but the ones who're true, love you even in the night. I have found so much, in this world. Money doesn't buy happiness, only friendship and love can do such a thing.” - Rayford Gold

“ I am not a bad man, just one who's made some bad choices.” - Rayford Gold

“ She saved Crawford's life, but her smile saved mine.” - Rayford Gold

“ Don't you dare damn me without knowin' my broken and hellbent past, vengeance is the only thing that drives me nowadays, I'm a broken creature of broken tusk and dented armor.” - Julie Forkroad

“ I got bullets with their names on it, Tilda, Maya, you best watch out, the monster you created is chargin', and her horns will skewer you, choke you on the blood you've spilt.” - Julie Forkroad

“ This future of mine is bloodstained, because my past is bloodstained. I can't escape all this pain because those ghostly women haunt me, their memory is damning, their existence is frightening. But I suppose, on this damned path, I became a reflection of them.” - Julie Forkroad

“ All I have left is my gun and a few empty prayers.” - Julie Forkroad

"It ain't the hatred spread that's remembered, I've learned. Yes, wicked deeds lay on the pages of history, but it's the actions that rid us of the dark, that lay in our hearts.” - Joyce Huffelsburg

“ I have saved so many little boys and girls from a life of trauma and the high risk of finding them swinging from the end of a rope for the sins of their mothers and fathers.” - Joyce Huffelsburg

“ Help people and put other's above yourself, and people will remember you as a hero, but that was never the point. It was always just to do the right thing, wasn't it?" - Joyce Hufflesburg

“ We're all fighting our own battles, whether they be physical or mental, and we gotta attain victory, or we'll never make it.” - Levanna Scorchton

“ I could make an explosion with a single match and an ocean with a single drop of water. That's just how deeply I love, if I couldn't love, I think I'd be driven to hate.” - Levanna Scorchton

"All the money in the world doesn't make one rich, but love? It'll make you the richest person in the world.” - Moriah Castelonia

“ Words can teach so much, but seldom do people speak them in meaningful ways.” - Moriah Castelonia

“ She was just another homeless woman to the world, but when I saw her, shivering on that street, flecks of snow in her golden hair, I knew I had to do something. Everyone passed her by, but if I had, I never would've been found in such a beautiful dance. She's my golden star, wise and lovely. She's taught me so much, we lived in separate worlds, I grew up with silver platters and everything I thought I needed to be happy, while she grew up with nothing but her hope and grit to carry through. Our worlds collided, and now they're so beautifully intertwined.” - Moriah Castelonia

"The question must be asked, is a church steeple dripping with the blood of the fallen still a holy scene? Or has it been scorched by the devil's flame?” - Father Goriah Thorell

“ If we're all sinful, is it such a stretch to say none of us are forgiven? Either God is forgiving and loving, or he's hateful and unforgiving.” - Father Goriah Thorell

“ There's blood on my Bible and sins sitting on the pew.” - Father Goriah Thorell

“ Such damned, and unholy things we are. Sinning with cause, and without it.” - Father Goriah Thorell

"Super heroes only exist in comics and action movies, the real heroes wear cowboy hats, flannels and are no different from you and me. Anyone can be a hero, all it takes is a little bit of will power.” - Mike Pennington

“ I never expected fatherhood to be pushed on me, so suddenly. But.. when my sister left this world.. I had to take care of her daughter, I had to take care of little Dalia. She's a smart kid, made me really proud, ya know? Some people only want her because she's smart, but I love her because she's goofy and fun, full of spirit and wisdom ain't no one ever see coming. She'll blow you away, man, she really will. With all her snark and love, she's a cute kid, and might I one day find her again.” - Mike Pennington

“ I'm no superhero, just a man who's willing to fight.” - Mike Pennington

"To a rich man, the heart is of little value, but to a poor one, it's all he has.” - Dornstecker

“ I've found New York is rampant with corruption and a darkness so smothering I sputter up the air I breathe.” - Dornstecker

“ You can send your thoughts and prayers to those who died, but it won't change a damn thing, all we can truly do is raise our voices and fight against this injustice. Staying silent to such evil only tolerates it, and I won't stand for it. I am a simple goblin, I clock into the bank at seven thirty, I do my job and hope no poor sod comes in with a gun, I clock out and feed my cat and sleep at nine o'clock sharp.” - Dornstecker

“ I have learned we're all paying the Devil's price and he is no pitch forked wielding entity, he's our politicians and our leaders hiding the blood behind their teeth with a pearly white smile. Despicable wolves, every last one of them. Hiding behind their suits and ties, with their large fancy estates.” - Dornstecker

“ We are many, and so why do we stay silent in the midst of horror? Are we to gobsmacked to do anything? Get over the shock of the situation and do something for God's sake.” - Dornstecker

"I think I need to raise my rifle ta fate and say screw you, you've been an asshole, I'm taking matters inta my own hands. Yeah, shoot fate in the heart, it ain't never been very fond of me anyway." - Church Godsel

"My misery overpowers my joy, these days." - Dale Markus

"I play with fire, but it is not I who burns." - Javier Cross

"I used ta say God is always watching, he's by you, he's by you! But now I sit and ponder, where was he when his son bled?" - Nestor Bevelricks

"We will fight until we are dead and buried, and when we are buried we will be remembered by the one's we call family, because family never forgets, friend." - Titus Hawley

"My regret is deafening, I imagine it's the only thing keeping me from hearing the cries of those I've wronged." - Simon Drogace

"He's a fool to trust me, and his family will pay dearly for his mistake."- Quentin Satchel

"If the truth is a sin, call me holy." - Quentin Satchel

"In a world with men like me peace can't exist." - Elton Seaderfault

"My sins crash on me and bury me underneath the wicked soil of my history." - Sean Gale

"So come on, call me a bad man, call me crazy, but I think, you're the crazy one, because you just pissed off Saul mother fucking Northutt, and your life span, has abruptly been cut short."  - Saul Northutt

"I battled my demons, they wore plastic grins, and wielded empty promises." - Saul Northutt

"I'm a bad, bad man, walking through the fires of hell, runnin' through these pages wonderin', when the fuck do I run out of pages to tear the fuck out mercilessly?" - Saul Northutt

"We've taken five hundred steps back in this harsh dance with the darkness." - Alonzo Graves

"You trust a man with your life and you've dug your own grave." - Clayton W. Scarrberry

"Don't mistake your scars for weakness, they built you. Be proud of the strength it took to bare them without turning them on other's." - Rando Ballsy

"If my regret caught up to me vengeance would never be an option." - Dallas Lightsworth

"I see my grave error, I became a monster when my people, and most importantly my daughter needed a man they could look up too." - Bardzimi Talos

"Bob fucking Weathers, well I think that'll look real nice etched onto a tombstone." - Alastair Riseman

"How can God judge me for my sins when his sins can't be fucking counted?" - Roxane Vanderburg

"Do not speak of death as if it has seeped through your rotten skin." - Fandelhimer Bewitchasphere

"The world's filled with killers and vagabonds of Hell, guess I gotta make due with what I got and keep my pistol close." - Espifanio Vanderhoof

"These sins are heavy for those that trust me." - Michael Blomquist

"If I am ta be damned, may I burn Jasper with my fury." - Lileen Nallmorker

"The worst place I've ever resided is my memories." - Lucretia Covington

"Mother, father, forgive me. I never wanted to become a ghost haunting your memory." - Lucretia Covington

"My heart is buried in the pitch black forests in a pinewood box." - Belle Nalroma

"My troubled mind seldom brings me peace. Spose it's a wayfarin' stranger on a desolate road." - Gary Heartlock

"No one sympathizes for the devil it would seem." - Ruby Vollstale

"Revenge is a no man wins game, so here I am, losing." - Cole Milwood

"These sins at my back tell the tale of a lawful man forced to break it." - Aristead Solace

"The world has never favored the man who fights, have you ever noticed it's easier to give up than raise your fists? Easier to stay silent, than speak your mind?" - Timotheus Naziger

"The world cares not for the girl with her ferocious bark and fierce bite. And so the dog learns to become cold just as those who shied away from it." - Abaddon Whilsteila

"Fear never got me anywhere, being feared however did." - Abaddon Whilsteila

"You can not trust the wolf not to devour the lamb. So why put me in a field of peacemakers and expect me to come out without bloodstained hands?" - Caldwell Ramirez

"The world was never in your favor, ask the stars a question and you'll get howls." - Caldwell Ramirez

"The world is bathed in a wicked desire for no other reason than to dominate and conquer. These days we're repeating history and expecting a different result." - Nial Morranann

"Devils ain't wearin' no horns, brother, they got pearly white smiles and share your qualities." - Simon Rossburg

"Cold world we live in, spose all the flowers were kilt and all we're left with is the withered daffodils." - Morton Strawbellow

"Here I am, in a Hell of my own making, cause all I do is hurt myself, and Hell is repeated pain, so here I am, making my life Hell." - Ash Caesar

"People listen to words written on paper as if they were truth, they do not need to see to believe, and so all they'll ever do is ignore the truths that are spoken from the tongues of the people. You can not know truth, if all you breathe in is a lie." - Romanez Callowitz

"My mind is a prison of memories, I've lost hope to see my sunshine again, I begged the world not to take her away, she was my one and only. The star in a night sky that felt dark, but she blinked out, and all I'm left with is a photo album that depicts the memories before my daughter became a snapshot of a memory." - Darlita Romilez

"Chivalry dies when it finds war." - Joe Paquil

"I'm cursed with this never ending affliction to burn for my sins. But I spose a father's duty is to keep on fightin', if only to see his kids grow." - Marrows Redshaw

"Ain't the hate, that made me. But the love and the heart." - Samuel Bones

"I've been chasin' down my dreams since I could walk. Does Justice really think he can twist em into nightmares?" - Rodrick Taywillow

Carry on, they say, carry on. But this storm is not so merciful." - Ebenezer Vanderholt

[hitbythunder]

Among the Gods of Asgard -5

A dark!Thor x Reader, minor Loki x Reader story with all the drama and angst you’re craving. Including Alexander Skarsgard as Balder. –> Read also on AO3

WARNING: dark story, manipulative Thor, heavy rape/non-con elements, no happy ending in sight

____________________________xXx____________________________

Sleep hadn't come easily that night when the maid was finally laying in one of the many beds of the slave quarters. Because while each fiber of her body yearned for rest, her mind wouldn't stop thinking of that just had happened between her and the god in the baths, reviving each moment anew. She could still feel his throbbing flesh on her palms...

No surprise then that _______ felt awfully tired throughout the next day, not to mention the shock and the confusion. Haunted by indecent pictures, the maid fulfilled her duties and tried to remain within Balder's chambers so as not to accidentally meet the crown-prince, knowing that she wouldn't be able to bear to be in his presence today. Would I ever be? And so her mind kept rattling while she polished the wooden table inside the salon, absentmindedly wiping over the same clean spot for the 10th time. Luckily Gerlinda wasn't around, for she would have barked at the girl for slacking. Yet despite the mental efforts she employed - and which began to cause a serious headache - ________couldn't comprehend why Thor showed sexual interest in a mortal,  a slave even, who was far below him.

According to latest rumors, the crown-prince already had a betrothed in spe - Idunn, the goddess of youth, who was known for her divine beauty. So why, in the Nine, break all the rules of etiquette, risk an outgrown scandal and have ________ pleasure him like that? Of course, she had fantasized about the princes sometimes before but in her imagination they had been kind and tender like gentlemen. Last night, in contrast, Thor had shamelessly used his power to force himself on her, to serve only his own satisfaction regardless of how ________ had felt during that all. She had been nothing but a frightened helpless mess but Thor didn't care the slightest, groping her with his large hand which could also end her at ease. The way those hungry dark-blue eyes had rested on her was most terrifying and even now upon recalling, it caused goosebumps to spread all over her skin.

Maybe it was just too much alcohol. Everybody does stupid things when drunk, right? She kept telling herself to calm her sensitive nerves. A one-off not worth fussing about. Probably he has already forgotten about me!

Two days of hiding out later, Gerlinda informed the maids that their master and the crown-prince were sent on a mission together in Vanaheim. When the abigail added that they would be away for at least three weeks, ________ had almost yelped aloud out of joy. Even if the personal slaves would have to work elsewhere during that time, this also meant that _________ needn't worry about running into Thor accidentally and her nerves would finally get a break. Thor would be occupied by other, more important matters than her and perhaps the distance would do one last thing for him to forget about ________. Or so she hoped.

xxx

"Your turn." the raven-haired prince announced as he leaned back in the comfortable chair, his hands folded in his lap as he waited for his opposite to make her next move. It didn't matter though, because Loki had already won - actually he already had two turns ago - but Idunn wasn't aware of that fact. Neither did she realize how bored the Trickster was by her foolish attempts to beat him at this new game called 'Chess'. A few months ago it had been brought over from Midgard and due to its sudden popularity the trendy, stylish board game had soon been introduced to the gods too. The clever sorcerer had loved it from the beginning but unfortunately he ran short of worthy opponents, especially now that Balder wasn't available. So Loki had to come to terms with less challenging sessions and with those gods (still) willing to play with him - Loki could be a mean winner. Admittedly, Idunn hadn't been a good choice but she just happened to be in the library too and she didn't decline. He regretted asking her in the first place.

"There aren't this many possible moves for you to ponder that long!" The youngest prince grew impatient as he watched the goddess, his gaze dripping from those plump lips downwards to land on the showing decollete. At least her sight is delighting...

"Please don't tease me, your highness! You know I haven't played this one often!" she replied and leaned forward, her heavily laden bosom touching the ivory table. "And besides, this whole lot of rules is rather confusing..." The edge of the dark wood pushed her pale flesh upwards, leaving only a narrow chasm between her marvelous hills.

"If you say so." With his usual elegance, the prince tilted his head sideways to rest the most precious part of his body on his arm, his index finger brushing along his temple in order to calm his growing annoyance. So this is why Idunn is famous for her apples, not her wits. He didn't avert his gaze from said fruit though. The seconds ticked by and nothing happened on the black and white square, the chess pieces standing still. If Loki would have kept rubbing his temple it would soon become sore. "You do realize that it is still your turn?" Maybe she was getting senile. Wouldn't be a considerable loss... "I'm concentrating. Please give me another moment, your highness!" Then Idunn finally reached for the bishop, lifting it up determinedly as if she was about to turn everything in her favor, and took one of Lokis' pawns. "So that is the outcome of all this mental effort? Seriously, my lady?!" Loki couldn't believe it, and when Idunn innocently nodded he pinched the bridge of his nose - hard. "Norns help me..."

Of course Idunn wasn't completely oblivious so she noticed how unchallenged the prince was, yet still he needn't be rude either. She could become his future queen after all. Well, if she managed to keep the crown-prince as madly interested in her assets as he was at present, lusting after her at every glance. Idunn was somewhat thankful for the current vacation her womanly parts were granted. Thor was an insatiable beast and far from gentle.

"We can't all have such brilliant minds as you, your highness. So please stop mocking me." she replied and leaned back in her chair, the plump lips showing first signs of serious girlish sulking. "Seidr requires brilliancy, my lady, but this game certainly doesn't! Remember that it was invented by Midgardians so any mortal should be capable of playing properly!" Loki retorted in a harsh tone, his temper getting the better off him as always when he was bored plus annoyed - a dangerous mixture. The goddess took the offense by heart and pouted like the spoiled girl she was, her cheeks slightly aflame by anger. "Really? Let us test that hypothesis!" she said through gritted teeth and glared at Loki for a split second before her cerulean eyes scanned the library for a fitting candidate - in a sense that he or she would loose against the prince and prove Idunn's point. So....which of those looks stupid?

"You there, get over here!" Idunn barked at one of the maids currently busy with cleaning some shelves and a moment later she hurried over. "How can I be of service, my lady?" the pretty maid said and Loki recognized her to be ____________ Haraldsdottir, daughter of the merchant he had tricked recently. What a coincidence... Loki mused to himself while his facial expressions remained an unreadable mask. ________ sensed the emerald eyes on her. "Tell me how to win this game!" Idunn commanded and watched expectedly how the maid surveyed the positions of the chess pieces. It didn't take long for her to conclude the only solution. "With all due respect, my lady, but winning is impossible at this constellation." Loki's eyes narrowed at that, he sensed expertise on the girl. To Idunn the maid's reply wasn't satisfying the least so she decided to take her grudge out on her. "Are you implying that I'm too stupid to play sucessfully?!" "No of course not, my lady!" _________ retorted quickly, but she suspected that this was leading to her being unable to save her neck. I should have played dumb... "Oh yes you do and-" That was when the third party present decided to end this annoying clucking which only made his head ache. "Enough!" his calm voice cut through the air like a blade. "That was simply a satement of facts - which you failed to realize, I might add - and the implying was on your side only.  But yes, you have proven a point."

The Trickster's interference led to the desired outcome: an offended Idunn leaving without comment and making way for another, more promising play mate. "Don't keep me waiting. Sit down!" he ordered the maid with a puzzled look on her face, his rising eyebrows signaling that he wouldn't say it twice. Thus _________ obeyed and climbed the over-sized chair while Loki magically reset the chess pieces. And yet another god I ought to entertain...

xxx

Heavy rain drops fell continuously from the grey misty sky of Vanaheim, their drumming against the canopy of the tent not able to drown out the woman's moans coming from inside. In an iron grip she slid along the thick shaft, his large coarse hands guiding her and keeping her in motion according to his preferred pace. Because his lust demanded to be quenched - at least for a short while - and Sif felt wonderful around him. But it wasn't her cunt that kept the god bucking his hips, no, it was the thought of a certain maid back on Asgard. This small, fragile body....the girl had been on his mind ever since their session in the baths, like a quiet voice whispering dirty ideas for his daydreaming, and so his yearning for her grew each day. Soon his loins would be stirring at the mere thought of her - if not for the current mission he was on - and even now while plunging deeply into Sif Thor imagined how it would feel to have the mortal maid pinned underneath him instead. He would have to be very careful not to crush her with his weight, let alone tear her apart with his cock... Thor came with a low grunt and relished in his apex and the relief it entailed, knowing that this sensation wouldn't last for long. A thought of the mortal's swaying hips sufficed to have him horny again.

[itsblissfuloblivion]

Torch - Chapter 7: March

we’re back! and we love this chapter so so much because it’s fluffy and aaaaah, we’re getting THERE, aren’t we, folks!

read at leisure on Ao3 and FFnet

.

After Ron’s dung heap of a birthday, Harry really is inclined to feel sorry for his best mate and definitely to be grateful he’s not dead - in that way he’ll probably never actually say without a few belts of firewhiskey and maybe a bit of Veritaserum.  And not because of any macho preening idiocy but just because Harry’s not particularly a fan of sharing feelings with anyone . If he can blame the Dursleys for anything…

It’s all beside the point though - Ron’s his stupid best mate and he’s glad he’s still alive to fill the role but the whole post-poisoning drama is driving Harry batty. First, the decrease in Ron in Harry’s daily life has been replaced by the obnoxia of McLaggen’s repeated and increasingly detailed pleas, arguments, and demands to take his ‘rightful’ place as Gryffindor’s Keeper. Which is grating enough without ‘Lav-Lav’ attempting to supplement her boyfriend’s usual emotional support with Harry’s admittedly reluctant and bare responses.

He’d maybe be willing to make an attempt at being moderately helpful or at least not rude , but between the conflicting stresses of classes, Quidditch, lessons with Dumbledore, and figuring out whatever the hell Malfoy’s up to - Harry’s patience is stretched quite thin.

Not only is everyone creating drama that really all comes back down to romance in one way or another, but Harry’s life remains woefully intense with none of the snogging related benefits. And his increasingly creative subconscious is a double edged sword in all of this - waking up in the aftermath is simultaneously disappointing and terrifying.

Who knows if he’s a sleep talker and who knows if Dean’s suddenly a light sleeper. One of these days he’s going to wake up with Dean and Seamus standing over him ready to beat Voldemort to offing him.

Which all leads to Harry stalking through the halls not unlike a certain former Potions Master and the comparison only puts Harry in a worse mood.

On one such stalk through the castle, he finds himself no longer alone in his brooding when Ginny slips up next to him as he breaches the entry hall and reaches the sunlit grounds.

She nudges him with her elbow and tilts her head back to drink in the warm afternoon. “So mysterious and brooding lately - half of Hogwarts thinks you’re secretly in love with Ron and the other half doesn’t give a shit who you fancy because they want to snog you ‘til their lips fall off.”

Harry grunts in response.

“That’s no way to respond to my update - mysterious only covers so much arsehole activity.”

Ginny comes to a halt as they reach the bank of the Great Lake and grips his arm. “What the - when are you going to stop acting like a jerk?”

Scowling, Harry drops into the swaying grasses and rips up a couple of handfuls by the roots. “Nobody’s making you hang about.”

“Your entire life is a distress signal at the mo’ Harry - I wouldn’t be a good friend if I let you keep acting like a prat.”

“So I’m a prat now - you’re really tops at giving a pep talk, Ginny.”

Ginny’s satchel falls to the ground with a thud and she follows after, lying down in the grass at Harry’s side. He’s a bit thrown, honestly, because he really is acting like a prat, now that she mentions it. And though he doesn’t quite want to admit it aloud yet, Ginny’s well within her rights to storm off and have a brooding session of her own.  

Instead, she sighs and tucks her arms beneath her head. “I’ve learned your interest is best garnered with a few choice swipes at your carefully crafted view of yourself.”

Blowing out a deep breath, Harry mimics Ginny’s action and drops back to the grass, spring and freshness sharpening the air around him. It feels safe, being hidden away like this, and he finds the words spilling from his lips before he can stop or even consider the results.

“Everything’s just a bit shit lately. Not to make everything about me,” Harry pauses to shove Ginny when she snorts, “But between Ron almost dying in front of me and Lavender torturing me for information and Cormac being a cocky ass - ”

“Don’t get me started on that idiot,” Ginny mutters.

“And plus - well, I’m me.”

“So you must have some super secret something or other brewing alongside all this teen angst.”

“Of course.”

Harry pushes his glasses up onto his forehead and leaves his forearm draped over his eyes. “Plus when you’ve got your own internal frustration piling up about everything including fancying - ”

And right about there, his self-preservation instincts kick back in and he realizes he almost just moaned to Ginny about the trouble of fancying her secretly and as far as he knows about three years too late for some requited feelings.

Oh hell. Just add it to his angst pile of life.

It’s quiet for a beat or two between them as Harry’s sentence dies unfinished and Ginny probably contemplates dumping him in the Lake so the squid can end him once and for all. But when she does break the silence it’s with a low, steady voice. That voice he’s come to associate with so many feelings that sound like conflicts but just make up the mosaic that is Ginny Weasley. She’s a comfort, a friend, a tease, cheeky, kind, loyal, braver than most - and currently offering some sort of response he’s missed almost entirely.

“ - and anyway, I know it feels like you’re the only one with all these mixed up parts of your life crashing down around you,” her pinky brushes the side of his hand, “And you certainly have more drama than most - especially with Ron and Hermione for best mates - but you’re not weird or strange or broken. I think. Well, Mum says it’s just part of growing up.”

Harry hums. “You think she’s right?”

“Who would question Molly Weasley?”

“I’m the Boy Who Lived,” Harry chuckles.

“Not for long if you back talk Mum.”

____

Harry slumps into the 6th Year Boys’ Dorm and falls back against the door with a sigh which turns from completely dejected to mostly dejected and slightly relieved. “All alone?”

Ron grunts. “Aye - good thing. I’m still recovering.”

“My headache is definitely going to cut my Dean and Seamus clucking session patience,” Harry agrees as he deposits his things in his trunk. It’s a bit of a messy clean up but once the top drops down it’s out of sight and he honestly can’t summon up the motivation to give a rat’s arse. Especially with lingering daydreams of Ginny fawning over his prone body, wondering aloud why she chose Dean and let Harry nearly die without snogging him to death. And instead leaving him to the cold, cruel death by bludger.

When Harry emerges from daydream take two, Ron’s looking at him half expectant, half confused, and Harry decides to milk the head injury as long as possible. He’s paying the price with a splitting headache at the base of his skull so at this point excuses are earned. “Sorry mate, say it again? Brain’s still a bit wobbly.”

“Ah, hell with it. I dunno if I can take one more gossipy discussion of who’s dating who and whether they’re invested and if it’s long term and whatever other shit manages to come up.”

“At least you could fake sleeping through Lav Lav without Pomfrey thinking you’ve got narcolepsy.”

Ron snorts and pushes up on his elbows. “She’s a persistent thing, eh?”

Harry’s on a roll now and he can’t quite stop himself before his grumbles continue. “And then Dean can’t seem to decide between bragging like an asshole and whining like a little baby because Ginny doesn’t powder his bum.”

“She better not be anywhere near his bum,” Ron grunts, “Care for a game of chess? I could use a good violent outlet.”

Before Harry answers, Ron’s already crawling to the foot of his bed and rustling around for his beat up chess board. Soon enough he’s placing the chipped pieces on the squares while Harry lingers in the doorway. “Can I put on pajamas first?”

“Slip into something comfortable for me, Potter,” Ron says with a teasing wink. Harry grabs a pillow and tosses it in his face.  

“Stuff it.”

“You send me,” Ron moans dramatically, and when Harry slams the loo door behind him, Ron calls, “And bring something for a snack before you come over here.”

“Eff off, Ron.”

“I’m peckish and we all know you hoard food.”

When Harry reemerges from the bathroom he shoves his robes in with the rest of his dirty laundry and grabs a few handfuls of candy from his apparently not-so-secret stash. “What’s your poison.”

“Too bloody soon,” Ron laughs, snatching a licorice wand, “So Dean and Ginny? Anything while I was out of it?”

“She’ll be ticked at me if I act informant on her,” Harry says, gesturing one of his pawns forward.

Ron orders his pawn two spaces ahead and sighs, “Since when does she rank over best mate privileges?”

“I dunno - probably since I saw her bat bogey hex live and in person.”

“Baby.”

____

Harry’s heart nearly jumps out of its cage when he sneakily walks out of the Room of Requirement and is about to turn the first corner. 

“Ginny!” He mostly blurts out, hand over his heart and heaving. He surely wasn’t expecting to bump into anyone, let alone a lone, wandering Ginny Weasley.

She looks just as surprised, but mostly amused, a trait evident on all Weasleys. Even Percy on his better days.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. That bludger to the head must’ve done things to you, eh, Harry?”

Yes, but the grin on your face does a lot more and entirely different things to me, Harry’d like to say but doesn’t. Impromptu snogging in the corridors is frowned upon, he remembers with a slight cringe. Nothing in the world that can erase the memory of Ron’s red, angry face from his mind, though.

“I was only -”

But he stops mid-sentence. Can he tell her? Should he tell her about the cabinet and Malfoy and Snape? Ginny would never be flippant about it, right? Or would she?

To his great surprise, her cheeks start to redden all the way up to her forehead, her deep brown eyes suddenly averting his gaze.

“Did I - erm, did I interrupt...anything?” Ginny stammers, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

“What?” Harry’s gaze blurs out for a moment before something akin to horror washes over him. “No, no, no! Nothing like that! It’s - erm, it’s Dumbledore, really. New task from Dumbledore, yeah. That’s right, a new and insanely difficult new task from Dumbledore that I cannot and will not speak about.”

Harry finds himself panting at the end of his little speech, cold sweat dripping from his temples to his armpits as Ginny stares at him and blinks before that warm, hearty laughter erupts from her throat and she doubles over. On his part, well, Harry’s never wanted anything more than to simply disappear from the face of the earth. Poof , and all his troubles would go away.

“Didn’t mean to laugh,” she apologises, fingers wiping small tears from under her eyelids.

“No, no, by all means knock yourself out.”

Harry really tries to sound dignified. He pushes his round specs back onto his nose, combs his wild hair with one hand and tugs at the creases in his robe with the other, suddenly very much self-aware.

“Oh, wow. That was something,” Ginny finally seems to recover, her back leaning against the cold stone wall. “Honestly, Harry, if you were there alone or with someone -”

Please don’t say something even remotely...suggesting.

“ - doing whatever everyone is doing, it’s completely alright, really. Despite what Ron was preaching before he turned into a leech and became perpetually glued to Lavender’s lips,” she finishes her sentence with a bit of a frown and Harry feels like he’s about to faint.

The last thing he wants is for Ginny to think he’s fooling around with someone around the castle. Or even worse, that he’s - erm, doing it to himself and going to such great lengths to do so that he hides behind magic doors instead of casting Muffliato in the middle of the night like any other sane teenager.

“Thanks for the advice, Ginny, but it’s really not necessary.”

“Oh. Alright, then.”

She looks a bit forlorn and Harry realises he must have been a prat again.

“I don’t have anybody to snog in secret, I mean,” he quickly amends. Damn, that crease between her eyebrows truly throws him into guilt-trips like nothing else, eh?

Ginny’s lips stretch into a small smile, her eyes a little sheepish as she searches for his own. “You’re not missing out on much, promise.”

“I take it Dean isn’t as good as he brags, then?”

“He what ?”

“What’s said in the boys’ dorm must stay in the boys’ dorm.”

“Harry James Potter, you tell me what that git is saying about me to you lot right now, or -”

“Or?”

“Or I’ll tell Romilda Vane you confessed your love for her to me.”

“Ooh, that’s beneath the belt, Gin. Where’s the sportswoman in you?”

“I put her on hold. She’s not great with interrogation tactics.”

Ginny looks entirely too smug for her own good because Harry feels like leaning in and kissing her silly. In fact, at one point in their passionate banter they kind of, sort of inched closer to each other - otherwise, Harry has no idea how to explain the fact that she’s so close to him he can taste the sweetness of her breath.

They both glare at each other until one of them gives in and into laughter, the echo of their combined mirth reverberating throughout the corridors. But they don’t care, not much and not right now. 

Right now, they’re two teenagers having fun, enjoying each other’s company. Right now, they’re Harry and Ginny being normal and being friends.

Harry feels warm inside and smiles widely. Without knowing, without even realising, Ginny’s crept into his heart little by little until she’s come to mean more to him than he could ever find words to describe. He’s come to rely on her and that’s a lot to him.

“Honestly, Gin, if Dean’s giving you any trouble, just tell me and I promise I’ll take care of it,” Harry grins as they jump down the stairs two by two to the Great Hall.

“That’s very chivalrous of you, Harry.”

He can feel her roll her eyes though her tone stays amused.

“I won’t even tell Ron, promise.”

“You won’t have to. If anyone’s dumb enough to play me dirty, I’ll make sure everyone from the First Years to Moaning Myrtle finds out,” Ginny winks and Harry nearly misses a step. 

“That mostly renders your six brothers plus me useless, though,” he laughs, now more careful with the stairs. No need breaking his neck again when he’s only recently been dismissed from the hospital.

“Oh, no. Did mean ol’ Ginny threaten your masculinity?” She pouts as her finger jabs into his chest and Harry laughs.

“You have to turn everything into a competition, eh?”

“Absolutely. Also, last one at the dinner table is a smelly loser!” Ginny sticks out her tongue and darts away so fast Harry’s left blinking in her wake.

A great, big grin nestles on his face and Harry shakes his head before he pelts right after her, taking the steps four at a time and laughing as she splutters like an angry cat when he dashes ahead of her. He’s still the fastest runner and he’ll make sure that never changes. Seeing her slightly annoyed, mostly amused face, that competition loving flame in her eyes and that blazing, scorching look on her face - that alone gives Harry enough pleasure and charges him with enough courage he honestly feels like he can conquer death. 

____

Harry hopes the absolute best for his two best mates when he waves them goodbye to their Apparition lesson in Hogsmeade because, who knows, maybe they can really hold in the snappy banter and use their lips for something that’d shut them up for awhile once they actually start doing it. And also cut that sexual tension that’s been growing over the years right down to nil, Harry likes to tell himself.

Bumping into Tonks doesn’t help him either but merely charges him with renewed guilt. It’s hard enough waking up and realising there’s no Sirius and that there never will be, but to actually see people grieving...He knows he’s the only one to blame.

Not to mention his fourth lesson with Dumbledore and the brand new incursion into the life and times of Tom Riddle. Somehow it doesn’t get easier, no matter how many times he goes back into Riddle’s past, no matter how hard he tries to tell himself that if he’d only managed to understand him…

Harry feels something disgusting crawling underneath his skin after those lessons and he’s almost sure it’s not only in his head.

And Malfoy. And the Room of Requirement. 

And the Prince teaching him increasingly dangerous spells (even though he’d never admit he considers them dangerous for fear that Hermione might hear and go on her little ‘told you so’ routine).

So, just like a perfect cycle, Harry finds himself finishing the first month of Spring precisely like he started it: drowning in a right well of angst and being broody. Right until a fuming Ginny slams the door to his compartment, that is.

“What’s got your pants in a twist?” Harry raises one eyebrow as his eyes follow Ginny from behind round specs. She sways for a moment in the middle of the compartment, leaning into the movements of the fast running train, before she decides to plop down, frowning and pouting opposite him.

Ginny simply grunts in response and Harry knows it’d be useless to push her. She’ll tell him when she’s ready anyway and he’s got a nasty feeling it’s got to do with Dean. 

Maybe it isn’t the best option to find out right now - he might stroll into Dean’s compartment and casually strangle him if indeed it was him who upset her, Harry privately reckons. 

“You never told me how a toaster works,” Ginny says after a beat, her eyes glued to the green outside the window. “Care to explain now?”

Harry poorly muffles a chuckle with a fake coughing fit and dives right into explaining the intricacies of obtaining fresh toast the Muggle way. Fortunately, it keeps them occupied for more than he’d hoped and it’s really nice talking to her like that.

But when her questions start spiralling towards more technical stuff than Harry’s ever known or even dreamed of knowing, he simply starts making things up, one more ridiculously fantastic than the other. Obviously, Ginny’s no fool as her aha s and oh really s sound dryer and dryer.

At least they share a good laugh when Ron and Hermione return from their Prefect duties and Ron, being his father’s son, is suddenly gullible enough to believe there are actual little people hiding inside a TV playing the same movie over and over again “like actors in a play.”

The compartment shakes with their laughter as the train rolls out of Scotland and Harry feels so much lighter, almost happy sitting there with the four people he cares most about in the world.

Quite frankly, Easter at the Burrow sounds pretty good to Harry now and, if he’s being entirely honest, he can already smell Mrs Weasley’s treacle tart and shepherd's pie warm and waiting for them on the old wooden table.

[antihero-writings]

Jack of All Trade, in This Masquerade 

Fandom: Pandora Hearts

Fic Summary: Jack's stream of consciousness describes how society is like a masquerade, while his dreams show his own hypocrisy

Notes: Originally written for Phmonth18, Week 3, Prompt/Day 2: Mask. 

What started out as something that was supposed to be a short little fic about Jack’s internal monologue became an in-depth look into Jack’s psyche…hehe. I’ll admit, this is one of the weirdest formats I’ve ever used, and I’m not quite sure if it works, but I had fun with it! This is my first time writing heavily about Jack, and it’s about how his mind works….so forgive me if there are any inaccuracies to his character. 

If you like it, I’d really appreciate if you could leave a comment!! They really do make my week, and help me keep writing, especially when it comes to multi-chapter fics like this one!!

Chapter 1: 

Everyone always wore a mask.

That was how things were, how the world worked. No question. No alternative. No argument you could make to stop it. Like a plague that replaced everyone’s faces with the skin of monsters.

The world was a masquerade. A dance, where you trade partners, and you never quite know who you’re dancing with anyways. You’re thrown in without knowing the moves, and are required to learn as you go, because you can’t stop. If you stop, the music, the momentum of the world turning, doesn’t. So if you do, you may just be trampled, thrown off the world.

As you grew up, you learned the moves, programmed them into your bones until the motions were mechanical, and your body knew nothing else. Nothing but the lies. Grew up, painted your mask, made it more ornate, less likely to show your true colors, less likely to fall.

Something that made a louder crash when it did fall.

They always do. Eventually. Don’t think you can escape it.

Your parents, your family, your friends, they’re no different. When I said everyone, I meant everyone.

But when you grow up in gutters, in the stench and blood, the offal of humanity, and watch from afar, forbidden from the dance, but also from...not dancing, learning that you must dance to make in it the world...you may or may not grow to hate humanity.

I couldn’t wear a mask. But I was doomed to see through everyone else’s. See their lies, see their hypocrisy, their cold cut rules about how much of a clown you could be, I could see the puppet strings.

I learned to hate.

But.

******

The room glittered and gleamed; the chandeliers, the polished marble tiles, the wine glasses, the clothing of the dancers.

Jack stood on the sidelines. The black and white players spinning before him, coming near him in flashes and fake smiles.

Outside, snow fluttered down onto a darkened ground, so much so he couldn’t see past the wind and flakes to a world beyond.

He had to stay inside, or else the storm might overtake him.

Storm inside. Storm out. Between two evils, how do you know which is worse?

They didn’t know they were simply chess pieces. That this was simply a game, that they would be sacrificed, all for the sake of the king.

Once, he had found their twirls and fanciful garments fascinating; the masks shined and their feathers climbed towards a twinkling ceiling. He looked on with longing, then.

Now, the word fake grew out of the crevices where their eyes were meant to be, it crept along their porcelain cheeks, their feathered heads, their bejeweled necks—and they didn’t see the vines, the spiders, linked together into chains, strangling them, driving fangs into their chests.

At the same time, sickness pooled in his own heart, started creating ripples towards his thoughts, reaching his words, crashing upon the shores of his actions.

A sickness called hate.

It took him far too long to realize the motions held no meaning. They were all just tumbling in the dark and the cold, trying to make meaning of the moves when there is none. The shimmer on the surface of the water was reflected from a sky they could never reach, not something buried beneath the waves that they could touch, hold, and keep, if they just held their breath long enough to wrap their fingers around it.

The same was surely true for the waters in his own heart.

At least, that’s how it seemed, and what he told himself.

Black and white. No color. Pawns and knights in a grand game of chess.

What was real?

What would happen if it all just…stopped? What if we called the world, the dance by name?

A pause. A flicker. A flash. Color.

First it was red. Red like lamplight, in the night-soaked brightness of the room, a lantern of hope, guiding him across the lifeless waters of a stormy sea—navy waves, navy sky, (navy, not quite black, not quite blue), till they were indiscernible from each other—to a land where there was more light like hers. Red that burned—could it burn down the masks? Like blood. Like roses.

Red in her eyes.

Then it was her hair, a splash of brown, flowing between the sides of black and white. Some say brown isn't pretty, isn't really a color. But looking and the rich hazelnut locks he would beg to differ.

Then the violet of her dress, like flowers, like the fluttering butterfly she was, like she was the only royal in a council of fools and common sense.

He lost track of the moves to stare her way.

******

One day I met a girl—brown hair, eyes red as roses in the snow—who wasn’t wearing a mask. She told me she could see through the masks too. But instead of hating the world in general for the practice, she questioned, she wondered, and she cheated the game.

And looking into those red eyes, I realized nothing else mattered. Not the world, not the deadened grasp of humanity, the music, the moves, or the masks.…Just her.

I tried to follow her, but in the mix of feet, in the unlearned motions, I myself was trampled to the ground.

So I resolved to learn the dance—not to live, not for the dance itself—but to follow her. To trade partners until I found her hand. I had to get up, to sew together a mask, glue on the feathers with blood, and pull the jewels out of dead men’s hands.

Horror is the word, I believe. The one to describe the things I did. I think you’ll find that both joining the dance, and subverting it, will inevitably lead to that word. I followed in the steps of people who did worse than me. Danced with partners whose masks were sewn into the skin. I did things that’ll make you shudder to think.

All part of the dance.

                                        Nothing but her.

******

Outside, silent snow turned to to the taps of rain asking to get in, like little children knocking on the window frames to beg for some food.

As he stared the girl’s way, the masks knocked against his shoulders, they trod on his feet, and scoffed at his incredulity, scoffed at him for not knowing the moves he should have mastered by heart by now.

He looked over their heads, trying to peer through the feathers and jewels, catch another glimpse of the one real thing in the sea of falsity.

For the first time there was something compelling him more than puppet strings and patterns. There was something alive in him. His heart became a beating thing. His lungs a set of pumping parts.

For the first time he understood: the dance wasn't evil, he just didn't have the right partner.

She faded like a word on the tip of your tongue never breathed out into the air.

Living, which tasted so sweet, quickly turned sour, into something that hurt. His heart panged. His lungs thumped too fast. Fear, desperation set into to his fast-beating blood.

And, at last, his gaze on her fading footfalls, he moved.

Out from the sidelines, into the mix of motions. Out into the world, the sea that he always thought was full of things with teeth, that'd eat him alive if he got too close.

But instead of following the ordained pattern, he was a wrench in the perfectly predestined machine.

The other cogs knocked into him, dug their teeth into his shoulders. He tripped. Tripped into the workings of the machine, all the ugly machinations that made the pristine clock tick. The dance kept turning all the same, the other cogs kicking into him. Knocking him further, down to the tiles beneath, further below than he'd ever been. So he lay there, bruised and bleeding, staring at the calculated movements of the gears ticking above him. 

“Lacie!” his cracked voice called, reaching out his hand to the star he could never reach.

And on the floor, where all the broken parts, the scraps of things that tried to change the direction of the machine go, he realized that that the pattern was too ruthless to break. Kicked and beaten by the dance, he understood that the only way to follow her, was to join the dance.

He wouldn’t give up. He’d follow her footprints through the forest of feet and fakes.

If he’d bend the rules a little.

******

I set the moves into my hands and feet, resolved to be a bruising and beating thing, like them, clawed my way back into the artificial light, until that red was back in my sight. I took her hand in mine and—

She…didn’t remember me.

No peppered, cheerful hello. No pretense, or pretending.

No mask.

My free spirit. My unmasked beauty. My blood red girl. My Lacie.

In eight years, as I broke myself apart and sewed myself back together, as I metamorphosed into something I myself barely recognized, she still hadn’t changed, been chained; she was still the same dash of color in a world of black and white fakes. A player in a world of pawns.

Despite all the things I had done, I knew she was the one person who would still accept me. She was still the one who questioned the machine, and would accept the things I did to fight it, would understand that the only way to fight it was from the inside out. I'd done it all for her, after all.

There's no sunlight at the bottom of the machine. Eight years. Eight years in the dark. Eight years since I felt the warmth of sunlight on my skin, the touch of something, someone, living.

"Dance with me." I'd spoke the words a thousand times, but this was the only time I ever meant them.

When you find your color in a black and white world, your dream in a world of nightmares, your life in a world of walking corpses, you never want to give it up, to let the song end.

But.

******

After the moving maze, the muddied world of men, the journey to get back to her, his hand found hers.

Something real, something dynamic, instead of stagnant, something warm to the touch, not metallic and cold.

Standing before him—at last—was his pride, his prize.

She was on the other side of the endless ballroom, off to the side, her head turned, gaze out the window. But she was still dancing with someone. Slowly, their moves less cold and mechanical.

He didn’t bother with the pretense of the dance, or courtesy towards the one she was currently dancing with. He threw his arms around her, and held her tight.

The shock in her eyes told him something wasn’t quite the same.

—(Or maybe he wasn’t quite sane)—

Did she not remember him? That moment when color entered his world?

What was all of time for him, was a passing glimpse for her.

It didn’t matter. As long as she didn’t cover those pretty eyes with the mark of a fake.

And she never did. Not as long as he knew her

“Jack.” She placed her hand on his cheek, running her fingers along his skin, pushing a strand of his hair behind his ear.

She smiled, and it was the only real thing.

But that smile didn’t last forever; it became a twisted thing, etching itself onto her features.

A thing that certainly didn’t belong to her, even now.

Was this her mask? Could her face have been a mask this whole time?

She pulled away from him.

“You fool.”

He drew in a sharp breath, and it pierced his heart.

“You really don’t see it, do you?”

She gestured grandly to the room as a whole.

What? What didn’t he see? This was how it had always been. Nothing had changed.

She grabbed his chin and made him look away from her.

“Look at them.”

Then he saw.

The dancers around them weren’t just dancers, strangers, background.

They weren’t strangers at all.

Or maybe they were even less known to him than strangers would have been.

They weren't even in black and white after all; there was color all around him, the color that had belonged to himself. Many of them were wearing the same green outfit he wore presently, others were in red, and blue, some wrapped in a thin blanket…They all had the same blonde hair, sometimes in a braid like his, others messy and short.

And they all still wore masks, as if the emotions could be written and plastered on rather than felt—happy, sad, angry…that disgusting smile…

His disgusting smile.

Each and every one of them was himself.

Had it always been this way? Since the beginning? Or had they become this way? Somewhere in the middle, had strangers morphed into mirrors?

The music faded out, and the rain outside grew louder and louder until he couldn’t help but turn to the window, as if to demand some peace and quiet.

The drops that dribbled down and splattered across the panes were not clear, or grey, or blue.

That red he had once found so fascinating, once begged for, was painting the world.

He swallowed.

As he realized the change in scenery, all the other Jacks stopped, turning to him with mechanical motions, and faceless expressions, some creepy army of past-self-dolls.

“Lacie,” her name on his lips—(the word echoed through the crowd, the other Jacks moaning it as if remembering the one word that made them alive once, though it wasn't alive in their mouths now)—he turned to her, his one hope, his one safety in a world that had fixed its canons against him.

She was no longer beside him.

Laying in his hand was a limp chain.

He didn’t want to look, to follow the trail; he feared what he would see. But he chased the links to the ceiling—

Her body, suspended in the air above, like she was one of those twinkling chandeliers. Her body, pierced by chains.

That red rain was inside now.

And below her, looking his way, was someone else. Someone else in color. Someone else who wasn’t wearing a mask.

******

My Lacie, who lied, and died at the hands of her brother. For the simplest crime of never wearing a mask over those red eyes. For the simplest crime of existence.

Oswald. Her brother.

I should have hated him for taking her from me.

And there was a part of me that did. Surely. But he loved her too, you know. And it was some sick sense of duty that threw her into the pit, not his own will.

I was a question in his eyes, and he was an answer in mine. There’s something about mutual darkness between people; being able to look into someone else’s soul, and see your struggles reflected, and yet…not yourself… Something that we call friendship.

******

The first thing he saw was his cloak, like a wave breaking across his shoulder. Crimson, just like her eyes.

Just like her blood he spilt.

Then his eyes, violet, like her dress. But unlike with her, this violet, this royalty, was sharp, cold, and unforgiving.

Then it was the black of his hair and clothing. A deeper black from the dancers before. A darker sky.

He was the black king, after all, wasn’t he?

                          "Lacie is dead,”

                                                      “I killed her.”

******

It wasn’t malice, or revenge. It was the requirement and requiem of a leader.

Or at least, they poisoned his mind and made him think so.

I’m sure he would have joined me, if he wasn’t such a fool. If he wasn’t so wrapped up in his own ignorance.

(An ignorance that was my fault).

Joined me to get her, that is.

Death isn’t quite the right word. She was cast into the Abyss, into a place where "return" has no meaning.

But I learned that the masks, the dance, the masquerade, goes by another name:

Chains.

Chains come in many forms. There are the chains that killed her, those that we create contracts with, linking us to a place darker than the bottom of the machine. Chains between people; like friendship, like love, like hate. And the chains we create for ourselves, tying us to an abyss of our own making, with no need for outside temptation.

Then there’s another type; this world is a ruin—(I always knew it)—and the Chains around it are the only things keeping the world from the Abyss, in the same token as others tie us to it. They fall between the lines on the pages of our story, into the places our eyes can’t see.

Or, more accurately, keeping the world from her.

Blood red world. My gift for my blood red girl. And I didn’t care how much blood I spilled in the midst. Not really. Not enough.

This world is rotting anyway. I’ve known it from the start. But not to her. She saw the color, the life, the light. She saw the stars. She saw that there was something real behind those falsely shimmering lights. That maybe it wasn’t all on the surface. Maybe there was something beneath the waters that we could reach.

And I’d bring the world she loved to her.

                                                                          I’m doing this for you.

[kingstonoverstreet]

The Chess Master - An Intro

INTRODUCTION TO KINGSTON OVERSTREET

NAME – Kingston Overstreet

NICKNAMES – Kingston is the nickname

PRONOUNS – He/Him

AGE & DATE OF BIRTH – 18 and January 8th, 2001

PLACE OF BIRTH – Avignon, France

MAJOR(S) – Art and Music

EDUCATION – Astor Academy

ACTIVITIES – Drawing, Chess, Playing the violin, Writing poetry, Composing

FC – Timothée Chalamet

 BACKGROUND

His family was somewhat-wealthy when he was younger, enough to support Kingston when he was young during school and some extra tutoring lessons, and even enough to put him in a chess class, oddly enough. His mother was loving and warm, and his father was kind enough. His father was the type of person who never enjoyed externally showing his emotions, but Kingston always assumed that father loved him. He must have, in some way. And, Kingston knew that his father loved his mother, even in his odd, silent, stone-cold way. So, it didn’t surprise him when she told him that she hoped that he would have a little brother or sister to play with, and soon enough, mother got pregnant. She was overjoyed; his father was pleased to see her happy. Whenever she played the piano to Kingston, she would always make comments about how happy she was to have another child and that she couldn’t wait to meet them. Him. Even if it was only for a second before her body gave out on her and she died two minutes before she gave birth, no matter what he doctors tried to do. His father was too shocked to name his brother, and he always liked the name Caspar.

His father quickly became more and more distant, and if it wasn’t for the understanding neighbors, Kingston isn’t sure Caspar would have reached the age of one. They watched him when his father was gone from the morning to night and Kingston was too busy studying, and they returned him when Kingston finished his self-study books and homework, and his father came home with the stench of something bitter. He grew up focusing on studying, giving him a reason to avoid his father, all the while trying his best to take care of his brother. His father took care of Caspar when he could, but he would always act...distant. Kingston hated him for it. He took care of Caspar and loved him himself, even filled out the papers to enroll him into school.

He works at a small library where he can do his homework, has a few flings, never a real relationship. Wasn’t valedictorian but still was insanely intelligent. Friends with his neighbor’s daughter who was a year older than him. His only true friend. When she went to college, he never tried to make other close friends, although he was friendly to people in his school’s chess club and fellow peuple, for security reasons. Applied to Astor when he heard about the school from a fellow student in the chess club. Got in, told his father, who threw a fit and smashed a bottle before leaving for the night. He told Caspar that his father took a night shift. Constantly worked for two years in order to get the money to apply to Astor Academy. Sent in his art portfolio to the school, and even if it has a recurring image of a woman being surrounded by black creatures, ghostly and consuming, they accepted him.

He went, but before he did, he gave the signed transfer papers to the child-service center and legally adopted Caspar as his own, before dropping him off at his childhood neighbor’s new house. That move was probably the most strategic to make, but the pawn was often the most underrated piece of the chess board, but he inched it forward one step at a time, until he got what he wanted. Now, he had to focus on the rest of the match

PERSONALITY + HEAD CANONS

 He is quiet. He doesn’t usually make the first initiative to talk to people unless he has to, or he needs something from someone

·         If someone does approach him, however, he is friendly. He puts on a polite outer persona; however, he analyzes anyone and everyone, and tries to figure out their motives and how they are, how they act.

·         If someone tries to constantly talk to him, after the first interaction or few that sporadically happen, he gets annoyed and acts cold. But, if you stick around long enough, he’ll decide its less work to keep you then try to push you away.

An artist. Draws sketches and paints. Keeps drawing this white woman surrounded by black, ghostly creatures

Writes poetry. He enjoys Walt Whitman 

He is good at chess, objectively speaking. He was in his school’s chess team

Has a younger brother named Caspar that is 10 years younger than him and that he protects with his whole life

Hates the stench of alcohol. Reminds him of his father.

Cannot care sexually. Has no preference. You can call him pan-sexual but honestly, he doesn’t care a lot about relationships, they foil with his emotions and “master plan”

Incredibly smart. Was studious all throughout school--yet, chose to be an art major

Copes with his mother’s death through art.

He doesn't get angry often, but if pushed too far, he will lose his temper and steam over

He has insomnia and hasn’t really slept since he was sixteen. He has had a few patches of sleeping, but that’s usually when he is fully drained

It’s hard for him to get along with people and genuinely let them in, because truthfully, he analyzes them too much.

He plays the violin and cello (he will play them publicly without shame)

He writes scores and compositions for the piano, but never plays them

Daddy issues but his father isn’t really abusive, he just hates him. It is not so much that he doesn’t leave Caspar with his father because he fears for his life, but because Kingston just plainly doesn’t like him around Caspar. It’s the only time he follows his gut-instincts when it comes to decision making

He is secretive about his compositions and poetry. He won’t let you touch those. He doesn’t mind you looking at his art, he just won’t tell you much detail about them

AESTHETICS

pencil led marks on his hands. unruly hair. chess pieces. the king and the pawn. half-used cigarettes. ink-blotched paper. scribbles and doodles on homework assignments. dark forests. broken Greek statues. blurred images. striped-button ups. heavy bags under eyes. abandoned libraries. worn and marked novels. beaten up knuckles playing the piano. plucking violin strings. chewing the eraser end of the pencil. flickering lamp lights in a dark-lit alley. hair covering eyes. brief smiles. quick nods. old coffee stains.

WANTED PLOTS + CONNECTIONS

·         Best Friends/Ride or Dies: He’s not the best at making friends, but if you talk to him enough, and it seems like he can trust you, he will

·         Roommate: He is quiet and to himself, so someone who can push him to do more and adventure out

·         Hook Ups: The gender doesn’t matter, but someone who can help him break some steam. He is constantly tired, never sleeps, so someone who can take up his time and just have fun with.

·         Potential relationship: For relationship, someone who challenges him, but also finds a way to break his barrier

·         Mentor: He is one of the youngest students here, barely meeting the age requirement, so someone who can guide and aid him, because he is so used to taking care of himself

·         Rival/Enemy: At first, he doesn’t care about them, but then he sees that they’re smart, just as smart as him, and honestly, it amuses him to have someone that he can play with—chess is supposed to be a fun game, right? Academically challenging, artistically challenging, anyone who irks him but amuses him at the same time.