#Shiny Millennium Ring is Shiny

[kiriekonamistan]

Evil Gang, indeed

evil gang 😈

[weheartstims]

HI i hope i am not bothering u,,,,,

,, would you do a stimboard of ,,,, bakura from yugioh,,,,,,,,,,, if u can,,,, but no pressure,,, if you can if its not an issue or if its not too hard,, sorry

if you can,,,

and mmmaybe with ,,, a focus on th,, millenium ring,,,, (sorry if i mispelled a bit) and,,, theme with the colours gold and white,,,,,

sorry if this is hard to understand i am !! shy. i can resend this if you need worded differently,........

no pressure to complete this! sorry and tysm

Bakura and the millennium ring (YuGiOh) with gold and white!

🏅|⚪|🏅 ⚪|🏅|⚪ 🏅|⚪|🏅

[chrysalizzm]

ttdtn blurb: execution

“Do you know what Stockholm Syndrome is, Sam?”

warnings: references to abuse, abusive relationship, references to torture, c!sam neg, vague body horror, death

for @lookinghalfacorpse's phenomenal fic the trees deny themselves nothing, which has been living in my head for the past month.

People always forget that Phil is millenniums old. That he’s put on every face there is. That he’s spoken every tongue that’s lived and died. He can clean any wound and ease any illness, and when the bombing was over and the dust had settled he’d limped through the crowd and offered potions and poultices, and consolation if they’d take it, so: of course they think he’s a senile old man who only knows pain and death. Of course.

But Sam, all of king and court magician, redstone genius and pickpocketing slummer, should know better.

And he does seem to remember, judging by the full-body flinch he greets Phil with at the door to his old workshop. All his fur roils on end, a forest of green, as he says, “Philza.”

“Hi, mate.” Phil folds his wings back demurely, watching Sam’s eyes follow the Void-black sheen of them. He steps over the threshold without waiting for an invitation to do so, steering Sam back towards his workbench with a thump on the back. He kicks the door closed behind him, and it creaks laboriously shut with a protesting groan. Sam’s gaze flickers to the door. Back to Phil’s wings. The fine, faint feathers dusting Phil’s cheeks prick up.

“Nice space you got here,” he says, real friendly-like, parking Sam’s ass in one of the only chairs that doesn’t have a chunk taken out of it for tinkering. “Gloomy and shit. Perfect for you. Is this body going blind yet?”

Sam straightens. “No,” he says mechanically. “My eyesight is perfect, thank you. I’ve improved both foveal acuity and the range of peripheral vision in my left eye. I could track in the dark.”

“Like you couldn’t before,” Phil teases. “Creeper vision and all, yeah? Though the wider periphery is nice. Bet you can see anything getting away.”

Sam’s voice comes out so stiff and starched Phil could probably make a sheaf of paper out of it. “In theory, yes.” 

Phil draws his gaze away from Sam—who knows better than to run from the mythical angel that haunts every page of every history book—to observe the rows and rows of tinkertoys, the delicate baubles, the shiny trinkets. He can practically hear his feathers puffing up in glee. It’s really a shame he knows that Sam’s hands shaped them; all he wants to do is pulverize them into pretty glittering grime.

“Is there anything specific you needed, Phil?” Sam asks, apparently having regained enough of his wits to brave impatience. “I’m busy. I just got an important commission and I really need to get to it.”

“You’ll sit right there until I say you can leave or I will sprout wings of flame and turn your bones into glass,” says Phil mildly. “Is that clear?”

Silence rings out into the workshop. A leaky faucet somewhere drip-drip-drips into the hollow quiet. Sam shifts. 

“...Crystal.”

“Perfect. Glad to see we’re on the same page.” Phil’s eyes flicker briefly to the ceiling, where Sam has, perhaps for posterity, installed a flimsy skylight. A crow—soon to be a whole murder of ‘em—pokes its inquisitive little head in, and Phil stifles a smile. Turning to face Sam, he tucks the smile behind the fan of his clawed fingers and asks, “Why did you lie to me?”

Sam jerks. “What?”

“You lied to me. You claimed you had no underhanded intentions with Dream, yet you took his leg and left him for dead. You claimed you were keeping no secrets, only to lie, repeatedly, to my face. You claimed you would do everything in your power to rectify your mistake, but you’ve instead made a bigger one.” Phil folds his hands over Benihime’s hilt, feeling her purr under his palm. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Sam?”

Sam, clearly not understanding what Phil’s saying, scoffs. “I never lied to you once,” he says matter-of-factly. “I adhered completely to my code of ethics as both an engineer and the Warden, and acted upon the best interests of everyone on this Server.”

“Taking out a perceived threat,” Phil agrees cheerfully. Sam stumbles over his words, caught off-guard by Phil’s concurrence, and it gives Phil the room to continue, “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about what you said over and over for the past three days, mate. Had a lot of time to sorta mull things over, as like.” A minute tense of the knuckles; in the back of his head, Benihime hisses. “But that’s not all that I’m here for.”

Sam lifts his head, shucking off his redstone-stained goggles. His eyes are round: comically surprised. “It’s not?” he says.

Phil smiles with all his teeth. His wings sharpen against the air. The shadows at his feet stretch and seethe. Sam recoils. 

“It’s not. I’m here not only because of those things, but also because you used Dream.” Phil’s voice unspools in a low croon. Quietly, quietly, so not even the crows overhead can hear and whisk the sacred words back to his wife. “Before the Old World fell, they had a name for what you’re doing to Dream. They called it Stockholm Syndrome. Do you know what Stockholm Syndrome is, Sam?”

Sam, his green pelt gone over gray like the gunpowder he’ll fade into if Phil takes a knife to his skull, shakes his head. Ever an eager student, quick to confess to his ignorance. Between becoming empress of a kingdom and a girl in the wilds running with the wolves, Phil had spent a stint as a young king’s tutor, pleased by how quickly the cunning kid caught on. One of many regrets, in the end.

“It means Dream knows how you think about him. He understands. He empathizes. He knows what you think he is, and he agrees. He might like you, Sam. He might even like you a lot, so much that he will ignore anyone trying to save him because you have convinced him he should not be saved. Maybe even that he does not deserve to be saved.” Techno had told him about the incident in the barn, and they both have eyes; you don’t survive centuries amongst the Servers without developing a sixth sense for interpersonal relations. Besides, Phil came before Techno. Much, much before, when there were names for these things, and people knew that you could look at your captor like a lover. Times have changed. People, it seems, have not.

“I don’t know all the details of what you and Quackity did to him in that prison. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. But I care that somehow, while doing what you fucks did, you convinced him that he is not a person, and that he does not deserve love, and that he doesn’t get to live.” The lurid, limpid fury that Phil had carefully banked before leaving burns back to life in his chest now, saying what he knows to be true out loud. “And he believes those things in part because he thinks he loves you.”

Phil didn’t tell Techno—he would have had a fit, and maybe snapped Sam’s neck, not that Phil would’ve been too pressed to stop him—but he’d walked in on an entirely different thing just a day or two after Dream’s first steps. He’d closed the door the moment he realized what was going on, but skin on skin, Sam holding Dream like a worshiper at the feet of an idol: Sam is fooling himself too. “And I think you might have used him. Just a thought.”

The air of the workshop is cold in Phil’s lungs as he draws in a careful breath. He’s always wary of losing his temper. It’s one thing to do it in front of Techno, who’s plenty immortal himself and could probably withstand an accidental eyeful; it’s another thing entirely to do it in a place not specially warded and enchanted and lined brick to brick with sigils to keep the eldritch from spilling everywhere. Once it gets out, there’s no getting it back in, so: deep breaths. Bit by bit, the inferno simmers low. His feathers ease back down. Benihime’s howls fade away.

Sam swallows hard, his throat bobbing in the dark. His new eye throws off bits of light when he blinks. He stands, and he smooths off his pants, and there are a thousand, a million words caught in Phil’s throat, held fast only by the pacts of gods, as the measly little mongrel of a creeper before him says, “I only do what he lets happen to him.”

Dream’s earnest face, his faint smile, drift in a golden-brown smudge across Phil’s eyes. “He only does what I let him do to me.” 

Philza remembers a time before the gods walked the earth. A time before monsters and a time before the Builders. He even remembers a time before the Servers, though that’s a secret sealed in blood and ichor he’ll only divulge if he wishes to die. He remembers floods and famines and foul, fetid plagues. He remembers every bone broken, every life lost. He remembers the Nether before it was a ruin of hellfire. He remembers the End before the night swallowed it whole. He remembers the Ancient Cities when they were not so ancient, before the sculk sprayed its spores, before the Warden—the real one, not a plaything for a pathetic, mewling nuisance to emulate—came through the Builders’ doorway.

Phil has been empresses, wild children, healers, teachers, gods in human skin. Phil is the oldest thing he knows.

He feels every inch his age and horror and terrible, untethered knowledge as he sheds his skin into tongues of flame.

His limbs are End in their own way, cold Void, but that’s just because of his ill-advised dealings with the Ender King. The rest of him is Blaze Empress to the bone, blessed by Hell, kissed by Death. What manner of creature could stand against his full glory, the sheer brutality of his rage? Certainly not a silly little wannabe immortal with wide, stupefied eyes and a dumb, slack mouth. Certainly not a pitiful sack of meat and bone that whirls to pick up a golden trident and is struck down between the shoulder blades with the tip of a blade whittled so finely it winnows the ligaments of his vertebrae and sticks him to the wall opposite, where he screams and curses and makes all manner of noise.

Phil chuckles, amused. It’s a sound that no mortal was meant to hear. Quite possibly it ruptures one or both of Sam’s cochleae, because the man’s ears start to bleed as he shrieks. It’s a shame. Phil had a whole spiel ready to go.

Glossy black bodies wobble across the skylight, squawk in alarm; as one, the murder takes off to tattle to his wife. Phil throws his head back, all glorious mane of sun and storm, and cackles. Benihime has already pierced Sam’s heart, is poisoning him from the inside, a slow death by unstoppable self-mutilation: informing Death would be a mercy. 

Phil folds himself back demurely into his facsimile of a body. In this way, he and Sam share something. He smooths his hair back under his hat, ducks under the doorframe, and gives the workshop a fond little pat on the wall. He’s about ten paces away when the whole thing, outbuildings and all, burst into flame. He’s twenty when he starts to laugh.

He’s forty when he starts to cry.

[lazyvase]

War Bots Story: Investigation

*Note: The following incidents have been taken from numerous Havens, cities, and towns. As such, the timeline and order indicated by the numbering may be inaccurate.

**Note: To protect individual’s identities, some information has been either censored or replaced (varying by each Haven’s policies).

Incident #23: Commanders Calber of Haven 1 and Navea of Haven # needed a resupply of mortar shells for an attack on an Outlander Outpost. The two officers managed to get in contact with a weapons dealer who went by "Shiny Sam". They exchanged 30000 credits for a large box of mortar shells. Upon opening the box, they discovered that the mortar shells were just soup cans painted black. Shiny Sam had already fled the scene.

Incident #324: Three construction bots paid for 40 tons of bricks by supplier “Rick Scoll’s Materials.” They received a 40 ton brick instead. Having no tools to properly separate the block of stone, they attempted to contact RSM. No answer. The authorities were called shorty after. Upon investigating how they came into contact with RSM, the three bots began to argue and bicker over who was responsible for the whole ordeal.

Incident #682: Famous pop star “Harmony” was planning to host her Millennium Forward performance in Haven 3. However, in the weeks leading up to the event, nearly 79% of her tickets were scalped by internet username “cr3d1tc4rd”. Furthermore, most tickets bought from the scalper were revealed to be counterfeits. Resulting in Harmony played to a nearly empty stadium.

Incident #799: Velenna ________ and Aphrodite ________ were caught with stolen lab equipment in Haven 4. When interrogated, Velenna insulted and swore at investigators. Aphrodite claimed that they bought them from a vendor in Haven 5. She described the vendor as having white plating, a trapezoid-shaped head, a black suit, black wires in the shape of a mullet, and glasses with one lens orange and the other green. Eyewitnesses from Haven 5’s marketplace corroborated their story, claiming that the same man sold posters of "invisible" tigers.

Incident #2354: Agent 770 _____ ______ ___ _________ ______ ___ __ ______________ ______ ____________ weapons dealer _________ _____ ________ "Ferrard Ferrardeli" ________ _____ false info _______ _ ___ _____ casino ________ cruise ship ________ oil rig ___ ________ ___________ oil rig and casino combination ______________ ___ ___ ___ _____ __ _ ______ explosion ____ ______ ____________ __ soup cans painted black.

Incident #516: An incident involving the vigilante Otto resulted in the arrest of "The Tendril Gang"'s key leaders. When interviewed by the local news later, Otto commented that the leaders seemed to be buying some sort of high-level security from a "nice-looking yet shady bot" named "Slip Jib". Otto said that the bot wore a nice colorful suit and had brown wires on his head that mimicked a receding hairline. The bot slipped away during the fight, leaving behind the security pass they were trying to sell to the gang leaders. Upon some examination over Otto's donation, it was revealed that the pass was nothing more than painted plastic.

Incident #873: Two individuals were spotted robbing Rust-Easy graveyard. Eyewitnesses provided the details for the following sketches of the two suspects.

Incident #3983: Popular Rewind content creator Poppett was a regular promoter of “Vohsak Energy Drinks”. Studies conducted on the fuel source revealed a link to increased likelihood of corrosion and molding by those who utilized it. In what is her most disliked video in her channel’s history, Poppett issued an apology to her fan base.

***Note: This ring of scams and false products seem eerily similar. If anyone has any information on possible connections, they are encouraged to come forward. A prize of 40000 credits can be expected for anyone who helps reveal the truth behind these crimes.

Incident #995: We are no longer offering the reward money. No elaboration will be provided.

****K's Note: Suckers.

[blueiscoool]

10 Dazzling Gold and Silver Treasures Discovered in 2022

Over the centuries, humans have crafted gold and silver into jewelry, coins and other stunning items. Some of these shiny objects were interred in burials or lost from loose pockets, only to be found hundreds of years to millennia later by archaeologists digging into our past or even unearthed unintentionally by members of the public. Here are 10 extraordinary discoveries that came to light in 2022.

1. 'Cheap Jewelry' is Really Gold Viking Ring

When a woman in Norway bought a bundle of cheap jewelry at an online auction, she was expecting to find some fun costume pieces to wear. Instead, she discovered something else entirely: a large gold Viking ring designed from twisted metal strands. The woman showed the ring to archaeologists, who dated it based on its style. According to the archaeologists, a powerful Viking chief may have owned this ring more than 1,000 years ago.

2. Kitchen Renovation Uncovers Gold Coin Stash

A routine kitchen renovation led to the discovery of a lifetime: a hoard of gold coins hidden beneath the wooden floorboards of an 18th-century house in the U.K. The stash includes more than 260 gold coins dating from 1610 to 1727 and is estimated to be worth around $290,000 (250,000 pounds).

3. Byzantine Gold Coins in Israel

Archaeologists on a nature reserve in northern Israel dug up a trove of 44 gold coins dating to the Byzantine Empire (circa A.D. 330 to 1453). These gorgeous coins date to the reigns of Emperor Phocas (A.D. 602 to 610) and Emperor Heraclius (A.D. 610 to 641). The hoard's owner may have buried the stash before fleeing from Muslim soldiers, who invaded the region in A.D. 635.

4. Gold and Silver Coins near an Egyptian Temple

For the last millennium, a cache of gold and silver coins sat buried underground near an Egyptian temple. These coins date to the Islamic era, which lasted from A.D. 610 until the 13th century. The coins are varied, including 286 silver coins of kings and kingdoms from that time, gold coins, a coin from what is now Armenia that was minted during King Leo II's reign in the 13th century, and bronze and brass coins from the Ottoman Empire.

5. 3,000-Year-Old Gold Funeral Mask from China

The 3,000-year-old tomb of a noble in what is now central China contained a rich treasure: a gold funeral mask, one of the oldest gold objects ever found in the region. The mask is large enough to cover an adult's face and may have symbolized that the deceased had an "imperishable gold body," researchers said.

6. "Abbess" Buried with Gold-and-Garnet Necklace

An elite woman buried in seventh-century England was laid to rest with a stunning necklace made of gold, garnets and Roman coin pendants. The burial included two impressive crosses, indicating that this medieval woman may have been an early female Christian leader such as an abbess, or possibly even royalty.

7. Gold Coin Features Assassinated Roman Emperor Volusianus

Excavators unearthed a "very rare" gold coin depicting a murdered Roman emperor in Hungary. The third-century A.D. coin shows the face of Emperor Volusianus, who co-ruled with his father for about two years before his own soldiers killed him and his father. Because Volusianus' reign was so short, coins showing his likeness are rare, especially in Hungary, where Roman gold coins are very uncommon. This coin was very valuable at the time, so losing it must have been a great loss to its owner.

8. Ancient Gold Belt Discovered on Beet Farm

In the Czech Republic, a beet farmer unexpectedly uncovered a crumpled sheet of gold on his land. The farmer alerted local archaeologists, who determined that the gold treasure was likely the front of a leather belt dating to the Bronze Age, nearly 2,500 years ago. Concentric circles decorating the gold sheet might represent cosmological systems, the archaeologists said. It's unclear who owned the belt, but whoever did was clearly elite.

9. Egyptian Ring Depicts 'God of Fun'

A 3,300-year-old burial from ancient Egypt contained a handful of valuable jewelry, including a gold ring with an engraving of the "god of fun." This deity, Bes, was often depicted as a dwarf and was usually portrayed playing music and having a good time. However, Bes was also known for protecting women during childbirth. Archaeologists also found a gold necklace and a ring with an Egyptian hieroglyphic inscription that translates to "Lady of the Earth," but the identity of the woman this inscription refers to is still unknown.

10. Rare Coin Shows Charlemagne Just Before his Death

There are precious few known portraits of Charlamagne made during his lifetime, but now one of them has been found on a rare, 1,200-year-old coin. The coin ended up in the collection of a French farmer, who left his treasured stash to his grandson. When his grandson went through the coins years later and put the Charlemagne item on eBay, German museum curators jumped at the chance to buy it. Charlemagne (ruled A.D. 768 to 814) had the coin, known as a denarius, portray him like a Roman emperor with a laurel on his hat and the dress of a Roman general, even though the Western Roman Empire had collapsed centuries before. Why? Because the Vatican had just crowned him emperor of the Romans on Christmas day in A.D. 800, so the coin was a fitting symbol.

By Laura Geggel.

[chevalear]

anyway bc i accidentally yeet the old post abt thymeo's aegislash, the soul in the sword is basically ... thymeo's past self, thibaud, who was a knight in the time of the crusades, and thibaud got fucked over real bad, so he said "fuck this" and became a black knight

thibaud died on the battlefield serving no lord, because literally fuck those dudes. he's also like dark bakura and just sorta lingers there in thymeo's body and that's why thyméo never has aegislash in a pokeball and they're also Never Apart (millennium ring effect)

thibaud's blade was stained crimson with blood, aegislash is shiny!

[my-lovely-sketches]

Gemshipping Mermaids!

I finally got to do mermaids for Mermay!  I love the Thief King Bakura Shark version others have been doing, so I enjoyed being able to contribute too. Then for Ryou I always been a fan of the Dragon Seahorse, so his look was inspired by that! ^^

This I also wanted to experiment with coloring/watercolors, oh man did I struggle with this, but it was fun (I will have to practice more)! ;p

[kujakumai]

cleaned up old WIP, 2800 words, AU where Yami Bakura succeeds in switching hosts in DK and Mokuba makes friends with an evil ghost. Not going to be continued but it literally would not leave my brain alone until I finished it.

Things were not going according to plan.

The plan was to take control of a soulless puppet, an easy vessel incapable of interfering with his ends. He had the vessel, had accomplished that much, but he was not expecting the pharaoh and his little friends to succeed and convince Pegasus to give everyone their souls back. So now not only was there a second person in this body he had to keep suppressed, but now he was stuck impersonating a child, smiling through an awkward reunion and then placed onto a helicopter next to a gangly high school student who was watching him like a hawk.

The spirit-that-was-no-longer-Yami-Bakura knew that he was supposed to be Mokuba, but he did not remember the tall one's name. K-something. He had a stupid jacket and hardly took his eyes off him the entire ride, as if he thought his little brother was going to disappear in a puff of smoke when he wasn't looking. Annoying. Infuriating. Luckily it did not seem he wanted to talk, or at least accepted silence. No one expects recent kidnapping victims to say much, which was a boon. A little dazed, a little quiet, a little off, and no one really found it unusual.

They dropped off the pharaoh and his friends, and finally landed at a gaudy and ostentatious house so large it took him a second to realize it was a home at all, an absurd monument to decadence with grounds full of ugly topiaries. Wealth, then. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad. He could work with this. The rich kid in the stupid coat quietly held his hand the entire walk up the driveway, until they entered a foyer just as gilded and obscene as the outside had been.

No, things were not going to plan, and playing grade-schooler was awkward and an insult to his dignity, and he was farther away from the other millennium items as he ever had been. He would have to grit his teeth through it until he could figure out the next step. In the meantime, perhaps, enjoy some amenities.

Richie rich sighed, relaxed his shoulders the moment they got inside. He looked at who he thought was his little brother and gave him a small, exhausted but genuine smile. He struggled with what to say next.

"Mokuba," he said, "I have to check on a few things in my office. See what kind of damage they did. Do you want to come with me?"

"No." Finally, a chance to be out of this idiot's sight.

This answer seemed to surprise him, a twitch of skepticism. "Will you be okay by yourself?"

He nodded. Keep answers short, when you're impersonating.

His face betrayed more skepticism, concern, and the tiniest hint of disappointment. As if rich kid himself was the one who was scared to be alone in his own house. He accepted the answer, though, to the spirit's relief.

Rich kid bent down and pulled him into a tight hug and ruffled his hair. "We'll get something special for dinner, okay? And ice cream."

"I do like ice cream." This was true. Ryou Bakura almost never bought ice cream, and when he did it was the stupid healthy kind that everyone knew shouldn't even really qualify as ice cream, which was another reason he was a terrible host. That and the fact that he was startlingly pale and had the upper body strength of a limp noodle and the personality of skim milk. This would be better, even if he had to deal with the abrupt drop in height.

Rich kid headed off towards the staircase with another tired but trying-to-be-reassuring smile, and it was then that the spirit of the ring felt an annoyance in the back of his brain. A presence. A scratching, biting, flailing presence, screeching mad, which he had been suppressing for a while now but finally broke through.

get out get out get out get out give it back its MINE get out

The host, awake. What a bother. More rambunctious than Bakura, then? No matter. He could handle a child.

that was MY hug and MY headpat and MY big brother and you can't have them he's been gone for ages and they're mine not yours get out get out get out

The spirit pushed back, ignored him. Shush. He had planned to hold this body alone, and he did not intend to go back to sharing. If you're good, I might let you have it back for a little while later.

shut up go away go away go away go AWAY

And then Mokuba Kaiba did something, something the spirit was not accustomed to or expecting at all, something which Ryou Bakura had never been willing or able to do. He shoved, violently, and the spirit of the ring was ripped out of control with some amount of panic.

"SETOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

Why you insolent little--

Seto Kaiba was not aware of the mental turf war happening over his little brothers body. What he did see was his brother scream his name and fall down, and the whole room echoed with a metal clatter as his briefcase fell on the floor and he ran towards him.

--

The ring had been discarded unceremoniously to a side table, and not-Bakura-and-not-Mokuba-either had no choice but to wait and observe, as a pediatrician on a sudden housecall shined lights in the boy's eyes and rich kid, who the spirit had since gleaned was named Seto Kaiba, looked on in worry.

"You said you heard a voice?" The doctor asked.

"Uh-huh. I think it lives in the necklace."

"You got that thing at Pegasus's house?" Kaiba asked, in disbelief.

"I don't remember. I was just wearing it when I woke up."

"What did the voice say?" the doctor continued, professionally ignoring any talk about magic necklaces.

"Not a lot. It was kind of mean."

"I see." She turned to Kaiba. "He's fine, physically. You might want a psychologist." and Seto Kaiba made what could politely be referred to as A Face. This was not what he wanted to hear, this was news that worried and annoyed him in equal measure, and to some degree was news he had half-expected.

"He's had a rough few months. I'll look into it." and she was dismissed, and Mokuba hopped down from the counter.

"Can we order pizza?" he asked, with big pleading eyes.

Kaiba watched him with dry amusement. "Mokuba, you can have anything you want from any restaurant in a forty mile radius."

"And I want pizza. Real pizza, from somewhere that doesn't also serve caviar."

"Cheap pizza?"

He nodded very seriously. "The grossest greasiest cheapest."

"I can do that. Anything else you want?"

Mokuba's eyes lit up, and soon he was dragging Kaiba by the hand towards somewhere else in the house. "I got to this really hard level in my game I can't get past and I wanted to see if you could beat it, and I found this really cool video I wanted to show you, and I got a really good report card you never saw, and--" and months worth of pent up requests were tumbling out rapid fire, and Kaiba was smiling with affection and some amount of relief.

Loud and clingy, then, was the normal and expected behavior. The spirit of the ring made note of this, as he lie abandoned.

--

The ring was still sitting on a side table, in Mokuba's bedroom, apparently because no one knew what to with it or thought it mattered much. This was a problem. The spirit couldn't do anything without a host, and now everyone was suspicious, these stupid rich people worried too much and paid too much attention.

He was forced to sit there all night, pondering about how he was going to get out of this mess, when at one or two in the morning he observed Mokuba wake up, and rub his eyes, and hop out of bed. He did not turn the light on, but he did check the time, and reach under his bed to retrieve what appeared to be a small backpack. He took it with him as he moved quietly towards the door, and the spirit saw his chance.

Hey, kid. He was near enough to speak into his head. Maybe this wasn't a dead end.

"You!" Mokuba stopped in his tracks and looked right at the ring.

Yes, me. This could be salvaged, he thought, concocting a plan. This was a child. Play friendly ghost and imaginary friend. Surely it would not be hard to weasel himself into the good graces of a sixth grader.

Mokuba glared at the ring with suspicion. "I don't think Seto believed me when I said you could talk, but I knew it." He picked it up delicately by the string to examine.

Where on earth are you going at this time of night?

Mokuba was the current host, technically, so there was a connection, and 11 year olds are not particularly used to or adept at hiding their own thoughts, especially inside their own heads. The answer, if not in words but in abstract concept, was provided instantly as it bubbled to mind. He was going to the kitchen, as he did once or twice a week, not their personal kitchen but the house staff kitchen, where he would move a chair to stand on the counter to reach the very back of the highest shelf of the third cupboard to the left, which was where one of the cleaning staff kept a pile of chocolate so he could cheat on his diet without his wife knowing, a fact Mokuba knew through surreptitious eavesdropping. Mokuba's end was to steal just enough of it that he wouldn't be noticed, and add it to a stash of snacks and other shiny trinkets currently hidden in the bottom of a pile of legos in his closet.

...You steal food to hide in your closet? Why would a child who lived in a three-story mansion need to steal?

Mokuba was only mildly perturbed by the fact that someone had just read his mind. He was mainly curious, now. "Our dad didn't like junk food, so I always took stuff to keep around." he explained, "I guess I don't really have to anymore, 'cuz Seto will let me have whatever I want, but--" he faltered, unable to finish or give a reason.

There wasn't a reason, and Mokuba knew that. There was no need to sneak or stash or steal anymore, but he kept doing it, irrationally, for reasons that confused him, a complicated swirl of things a child could not name or understand but were very easy for the spirit to read. Fear; compulsion; habit; the illusion of safety; the sense that your life was precarious, unstable; a need to exert control over your surroundings. It was not the food or the stealing that mattered, but of the hiding, of having something they could not take away from him.

Mokuba didn't understand any of that, because he was 11 and 11 year olds don't understand why they do anything. He just knew he liked sweets and hated people telling him what to do and that having bags of chips and other people’s lost jewelry at the bottom of an old toybox made him feel better.

Can I come with you?

"No! You tried to take control of me!"

Yes, but you kicked me out, and you'd probably be able to do it again, so I would be stupid to try. I also like chocolate, you see, and it's very boring to be stuck here on your desk.

"Can you even eat? You're a necklace."

I can when I borrow a body.

"You tried to take over me so you could eat chocolate? I'm not stupid enough to believe that."

That and other things. I can't do very much at all, while stuck in the ring. No food, no sunshine, no running around. It's no fun to be without a body, which is why I am occasionally driven to steal one. Terribly sorry about that. he added, in his most pathetic-sounding tone, Please? I don't have anyone else to talk to.

Mokuba was hesitant, but clearly found the fact of his existence too interesting to ignore. "Fine." He picked up the ring and dropped it unceremoniously into his backpack, which had a dragon on it.

Not trust yet, but tolerance and curiosity. One step at a time.

You shouldn't go barefoot, you know. Socks will be quieter if you're trying not to get caught.

"I didn't ask you."

So Mokuba descended down the stairwell, in the dead quiet and dark of the Kaiba Mansion, with no flashlight because he knew it well enough to navigate blindfolded. The place was decadent in the ugly way rich people's houses were, luxury but without taste, soft carpets and gilded banisters.

Mokuba had not quite realized yet how to think at the ring, so he spoke in a low whisper. "What are you, anyway?"

A ghost. So much more complicated than that, but simple words were suitable for children.

"How'd you end up a ghost in a necklace?"

I died, and then someone put me in a necklace.

"That's not an answer." he followed up, "Do all dead people become ghosts?"

No. Just sometimes, maybe, if the way they died was especially violent or gruesome or terrible.

Mokuba frowned. He had caught on remarkably quickly to guarding his own head, but the spirit could tell he didn't like this answer.

This was delicate, but he risked a push. Was there someone you had in mind?

Mokuba said nothing. He reached the staff kitchen on the lowest floor, and opened the door, slow and careful. He was deciding whether to say anything, as he climbed up as quietly as he could and reached far into the back of the cupboard, scrabbling.

"Our dad killed himself last year. Jumped out a window." He finally said, hopping down with his spoils. He said this the same way one might dolefully report the milk had gone bad. Unfortunate but boring.

You don't sound very sad.

"Nah, he sucked. And he never liked me." he said, "Seto was really really upset though. He was pretending not to be, but I could tell." Now there were feelings there, big and weird and sad and clinging ones. For reasons the spirit could not discern, the simple phrase ‘Seto was upset’ carried with it more weight, a thousand million times more weight, than news of a father's tragic death by defenestration. "I hope he's not a ghost. I don't wanna see him again."

Probably not.

Mokuba sat down cross-legged on the kitchen floor, unwrapped candy in silver foil. "You really can't do anything from in the necklace? Like, ghost stuff? Make things float or anything?"

No. It is a bit like being trapped in a very small box.

Mokuba mulled this over for a little while. "If you wanted to borrow a body to do fun stuff, you could have just asked."

Really?

He nodded. "Not being able to eat chocolate sounds lame. It'd be mean to just leave you like that." He put one chocolate into his mouth and dumped the rest in the backpack, where they covered the ring unceremoniously. More indignities. "Not in front of my brother, though. And you have to give it back whenever I say so."

...I could agree to such a compromise. Your candy haul is impressive, by the way.

"Thanks!" He grinned, emanating genuine pride. No one had ever complimented him for stealing before.

Tragic, the work of great thieves. How the very best of it can never be bragged about, the most impressive of skills gone unnoticed by nature, how the very success of a perfect crime relies on keeping your mouth shut about it. An unappreciated art, where even mastery gains you no respect.

You don't care that this poor man has to go out and buy twice as much food to make up for what you steal?

"No, he's a jerk. One time when I was six they confiscated my gameboy, so I went to steal it back and he caught me and told my dad and I got in huge trouble. So every day for a week I snuck down here and moved his keys to a different place so he couldn't find them. They were all so mad at him for losing them all the time, and he thought he was crazy."

Why was your gameboy confiscated?

"Don't remember. I think I bit someone at school." he shrugged, "They probably deserved it, though."

Mokuba Kaiba. he said, I think you and I are going to be excellent friends.

"Okay. Do ghosts watch cartoons?"

[love-and-monsters]

Necklace for a Dragon

M dragon X GN reader, 5,975 words

A dragon commissions a necklace for his deceased mother, but he is reluctant to open up about her death. Can you help him work through his grief?

The thin, delicate chain in your fingers clinked quietly as you worked on it. The magnifying glasses perched on your nose enabled you to carefully manipulate the tiny gemstones into place. It was a nice piece, you thought. The white and pale yellow gems set against the deep platinum gave the impression of tiny stars in a night sky.

Your gaze flicked up as you worked. It was a habit from before you’d gotten the bell installed on your door to let you know if a customer had entered, so your gaze moved back to your work before you’d really processed anything you’d seen.

Then your brain caught up with your eyes and your head snapped back up.

There was a man standing in the middle of your store. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a fairy tale. His look was oddly monochrome- he had pale skin, white-blonde hair that curled around his ear and under his chin. Silvery antlers pulled back from his head and a shimmering scaled tail tufted with fur coiled and twitched behind him. His clothes were unreasonably fancy and not at all modern- his shirt was ruffled and he wore a heavy, furred cloak around his shoulders. Gems fairly dripped from his horns and the upper curve of his ears.

The little bell hadn’t even rung to announce his entrance. It was as if he had simply appeared in the room.

“Hello,” you said, whipping your glasses off and staring at him. “Can I help you with something?”

He regarded you with ice-blue eyes. His expression was utterly neutral. “I am looking for jewelry.”

Okay. Good start. Your eyes swept over his frame, assessing him as a customer. He was unfamiliar, but given his mannerisms and the general look of his clothes, he was wealthy. That was good- most of the pieces in your store weren’t made by you. There wasn’t enough of a market to buy your handmade pieces in most cases, which were priced high enough to drive away most typical buyers, and those who were rich enough to afford the splurge were few and far between. Most of the jewelry on the shelves was cheaper, more mass-produced pieces. It wasn’t exactly something you were proud of, but it kept the roof over your head.

He wasn’t looking at any of those pieces, though. He had beelined right for the well-lit display case that showed all your custom jewelry. You slipped out from behind the counter and hurried over to him. “See anything you like?”

His gaze swept over the case. “I am not sure.”

“Well, I also take commissions, so if you want a specific design, I can do that for you,” you said eagerly. Commissions were uncommon, but very much appreciated. You could charge a little more for them and you didn’t have to account for the shelf time.

The man turned toward you. His gaze locked with yours and a chill slipped down your spine. Holy shit. With a sudden clenching in the pit of your stomach, you knew that this wasn’t an ordinary monster of Fortune Falls. This was one of the Old Ones.

The Old Ones were not necessarily old individuals, though, even though the one in front of you appeared to be in his twenties, he could be ancient. It was their species that were old, though, ones that had existed before civilization and kept to those old ways. They radiated powerful magic and rarely interacted with humans at all. Even other monsters were uncomfortable around them.

You had only seen one once before, an ancient golden dragon. You steeled your will. A customer was a customer. Even if Old Ones had an irritating habit of paying in extremely outdated currency- you would be lucky if he paid with something from the modern millennium.

“A specific design,” the man repeated, drawing you out of your daze. You nodded attentively.

“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” you said. The man exhaled slowly. He had the expression of someone unused to interacting with others- he didn’t seem to be holding a stern expression because he actually felt stern, but more because he had completely forgotten you were supposed to change your expression to let others know what you were feeling. “Maybe you could tell me what the jewelry is for and I can give you some suggestions.”

The man turned back to the display case. “It is for a funeral.”

“Oh,” you said. “For, ah. For you or for the, erm. Deceased?” It was not the first time someone had come to your shop looking for jewelry to bury someone in.

“Deceased.” There was no emotion in the man’s voice, but it was not the lack of emotion of the passionless. It was the sound of someone who had been exercising their emotions so much they didn’t have anything left to give. Pity stirred in your chest.

“Well, I’m sure we can find you something nice,” you said. “There are a lot of nice pieces here.” You gestured broadly at the wall of jewelry. The man peered at the necklaces lining the bottom row. His tail weaved back and forth, flowing like a river.

After a moment, he shook his head. His curls swayed, brushing against his chin and over the tips of his ears. “No,” he said. “Something else.”

You froze, waiting for his next move. Instead of turning toward the door, he turned toward you. You let out a sigh of relief. “Would you like something made specifically for you, sir?”

He lowered his chin in the slightest of nods. A faint flicker of bitterness invaded your mind before you shoved it away; the idea that you were going to make something that was going to have exactly one showing before it was being shoved underground wasn’t something you were overly pleased about. Then again, plenty of the extremely rich had pieces of jewelry made for them only to cram it into a closet after one night out. This was a little more important than that, wasn’t it?

“It would need to be elaborate,” he said. “Something worthy of my mother.”

You sucked in a breath through your teeth. “I’m sorry for your loss,” you said. “I can sketch up a few designs overnight and you can come back tomorrow to look at them. We can work from there.”

The man’s head dipped in a slow nod. “I will see you then.” Not waiting for any response, he whirled, cape swirling around him, and headed out the door.

The bell still didn’t ring. You glared at it until the man left, then pulled out your stepladder and went to check on it. When you tapped it, it jingled merrily. Hm. Weird. You moved the ladder away and experimentally swung the door open and closed. The bell rang every time. Okay. Really weird. But you had more important things to do.

You placed the stepladder away again and sat behind the front counter. There was a sketchpad situated under the desk for situations such as this. Usually, you had a little more idea what the customer wanted. You kicked yourself for not asking any more questions. He had left before you could get some clarification. You sketched out a few designs, most of them similar to ones you already had on the shelf. They were pretty, of course- all your jewelry was nice, and it tended to be difficult to make shiny things look that bad. But they almost certainly weren’t what your client wanted.

Night fell. You closed up your shop, but stayed in the back, eating takeout. You had an apartment, but it was barely bigger than your shop and you spent so much time here that you’d just moved a couch and some blankets into the back room, just in case you wanted to crash for the night. Really, the only practical use your apartment had was that it had a shower you could be sure no one else was using. Given your cooking skills, it was probably safer if you didn’t have access to a kitchen.

You sketched on the pad late into the night, growing more and more frustrated the longer you tried. Nothing seemed to be coming out right, and the things that looked kind of good were too reminiscent of stuff you’d already made.

Grimacing, you rolled your stiff neck and shifted your position. One of your legs was starting to fall asleep. Maybe you should just go to bed. Your mind wasn’t getting any clearer the later you stayed up, and maybe you would get an idea in your dreams. It wasn’t common, but it was better than just sitting around and waiting for inspiration to strike.

You leaned your head back, eyes closing for a moment. The image of the man swam back to your mind. He had been rather beautiful. The silvery sheen of his tail had been almost mesmerizing. It reminded you of sunlight gleaming off flowing water, or maybe oozing mercury. And his multi-pointed horns, glittering with gems had been striking as well.

Inspiration slammed into your mind like a lightning bolt. A sizzling, frenetic energy jumped through your veins. The idea seized you with a frightening ferocity. You had felt this before, the few times when an idea had seized you with a creative fervor. There was no way you were going to be sleeping now. Instead, you scrambled for another piece of paper. You needed to get this down before the idea faded.

It took you well over an hour of sketching, erasing, and fine-tuning before you’d worked the design into something you were happy with. Once it was done, you collapsed into bed, not even bothering to change your clothes. Sleep swept over you in an immediate wave.

You woke late enough that you barely had time to throw on another set of clothes and snag a granola bar before you had to open the shop. Fortunately, the design you’d made the night before still looked good in the morning light. The amount of times you’d written something in a sleep-hazed frenzy only to wake up and discover that it was absolute garbage was uncomfortable to even think about.

Despite your somewhat unkempt appearance and your tiredness, you still managed to make a couple sales. One of them was an engagement ring, one of your own designs, which had you feeling quite proud for the rest of the day. You added a few finishing touches to your sketches with a flush of enthusiasm. The day was nearly over, but the man hadn’t showed up again.

Someone cleared their throat right in front of you. You startled, knocking over a stack of coins and watched as they rolled under your counter. “Dammit.” Grimacing, you looked up.

The man was standing over you. He watched as one of the coins rolled in a neat circle next to his foot and fell over. “You should pay more attention,” he said. He stooped and picked the coin up, placing it delicately on the counter. “It is bad customer service to leave a customer waiting.”

“There’s supposed to be a bell,” you muttered under your breath. If he heard you, the comment didn’t bother him. He watched as you scrambled to pick up the few coins you could see. You could get the ones under the desk later; it wouldn’t do to go crawling around on your hands and knees in front of an important customer.

“I have the sketches,” you said. “There’s a little area we can sit in over here.” You led him over to the small alcove, separated from the rest of the shop by curtains. It was basically just a table in an area that would give the two of you a little privacy. Not that it was terribly necessary- there wasn’t anyone in the shop. But it was nice.

The man swept over to the table and paused. You looked where he was looking and paused. There were two chairs at the table and both of them had tall backs that left no space for a tail. “I might have a stool somewhere,” you said. “Hold on.”

The man lifted his hand, revealing long, elegantly manicured fingernails. “No need. I will be fine.” He sat a little awkwardly, tail curling across his lap. You hesitated for a moment, then sat across from him.

“So, I have a few sketches that I wanted to show you,” you said, spreading them across the table. The man reached out and picked up a few of them, looking over them with a critical eye. His expression was utterly emotionless. You swallowed uncomfortably. It was always weird to have someone looking at your art right in front of you.

Each drawing was examined and he placed it on the table in front of you. The stack of rejected drawing kept getting higher. The back of your neck tickled with sweat. Was he going to like any of them?

He reached the bottom of the pile and paused. Right. Your final drawing. You sucked on your lower lip. His expression was still unreadable. Finally, he placed the drawing on the table in front of you. “This one,” he said in a soft voice, tapping a finger in the center of the drawing.

It was the design you’d based off his antlers. You nodded, sweeping it back off the table. “Great. So, next we’ll need to pick the base metal color. I’ve got a few of them. There’s silver, gold, platinum…” You spread the sample metals across the table in front of them. His gaze swept over them for a moment, then he tapped the platinum band. “Okay. Good. Are there any specific colors you want in it? I’ll try to match the colors as well as I can, and you’ll get approval at all stages.”

The man sat back in his seat. For the first time, you saw a flicker of discomfort cross his face. “Blue,” he said after a moment.

You noted the color down on your pad and gathered your drawings back together. “Great. That should look nice.” You glanced into his face. His expression was still fairly emotionless, but you thought you were getting better at seeing the subtle tension on his face that indicated changes in expression. There was a tension around his eyes and a tightness around his lips that made him look tired. The sort of blank, weary tiredness of someone who was struggling to keep going. “Um. When do you need this by?”

“Four days from now,” he said. “Is that acceptable?”

“It’ll be a rush job,” you said automatically, then cringed. That felt insensitive. The weariness in his face grew a little more present as he bowed his head in a small nod.

“That will be extra?” he said. He started to reach for his pocket, but you waved your hands hurriedly.

“Uh, no, no. It’ll be fine. No extra charge.” It was probably a bad decision. There was a reason you charged extra for rush orders. But he looked exhausted and if it was for a funeral, he was likely going through a lot. It felt wrong to add onto that.

The man stared at you for a moment. He said nothing, but there was gratitude in his expression. “How much do I owe you?”

You told him the price. He reached into his pocket for a moment, then extracted several bills. You held your breath as he handed them over. Bills was a good sign. You’d once been paid exclusively in heavy gold coins and it had been impossible to find a bank that would exchange them for actual currency.

After a moment, in which you were able to reassure yourself that yes, the bills were all modern, you tucked the money into your pocket. “The rest I’ll want upon delivery,” you said. “This is just an advance.” The man nodded. “Also, I’ll need your name.”

“Solomon,” he said. He gave no last name. You didn’t bother to ask for one.

“Then I’ll see you in a few days for pickup.” You smiled at him. He gave a small bow and swept back out the door.

As it turned out, you saw him much sooner than that. You closed the shop slightly early and started heading back home. It wasn’t the best idea, to take a full night off when you had a rush order you needed to complete, but you were starting to feel a little gross. It was time to get some food that was slightly better than takeout.

The air was chilly and it was drizzling as you walked across the street and headed toward your apartment building. Then you came to a stop, squinting at the man standing in a tiny alcove of trees. His clothes were ostentatious and he looked more than a little out of place, like a prince crouching in a stable. His head was tilted back, staring up at the rain dribbling from the sky. It trailed in little rivulets down his sharp features.

“Solomon?” you said before you could think better of it. He lowered his head and turned to face you. His expression was solemn, but there was a new level of exhaustion in it. It looked more like he was too tired to make any expressions other than weariness.

He nodded to you. “Hello.”

You paused, a little awkward. He didn’t seem overly keen to talk, but he wasn’t exactly moving away from you either. “What are you still doing here?”

Solomon closed his eyes and swayed unsteadily. Automatically, you darted forward to try to catch him. At the same moment, he stuck a hand out to prop himself up on a nearby tree. You collided, his hand fumbling awkwardly through the air until it came to a rest on your shoulder. There was a moment of stumbling as you adjusted to his weight. He was heavier than he looked. His tail wrapped around one of your legs as he struggled to catch himself again.

After a few moments of fumbling, the pair of you managed to find a balance. His weight pressed down on you, leaving you panting with the effort of holding him upright. “Are you okay?” you managed.

Solomon’s chest expanded against you as he took in a deep breath. One of his hands pressed against a tree trunk and he slowly lifted himself back up. “I’m all right,” he said. His eyes closed, but this time, he didn’t sway dangerously. He just let out a deep sigh.

You slid away from him, relieved to have his weight off your back. “Are you sure?” You hesitated for a moment, debating the pros and cons, then kept talking. “Do you… do you need some help?” The words came out of you slowly. You didn’t have a lot of experience trying to give other people your assistance; you were solitary by nature and rarely gave or asked for help.

Solomon closed his eyes for a moment. His long, snow-white lashes nearly touched his cheekbones. “I am just tired. I have not been home in some time.” There was a terrible weariness in his voice, like each word was a struggle to get out of his mouth.

“Do you need help getting there?” you said. Honestly, you weren’t sure how you could actually help him get home. Didn’t most of the Old Ones live in the mountains? You didn’t even have a car.

“No,” he said. “I…” He hesitated, then ducked his head a little, looking intently at the ground at his feet. “I have not been home because I do not want to go back.”

The awkward silence grew thicker. You cleared your throat. “Er. Is it because of your mom, or…?”

His lips curled up to show the slightest flicker of fang. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” you said again. “Er.” A suggestion floated across your mind. “You could come to my apartment for a bit. You look tired.” The instant the idea left your lips, you felt stupid. You were tired too, and you didn’t really feel up to entertaining a stranger, much less an Old One who likely had never been in an apartment building. On the other hand, leaving him alone on the street felt gross too. Well, he probably wouldn’t take you up on the offer anyway-

“I would appreciate that,” he said. “After you.” He gestured to the sidewalk in front of you.

Well. Okay. This was happening. You walked ahead of him, trying frantically to remember the last time you’d vacuumed. Had it been last weekend? Hard to say. It honestly kept slipping your mind. Oh, god, when had you last dusted? Did Old Ones care about stuff like that?

In no time at all, you were at the front door to your building. You fumbled with your keys for a moment before your door clicked open. Solomon stepped into your building with an expression of mild curiosity.

There was nothing fancy about the lobby to your building. There was a threadbare rug and a slightly shoddy desk in a corner. The doorman, a medusa with massive snakes coiling around his head, looked up. His eyes fell on Solomon sweeping in behind you and he raised is scaled brows. You mouthed ‘tell you later’ and headed for the elevator.

Solomon looked momentarily confused when you gestured for him to follow you inside, but he stepped in regardless. You tapped your floor button and the elevator doors slid shut.

You were already braced for the weird jolt that happened every time the elevator started, but you’d completely forgotten that Solomon wasn’t. He seized your elbow as the floor juddered under your feet. His expression was smooth, but his grip on your arm was tight.

“It’s okay,” you said. “It’s just an elevator.” You couldn’t tell if he understood what an elevator was, but your lack of concern seemed to appease him. His grip on your elbow loosened, though he didn’t remove his hand.

Solomon brushed past you to get off the elevator once it stopped, giving it a suspicious look over his shoulder. You bit your tongue. Do not laugh at the powerful monster. Even if he is looking at the elevator like it might jump at him.

You jostled the lock a few times before your door swung open. Solomon was tall enough to just look over your shoulder into your fairly tiny apartment. It only had a couple of rooms, and both of them could be charitably described as cozy. You scrambled to grab a few of the carelessly-tossed bits of packaging that hadn’t yet made their way to the garbage can and pushed them out of sight. You had definitely forgotten to dust for a while; Solomon picked up one of your books, then hurriedly ducked his head into his elbow to sneeze.

“Sorry. I don’t come here all that often,” you said. Solomon sniffed and put the book back down.

“I have never been inside a human dwelling before. Are they all so…” He trailed off, looking around the room. “So compact?”

“They’re not if you have more money,” you said. “Um. I can get you something to eat or drink? Or get you something to make you more comfortable? You can sit, if you want.”

Solomon scanned the room and his eyes fell on the small, but fairly cushy, couch. He approached it slowly, then, after testing the cushions with a hand, sat down.

It was strange to see him seated on your overly-plush couch. The heavy fur ruff of his cloak and the fine regality of his face were at odds with the barely maintained shabbiness of your apartment. It was like looking at a historical reenactor on break. It just looked off.

“So, uh,” you said, fumbling for something to do with your hands. “How are you doing?”

It was a dumb question, but you were having trouble coming up with things to say. Solomon looked at you. There was something glassy in his expression. You paused in your aimless fidgeting.

“I am…” The words seemed to take considerable effort. He closed his eyes and swayed. You placed the mug you’d grabbed on the counter, fully prepared to lunge for him if he showed signs of fainting.

Fortunately, he only swayed for a moment before his eyes opened again and he slumped back into your cushions. “I have had a long few days,” he said.

“Yeah?” You picked the mug back up and slid it into your coffee maker. You had no idea if he would like it, but you felt like you needed some. “Do you, uh, want to talk about it?”

He gave you a stony look. “Do you know who I am?”

It was such an unbelievably douchey question spoken with such earnestness that you snorted. “No. Not really. You haven’t told me much.”

“I am the Lord Solomon, ruler of the lands from the town to the eastward river,” he said. The words were grand, but his tone was bored. “My mother’s death places me at the top of the line of succession. There had been an enormous amount of political posturing.”

You nodded slowly, trying to process what he was saying. “I wasn’t aware this area had a lord.”

“It may be a bit above mortal understanding,” Solomon said. “We operate outside mortal laws, and our ownership of the land does not fall in line with your understanding.” He flexed his fingers and clenched them into fists repeatedly. His tail twitched back and forth. “Indeed, these past couple of weeks have been stressful.”

“I’m sorry about that,” you said honestly. You picked up your mug, now filled with steaming coffee, and walked over to the couch. He looked up at you as you sat next to him. His eyes flicked toward the mug and you saw him sniff the air curiously. “It’s coffee,” you said. “Do you want some?”

“Yes,” he said. “I know what coffee is.” Your hand was already sort of extended toward him, so he easily reached out and took it from you. Before you could do anything other than stare in surprise, he had tilted it up to his mouth and drained it in a few quick gulps. “Thank you.”

There was one of the Old Ones sitting on your couch and he had just stolen your coffee. Presumably, it would be a very bad idea to yell at him, but you still kind of wanted to. “Okay,” you said in a barely-restrained voice, “Cool. I guess I did offer.”

Solomon caught the irritation in your tone. “I am truly grateful for your assistance. I will admit that I was unwilling to return home.”

“It probably feels weird that she’d not there anymore, right?” you said. Solomon looked at you for a moment, then gave a tiny, hesitant nod. “I know how that feels.” You paused, swallowing hard. “I lost my dad five years ago now. It was rough. I can’t imagine having to deal with lordship on top of all that.”

Solomon kept looking at you with wide eyes. He didn’t seem to believe that you, a lowly mortal human, could comprehend his feelings. You decided to wait until he was feeling better to be insulted by that. “I am sorry for your loss,” he finally said, sounding a little more robotic than sincere. You decided he probably didn’t get out much.

“It’s okay. It was a while ago.” You leaned back on the couch. “You want to talk about it?”

Solomon kept staring at you. “Talk about it?”

“You know. Say all the stuff you’re feeling. It might help,” you said. He kept looking at you. The concept seemed entirely foreign to him. “Um. Like. How are you feeling right now?”

He looked at you for a long, uncertain moment. “Tired,” he finally said. “I am tired. Of trying to manage land squabbles. Of trying to plan my mother’s funeral. From dealing with all the new responsibilities my position entails.” He rubbed his forehead. “And I miss her. I miss being able to see her. I miss being able to speak with her about her responsibilities. I miss hunting with her.” His voice choked and he made a gulping noise that seemed to surprise him. you reached out and tentatively patted his shoulder.

“I know. It’ll get better. But it’s gonna hurt for a long while,” I said. “It’s gonna be hard.” Solomon gave an absent nod, looking down at his cup. “You know, there’s a grief counseling support group in town. If you want to go to it sometimes, I can take you there. I go there still, when it’s bad.”

Solomon looked blank. “A support group?”

“It’s a group of people who all lost someone important to them who get together and talk about their feelings. And they all help each other. You can learn a lot about dealing with grief from going. And sometimes hearing about other people’s problems can make it easier to deal with your own.” Solomon blinked a few times. His eyes were abruptly watery and you realized you weren’t entirely sure how to deal with him suddenly breaking into tears in your living room. You patted his shoulder awkwardly. “It might help? I think? I know you’re not like most of us, but it could still be good. I don’t think grief is all that different across species.”

He inhaled slowly. There was a little tremble in it, like he was still dangerously close to crying. “I think I would like that,” he said. His voice was quiet, but firm.

“Okay,” you said. “It meets Wednesdays.” You paused. “Do you know what Wednesdays are?”

He snorted. “I have a concept of human time.”

“Oh,” you said. “Okay. Good.” You sat in silence for a few more moments. There was still tiredness in the set of Solomon’s shoulders, but he looked more at peace than he had a few moments ago.

Eventually, he got to his feet. “I should return home,” he said. “I will see you again.” He paused. “And thank you.”

“No problem.” You stood up and started to lead him toward the door. “We support each other, you know?” He nodded.

You stayed up for a while after he left your apartment. It felt strange, that such a conversation had taken place between you and an Old One. They seemed so ancient and remote, and yet you had just had a conversation with one on the loss of a parent. And he had seemed utterly normal.

Odd. Not unpleasant, just… odd.

Your shop was quiet the next day, so you spent much of it working on the commission. Your thoughts were occupied with Solomon. How something so powerful had managed to look so vulnerable- it stuck with you.

Solomon didn’t show up for the next few days, which gave you some time to finish the necklace. It was good work, in your opinion, sturdy and beautiful. The long, antler-like branches were designed to rest on the clavicles and twist up the throat.

The necklace was done in time for the meeting on Wednesday, so you packed it into a box and took it with you to your apartment. You usually brought some sort of food with you to the meetings. It seemed polite, and people usually enjoyed it.

When you emerged from your apartment, Solomon was standing there. He was still wearing his heavy robes, with the thick fur ruff, and it was attracting a lot of stares. He didn’t seem to notice it. His eyes locked onto you as soon as you emerged from the building.

“Hello,” he said. “We are still going together, yes?” Despite his serious expression, there was a note of hesitancy in his voice.

“Yeah, we are,” you said. “Come on. I’ll show you the way there.”

It was a cozy little building that the meetings took place in. There were only four other people in the group, and they all stared at Solomon when he walked in. You gave an awkward wave. “Hey. Uh, this is Solomon. We met, uh, recently, and he wanted to come to the meeting.”

The man who led the group, a bulky and intimidating werewolf, locked eyes with you. His confusion and shock were blatantly written across his face. You tried to communicate your own surprise and bewilderment at the situation, but it was difficult when his eyes kept going back to Solomon. Thankfully, the Old One didn’t seem to have noticed. He just crossed the room and took one of the seats.

The meeting went as usual, except for everyone’s glances at Solomon. If he was bothered by their constant staring, he didn’t show it. You occasionally reached out to pat his hand or his leg. Everyone stared when you did that, like you were casually touching the sun itself. He didn’t speak much, except to give the bare basics of his story. But he paid intent attention to the stories of others, apparently interested in what they were saying.

“So,” you said as you stepped outside after the meeting, “how was that?”

“Interesting,” Solomon said. “Everyone just talked about their loved ones and their feelings.”

“Yeah. It helps to talk about the people you love and how you’re dealing with everything. It helps to know there are other people who care,” you said. “Oh, and, uh, by the way, I brought this with me.” You reached into your pocket and removed the small box.

Solomon delicately opened it and looked down at the necklace. He traced its lines with a finger. His lashes fluttered as he blinked rapidly. “She- My mother would have liked it.”

His voice broke. You leaned into his side, letting him rest some of his weight against you. His tail twined around your leg, as if seeking comfort. “You can cry. Remember? We said it was good to cry.”

Solomon shuddered and tears started to drip down his cheeks. He cried in silence, leaning on you heavily. You allowed him to, only speaking to soothe him.

Eventually, he petered out. You offered him a pack of tissues. He mopped at his face. “Thank you,” he said, voice rusty.

“Of course. Like I said, it’s good to have other people you can count on.” You patted his arm gently.

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath. “I was wondering. The funeral is… soon. Perhaps, if you were willing, you would come with me?” You stared. “You do not need to feel obligated. It is just- you have helped me, recently. I feel that it would be nice to have someone there who understands.”

“Sure,” you said. “I’d be okay with that.” Solomon nodded, then reached into his pocket. He retrieved a wad of cash from his pocket and handed it to you. Your mouth dropped open. It was mostly fifties, with several hundred bills wadded up in the middle. “This… I think this is more than we agreed on.”

“You have given me a greater gift than just the necklace, so I feel that I should pay you back in kind.” Solomon squeezed your shoulder. “Thank you. I will see you again soon.”

His form rippled and extended into a massive, serpentine dragon. Its scales reflected opalescently in the sunlight and his antlers gleamed like metal. There were gasps around you, but your eyes were fixed only on him. He looked back at you with a surprising amount of affection for a draconic face, then he swooped upward and vanished. You stared as he vanished into the sky, awe swelling in your chest. “See you again soon,” you said, half to yourself. “And thank you, too.”

[isabelinlove]

Title: Love in the Year 3000

Word Count: 713

Summary: Isabel and the Doctor ring in the new year. Well, a new year.

The year: 3000. Well, half an hour from 3000 to be exact. Isabel and the Doctor had found themselves at a New Year’s Eve party nearly a thousand years in the future and a billion miles from earth, orbiting the planet Llezephus in a leisure ship designed specifically for grand celebrations. Music was blasting, drinks were flowing, and the atmosphere was filled with excitement and anticipation. After all, it wasn’t every night that one got to ring in the dawn of a new millennium. The ship was appropriately decorated for the event, with tinsel lining the walls and hundreds of shiny silver stars hanging from the ceiling, and a number of unusual guests roamed the room. At one table, several women with very tall, eccentric hairstyles gossiped, and at another, a group of gelatinous orange aliens were playing poker. The crowd was so diverse and unusual that Isabel hardly felt out of place, despite the fact that she was, by all means, a stranger in a strange land.

Across from her at the bar, the Doctor was conversing in his usual charming manner with a group of purple aliens with tentacles. His face lit up and his arms moved wildly as he spoke, and they seemed very engaged in what he had to say. Isabel smiled to herself as she watched him. She had always admired how he could become friends with anyone he talked to. Being much more reserved than him, she had never possessed that skill herself. Partway through the conversation, he noticed her looking at him and shot her a grin and a wink. She smiled back and gave him a little wave, hoping he didn’t notice how much she was blushing. Even though they had been together for quite some time, he was still too damn good at flustering her.

As the Doctor continued his conversation, Isabel turned her attention to the window in front of her table. The atmosphere of Llezephus swirled wispy green as the ship orbited slowly by, and the stars seemed to shine more brightly than usual. It was odd; here she was, on a New Year’s Eve just like any other, with living beings not unlike her friends back home, but so far away from anything she had ever experienced before. It was so familiar and yet so foreign at the same time.

A hand on Isabel’s shoulder quickly brought her out of her reverie.

“What are you thinking about?” the Doctor asked, smiling down at her.

“Oh, nothing. Just how strange this all is,” she said, turning to look up at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, here I am, ringing in a year that I wouldn’t have ever seen in my lifetime. I’d have been dead and buried for nearly a thousand years. But now I get to experience it just like anyone else at this party. It’s just… crazy.”

“Are you alright?” the Doctor asked, looking at her with concern. “I know this can all be a bit… much sometimes… and I really wanted you to have fun tonight, I didn’t mean to send you into an existential crisis… you know, if you want to go home, we can leave right now-” he started to ramble.

“Doctor.” she said sternly, cutting him off. He looked at her with wide eyes. “I’m fine. More than fine, as a matter of fact. I love traveling with you. You’ve given me everything I could ever want and more. I can’t imagine how boring my life would have been without you.”

“Oh. Well, erm, that’s good to hear,” he replied, beginning to blush.

“Trust me, Doctor. I can handle it. The weirdness, the craziness, even the occasional existential crisis. I promise. It’s all worth it. Especially if I get to be with you.” That made him blush even harder. All of a sudden, the clock began to chime. It was almost midnight.

“Well, shall we?” the Doctor asked with a grin.

“Absolutely,” she replied.

They counted down the seconds with the rest of the crowd. When the clock struck midnight, Isabel pulled the Doctor down by the tie and kissed him passionately.

“Happy New Year, Doctor,” she said, looking up at him with a smirk.

“Happy New Year, Isabel,” he replied before kissing her back.

[killjoysfromyesterday]

this is me compiling a list of my strangely obscure special interests

-tom waits and heath ledger’s voice overlap

-2000’s rock bands (primarily mcr, ptv, and hawthorne heights)

-comic books but very specifically anything with vampires or railroad heists

-amusement park gore/animatronic malfunctions (yes i was a five nights at freddy’s kid)

-lady and the tramp

-the navi language from avatar. i will talk about this for hours. they have a completely free word order, it’s honestly a groundbreaking concept for linguistics

-robin williams. i have most of his jumanji parts memorized as well as the california catatonic skit

-man of the millennium by george carlon which i can recite from memory at this point (just. memorization in general is also a big one)

-slaughterhouse five, catcher in the rye, of mice and men, basically any gruesome coming of age classic novels

-and of course, shiny things. rings, crystals, statues, glassware, etc

[aion-rsa]

How Halo Infinite Became the Franchise’s Own Star Wars: The Force Awakens

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

Even though it’s technically a sequel to 2015’s Halo 5: Guardians, Halo Infinite‘s mission was not so much to continue the story of the Reclaimer Saga and all the Cortana and Forerunner baggage that comes with it. Yes, there’s still a bit of that throughout Halo Infinite’s 10-15 hour story campaign, but the game’s main concern, as Master Chief crash lands on yet another mysterious Halo ring, is to recapture the magic of 2001.

From the opening space mission, it’s clear that Halo Infinite wants its 30+ year old fandom who bought the original Xbox two decades ago to feel nostalgic for the days of “The Silent Cartographer,” funny Cortana quips, and LAN parties. Overall, the game succeeds as a legacy sequel full of easter eggs and callbacks, even if at times it seems like the story wants to deconstruct the legend of Master Chief, show how it’s imperfect, and reveal the scars left behind after the fall of Cortana.

There are moments when the writers seem to want to do for John-117 what Star Wars: The Last Jedi did for Luke Skywalker, even putting him in the role of teacher for the game’s new AI character, an interesting inverse to his relationship with Cortana. But the story feels at its weakest when trying to communicate how those complex character beats relate to the ongoing Forerunner mumbo jumbo that makes up the overall plot. The story is full of the vague proper nouns that pervade other shooters of its ilk, like Destiny: the Conservatory, the Auditorium, the Harbinger, etc. Not that the original trilogy didn’t do this too, but fans cared about the Flood, the Index, the Arbiter, and the Ark.

Halo Infinite‘s attempt to go back to the franchise’s roots by packing an open-world full of familiar sights and sounds from Combat Evolved is a clear sign Reclaimer lore hasn’t quite captured the imagination in the same way. In fact, one of the biggest criticisms developer 343 Industries has faced since 2012’s Halo 4 is that their games deviated too far from the story and tone fans knew and loved. At the very least, Evil Cortana did not sit well.

But in Halo Infinite, you’re back on a Halo ring, shooting your way through Grunts, Elites, Jackals, and Brutes with your new, fast-quipping AI pal, The Weapon, who also happens to be voiced by legendary Cortana voice actor Jen Taylor. Together, you team up with cannon-fodder space marines, riding into enemy territory on Warthogs and tanks, and taking down the aliens with Battle Rifles, Needlers, and Gravity Hammers. To use another Star Wars comparison, it all feels like Han and Chewie taking command of the Millennium Falcon for the first time in 30 years. This is Halo‘s The Force Awakens.

Halo Infinite dishes the familiar setting and setup but in a shiny new package for next-gen consoles (not that Halo Infinite‘s graphics are particularly cutting-edge, I actually found them to be a bit underwhelming for an Xbox Series X flagship title). The game opens on a UNSC ship in space, with Master Chief navigating the chaos of a space battle gone terribly wrong, and he’s quickly given a reason to land on Zeta Halo, a mysterious ring that the Banished have captured after annihilating humanity’s forces there.

The Banished themselves call back to the original trilogy’s Covenant in very specific ways. While not directly associated with Halo 2‘s Tartarus and the Brute uprising on High Charity (if you know, you know), the Banished are another faction that broke away from the larger Covenant alliance to form their own galactic superpower. Like the Covenant, the Banished want to reactivate the Halo ring for a very specific purpose that nods to the Flood without actually including the gruesome parasitic species, and it’s up to Master Chief, The Weapon, and a very nervous Pelican pilot (referred to as Echo-216 for most of the game) to stop them.

If all that’s not enough of a nostalgia trip for you, wait until you have boots on the ground. Halo Infinite‘s open world is heavily inspired by one particular section of Combat Evolved: the Silent Cartographer level that remains one of the franchise’s most famous maps with its tall mountains, thick woods, and sandy beaches. Despite boasting a larger setting than past games, Halo Infinite‘s environments never really deviate from the familiar aesthetic and color palette. In fact, it’s arguably to a fault. Infinite lacks the more diverse terrains of past Halo games altogether — there’s no snow area, for example — although the game does let you explore a few high-tech Forerunner installations throughout the adventure that break up the monotony a little bit.

In general, the large map, which is broken up into several sections, is another one of the game’s weak points when it comes to pacing and activities outside of the main story missions (which are generally fantastic). Repetitive side quests and a largely empty map beyond the few points of interest scattered across the ring break up the action more than Halo fans will be used to. You’ll spend a lot of time driving from point A to point B to get to new missions, most of which can be placed in one of three categories: clear the enemy base, find a piece of loot, or kill the high-value target. You’ll have to do these over and over again in slightly different ways in order to 100% Halo Infinite, and it may make you wonder why the open world structure was even necessary, especially after you’re a few hours in and realize the map really has nothing new to offer you beyond what’s already been established.

But then the story missions come in and you’re thankful for the more wide open level design that allows you to tackle objectives in more than one way. In some instances, there are even multiple paths you can take to complete a mission or clear an area — again a nice return to the old Combat Evolved way of doing things over the much more linear Halo 4 and 5. The bigger spaces mean you can employ more vehicles and also make good use of Halo Infinite‘s greatest innovation: the Grapple Shot, a grappling hook that adds more verticality to the experience beyond Master Chief’s traditional long jump. It also speeds the gameplay up significantly, a cure to the franchise’s historically plodding traversal woes of the past. The Grapple Shot gives you more movement and combat options than any other Halo gadget to date. It’s simply spectacular and by far Infinite’s best addition to the classic formula of guns, grenades, and melee.

While not exactly a newcomer to the saga, Jen Taylor’s turn as The Weapon is the game’s other great addition and one of the main sources of nostalgia in Halo Infinite. Since The Weapon is a brand new AI companion only starting to understand the long-running conflict between humanity and the Halo rings, it allows Taylor and longtime Master Chief voice actor Steve Downes to replay many of the hits that made John and Cortana such lovable characters in 2001.

Chief is deadly serious, and even though you never see the face under the helmet, you know he’s not smiling. It’s up to Taylor once again to introduce much of the humor. Fortunately, the writing is so often funny — whether it’s The Weapon low-key roasting Chief or pointing out how ridiculous their predicament is at times — and Taylor absolutely nails the performance. After all these years, Taylor knows Cortana and is able to find a slightly different voice and tone for The Weapon that’s nonetheless familiar and comforting.

Ultimately, those are the key words to describing the Halo Infinite experience: “familiar” and “comforting.” In Halo Infinite, you don’t “finish the fight” as much as you relive it. It feels great to be back as Master Chief, on a mysterious new Halo ring full of secrets to discover, and with another AI companion by your side. Like The Force Awakens, this is the old story told in a slightly new way and for the most part it works.

Halo Infinite is out now on Xbox consoles, PC, and on the cloud through Xbox Game Pass.

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The post How Halo Infinite Became the Franchise’s Own Star Wars: The Force Awakens appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3pMwhN5

[hazbincalifornia]

Revelations

Chapter 21: Stolas and Blitzo have a talk. Two of them, in fact.

Warnings: Mpreg

Likes, replies, and reblogs are all appreciated, both here and on ao3!

Ao3 link

“I wonder if I’d be unlucky enough for it to be twins.” Blitzo’s fingers traced over the dome of his stomach as Stolas’s head twisted to the side. They were taking another break- the weird heat had broken with a body full of sore muscles to show for it, and it was nice to have a moment to relax. Stolas had offered some kind of smoothie made from one of his plants that had helped soothe the aches some and bring his energy back up after another nap. For now, though, resting against Stolas’s side was a good enough way to catch a few extra breaths- he’d leave later in the afternoon. Probably. It was comfortable, here, and it was much harder to peel himself off the sheets than it should have been. (To be fair, he was pretty sure he'd impaled one of the pillows with his spikes, which helped with that.)

“Hmm? I’d be able to sense that- there’s only you and the one little one in there.”

“Yeah, well, you said you couldn’t knock me up either. Your judgement’s not great,” Blitzo said, leaning back to stare at the dark, velvety top of the canopy. Fancy-ass bed. It was comfy, at least- and helped where he might have popped something in his hips.

Stolas gave a little chuckle. “That was a mistake on my part, and we’re both thinking clearly now, aren’t we?” He tiptoed his slender fingers over Blitzo’s belly. “More than we’ve been for the past few days, at least. It’s just the one, I’m afraid... although twins would be nice.”

“Yeah, no.” Blitzo scoffed. “They’d hold hands and laugh and frolic before life tears ‘em apart like it does to everybody. Happy shiny faces getting dragged down to the dirt because somebody's always gotta beat somebody else, and then it’s gonna suck shit for both of them because they used to be happy and know what it was like. Only one kid’s better, that way they don’t have somethin’ to lose right from the get-go. They'll have u- you, that's enough.” He paused. “Plus, I’m not squeezing two little bastards out, I want to be able to reuse my man-cave all nice and tight again sometime this millennium.”

Stolas blinked all four eyes, index fingertip pressed down just above Blitzo’s bellybutton. “Something you’d like to tell me, Blitzy darling?”

Blitzo looked down at him before slumping his head back, tail idly curling around the owl’s arm just to feel something soft.

“Nah, just musing.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” Stolas pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’m going to go check on Via, then we’ll see about one more round before you have to go back to reality.”

Blitzo sank back down into oblivion as Stolas’s weight left the bed, and he rubbed his stomach as he heard the door click shut. “You’re gonna have him, at least, and you’ll grow up in a mansion. Lucky little bastard. You’re gonna have to annoy him for me so he knows what you were like in my guts, got it, squirt?”

In response, junior nudged against his palm, and he hummed a little, snuggling down into the warmth of how their smells mixed together in the blankets.

_____________

Blitzo had tugged on one of Stolas’s shirts, having given up on finding his mesh one again- Stolas would probably unearth it inside a pillowcase in a week or something. The lopsided Loo-Loo Land apple was stretched out just slightly by his stomach, but the fabric going to just past his knees made it more like a dress than a top. Whatever, he looked damn good in dresses, and right now it smelled like Stolas and sex and had a cozy warmth and he liked that.

“So, what’re you going to do with them once they’re out?” Blitzo asked, idly rubbing his stomach at a nudge from the inside. Stolas clicked his tongue.

“Well, first, I’ll need to get things for the nursery. Some of it will be fine either way, like a crib and some basic clothes, but some will be better for imps and some for owls, we’ll see how they come out. Via tore through plenty of toys when she was little, her beak was razor-sharp right from birth!”

Blitzo grinned. “Oooh, are you going to use one of the guest rooms?” He stepped out into the room and waved a hand, fingers spread apart over his head as he painted a picture in his mind. “With a big starry mobile or something, that’d look nice.”

Stolas shook his head. “Oh, no no no. They’re going to your apartment. You’ll be the one housing them.”

"Ah, right- wait." It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room, and his fingers froze in midair, twitching before dropping \like dead birds. “You want me to what?”

“To house them?" A pause “Wait, you didn’t realize-” Stolas blinked, clicking his tongue. “Oh, poor Blitzy.” Blitzo barely noticed the brief dip into the baby-talk voice because the floor seemed to be melting underneath him, along with his legs. “I assumed it was obvious. You’ve seen first-hand the fact that there’s people after me who would use them as bait. I can’t exactly keep them in a cage in the basement, and goodness, I wouldn’t want to, they’re a child! They’d be interrogated relentlessly because of their half-imp blood, not to mention I don’t doubt that my wife might invite some sort of…” He cleared his throat. “Accident. It’s for their own safety.”

Blood bubbled thick and sticky in Blitzo’s cheeks. “Are you kidding me? That wasn’t what I signed up for! Six months, that was it!” He took a step back, but as his tail nervously flicked in the air and smacked something, he realized that he was about to hit the wall. Stolas was a towering force as the prince crossed the distance between them again with a single smooth motion.

“You signed up for this ‘as long as I agreed to help.’ I’ll give you as much monetary assistance as I can, of course, and I do plan to help in-person as often as possible, I care for both of you and this was-“

“That’s still- I can’t handle a fucking baby! Loona was seventeen when I adopted her!”

“You’re smart, Blitzy.” Stolas’s fingers cupped Blitzo’s chin and tilted it upwards. He’d never felt smaller, Stolas’s frame nearly blocking out the overhead light from this angle. “You care about your hellhound and your little employees plenty. I know you, you'll figure it out. Come now, I don’t intend to leave you to flounder, we both wanted this-”

“So you’re just making me do all the hard parts? Fuck you!” Blitzo’s chest was pumping like billows as he was caught on the edge of hyperventilation. “This is- this is just-”

“This is what you agreed to,” Stolas said, quietly but firmly. “You love your daughter as much as I love mine- when you’re less hormonal, you’ll agree with me. I’ll still do my part, and you’ll do yours, my little imp. It’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll be there for them, but it's not my fault you never asked what would happen.” The hand against his face warmed, and when Blitzo’s eyes flickered down, both it and his stomach were glowing.

"You were the one all gung-ho about it, I just figured you wanted to deal with that shit." He swallowed as the pieces snapped into place, and wished desperately he’d brought some kind of weapon to smash directly in Stolas’s fucking face with that concerned little fucking smile like everything was perfectly fine and dandy and not falling to bloody, future-destroying pieces.

There was always a catch. 

“I can’t get rid of it now.”

“I cast a protection spell when you made the deal,” Stolas said, crouching down and still somehow being slightly taller as his gaze dragged Blitzo all the way to the bottom of the Rings. “To be sure you wouldn’t go back on your word. They’re safer that way- both of you are.”

Blitzo scooted sideways and shoved Stolas’s hand away, the glow fading as he did. “I need to go.”

“What’s the hurry? I thought we were having a good time. I know this must be surprising, but it's an honor for-”

“Something at work. Urgent. Just remembered. They need me.” His tail curled up and around his belly and squeezed, the point digging into the side. “The heat’s gone, we’re done here.”

“Don’t do anything irrational, darling,” Stolas said, straightening up just as there was a pounding on the door. “Who is it?”

“Me, sir.” It took Blitzo a few seconds to clock the voice as the butler’s. It had been eons since he’d last heard it.

“What’s so important? I’m in the middle of something.” Stolas’s tone dipped to irritation as the butler pushed the door open.

“It’s your wife, your highness. She returned home early.”

[elexica]

Always Tomorrow

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26433880

A gift from a while back to @alectoperdita​; part of my AU-Gust 2020 Project; and it’s about time I cross posted it to Tumblr. Summary:  Joey is a tattoo artist who specializes in Duel Monsters and scar coverage. Kaiba is a walk-in client. Tags and Trigger Warnings:  Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, AU-gust 2020, ygocollablove, Scars, lot of talking about scars, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, BUT only about the scars, Pre-Slash, but there is SO much yearning, Hurt/Comfort, but honestly mostly comfort, oops all comfort Full fic under the cut:

. . .

“Tell me something. You ever felt this way? The burdens of this life, they've really got a way of dragging you real far down to the ground.”

-          “Master of My Own Mind” by Best Coast

. . .

“We don’t take walk-ins,” Joey said.  His shirt was rolled up to the elbow, revealing intricate tattoo sleeves.  A Red-Eyes Black Dragon screamed around his forearm, moving back and forth as he handled the cash register system.  Kaiba’s eyes lingered on the smooth lines of the wings paired with the sharp forms of the scales.  And that wasn’t the only eye-catching ink that Joey was sporting—Kaiba was entranced by a series of watercolor scapegoats and kanji trailed down his neck and disappeared into the plain black shirt that read “Eat, Sleep, Duel Monsters.”  

Kaiba’s eyes widened. “But this is a tattoo parlor.  And I saw your picture on the website, you’re Joey Wheeler.  I like your work.  Is there anything that would prevent you from completing a tattoo at this time?”

“Company policy,” Joey shrugged, revealing the tip of Flame Swordsman’s flaming sword, poking out from under his collar.  “We can’t just drop everything for everyone who wanders in.  There’s a system.” It must be a very large piece, Kaiba reasoned, given the size of the flame.  He wanted desperately to see more of it.

“Name the price.  I can pay upfront.”

Joey shrugged again. “I’ve got a schedule, man.”

Kaiba removed his credit card, placing the heavy material on the glass countertop.  The glossy black card opened many doors for him.  An assortment of rings for various piercings were posed in black velvet in the case beneath.

“You are clearly not busy.”  

Joey looked offended and went back to logging inventory.

Kaiba was not a man who was skillful in pleading—but he was more than capable at negotiation.  The card clicked threateningly on the counter as Kaiba impatiently tapped it.  

“Fine.  Are you available for a consultation?”

Joey smiled warmly, recognizing his own victory.  “Now we’re talkin’, c’mon back.”

Kaiba followed obediently, gawking over the large sigil of the millennium eye that all but glowed at the nape of his neck.  The longer blond strands of his hair brushed against the icon’s upper eyelid.  

The hallway turned into an actual, honest-to-god office, which was the last thing Kaiba expected. Joey pulled out a sketchbook as he leaned against his black desk.  Joey waved one hand for Kaiba to sit, a swirling monochrome haze behind the image of the cartoon time wizard with his little scepter.

“So, what are you thinking? You’re tall as hell, so there’s plenty of canvas!” Joey laughed, all sunshine and shiny white teeth.  

Kaiba’s cheeks burned as he drummed up the will to answer the question.  “In my research, you have something of a specialty in scar cover-ups.” Kaiba was not a man who would cower in his own shame.  But the thought of baring himself completely, his secrets and those eternal marks of his loss, for this stranger… it stung at his dignity.  He needed to do something today, or he would lose the will.

Joey’s smile dimmed compassionately.  This was not going to be a routine intake appointment.  He prided himself on careful and clever scar coverage, but those appointments usually took on a different tenor.  Few people have scars from positive experiences, and the raw intensity of Joey’s client gave the clear impression that it would hardly be a routine appointment.

“I do,” Joey swallowed, “So, what are we working with?”

It was such a simple question.  Kaiba adjusted the cufflinks on his wrists nervously.  He had promised himself he wouldn’t be ashamed.  There was nothing that he had done wrong.

He wished Mokuba had come with him.  It was his idea in the first place.

Joey was suddenly very close, just inches away.  “Hey, it’s alright.  Take a breath.”

Kaiba did not want to obey his command, but he couldn’t resist a sharp intake of breath.  He released it slowly, as if to prove a point. He wasn’t freaking out.  

“For a lotta people, tattoos that cover scars transform a person’s relationship to their body, and to what happened to ‘em.  It can be part of the healing process,” Joey said, slowly.  The sheer volume of his empathy weighed down his words and made them linger in Kaiba’s mind.

Transform.  Happened. Healing.

Kaiba continued to take long, intentional breaths.  The scars burned at the back of his neck and across his back.

Joey reached out a hand towards Kaiba’s face before thinking better of making contact.  The hand froze there, suspended close to his cheekbone. It was then that Kaiba realized his eyes were leaking tears.  Joey had moved to wipe them away.

This whole event was too humiliating, Kaiba thought.  And he couldn’t do it.  

“This was a bad idea,” Kaiba said, sucking in enough air to straighten his back.  He bore a hole in the wall with his eyes, trying to absorb any collateral moisture.  

“Hey, for a lotta people, it’s a part of reclaiming your body, after something hard,” Joey curled his fingers around the hem of his shirt and revealed a gnarly scar just above his right hip.  It was composed of a lot of smaller cuts, webbed together in a semi-circle. The raised skin had been left exposed, with dashes of black woven in to create the swirl at the center of the “Polymerization” card.  The only colors were those of the orange dragons swimming around the vortex in their own lazy waves.  “It was for me.  My friend Yugi did this one.”

Joey reached out, and slowly took Kaiba’s hand.  

“It doesn’t have to cover the whole thing, if you don’t want it too.  See!”

He drew Kaiba’s hand in, softly bringing Kaiba’s fingertips to his skin.  Kaiba’s arm was entirely tense, and he could have pulled back at any time.  But he couldn’t resist—the curiosity bubbled within him.  The pads of his fingers skimmed over the scar tissue in its randomness, and the disciplined smooth black stripes emanating from the twisted center.  Kaiba was almost shocked at how warm Joey’s skin was.  He wanted desperately to touch more, but when Joey dropped his hand, Kaiba withdrew it.  

“Alright, I showed you mine.  You feelin’ up to showing me yours?”  Joey’s grin was so painfully warm.

Kaiba couldn’t help but nod. He began to unbutton his shirt. Button by button, Kaiba kept his breathing steady by force of will.  The rise and fall of his chest felt especially vulnerable with his buttons undone. He moved to his cufflinks.

“Ah, shirt’s fine, but ya gotta warn me if the pants are comin’ off too!” Joey said with a gentle laugh. Joey’s eyes were undeniably glued to Kaiba’s abs, which made Kaiba’s breathing even more fragile.

Kaiba paused, fingers fumbling with the cufflink on his right hand.  “It… just my shirt.”  Kaiba spent his life speaking in eloquent sentences that drove investors to throw money at any idea that so must as sparked in his mind.  He gave talks at industry conventions that brought the consumer electronics world to its knees.  And he couldn’t force out a full sentence in front of this man.

“It’s okay,” Joey reassured. It didn’t feel practiced or put on. It almost felt like talking to a therapist.

Kaiba tugged off his shirt in one smooth move.  

Finally, it was Joey’s turn to have the wind knocked out of him.  

Kaiba braced for the inevitable questions.  Those long, deep, even lines across his back scorched under the other man’s stare. And the little lines at the nape of his neck seared.  The best lie that Kaiba had brainstormed on his way over was that it was a very bizarre car accident.  Kaiba stressed internally that perhaps Joey thought Kaiba had done this on purpose, though the mechanics would have been infeasible.

But, like a professional, Joey didn’t ask any questions.  He didn’t gasp.  He didn’t even gawk for a significant amount of time.

“Alright!” Joey said, perhaps a touch too upbeat.  “So, what’re we talkin’?”

Kaiba inhaled very slowly and began to replace his light blue Oxford shirt.  “You, clearly, appreciate Duel Monsters.”

“Ha!  Appreciate is a diplomatic way ta put it!  I’m one a’ the greatest duelists that Domino has eva seen!” Joey’s smile was back to beaming at full wattage, like he hadn’t just witnessed Kaiba’s secret torture.

Kaiba was determined not to highlight his position in Kaiba Corp.  The last thing he needed was this man to know everything—or make any educated guesses.  He was already trying to slough off the sensation of being pitied.  Still, he’d have to put this amateur in his place.  “I have been called the Prince of Cards, and was National Champion, but now is hardly the time—”

Joey put down the Duel Disk he had grabbed from a drawer in his desk.  “Yeah, not the time.”

Kaiba failed to suppress a smirk.  It was jarring how quickly this man could bring him back to himself.  “Anyway, I thought I could cover the… damage on the back with the Blue Eyes Ultimate Dragon.”

Joey nodded.  “That sounds super sick!! But that is going to take a lot of planning.  And you want—”

“Nothing to show through. I was sort of imagining it in the style of a Yakuza boss.  Just very powerful.”

Joey looked up, imagining it in his mind’s eye.  “Alright, I can take down the information and draw up some sketches.  That would be a very expensive piece, and pretty time consuming for both of us.”

“Money is no object,” Kaiba stated, ice cold and prideful.

“Is there anything else you’re thinking of?” Joey asked.

Kaiba’s hand flew to the back of his neck.  “A very small piece of code.  I’ll write it down.”  

The pad was heavier than Kaiba had anticipated, and Kaiba almost trembled as he wrote out the phrase: “pid_t pid = fork();”.

“I have never done a tattoo like that!” Joey remarked. “This won’t fully cover the scar.”

Kaiba nodded sternly. “That’s fine.  It actually should go between the lines.  It’s a very specific piece of code: it’s the basic invocation of a ‘fork,’ which is how a program splits itself and spawns new programs. It’s critical to the function of any Linux system, anywhere.  One process starts when you boot up, and then it’s all forks from there.”

“Uh, ok.  And what does that have to do with you, exactly?” Joey raised an eyebrow, affecting a serious “thinking” face.

“I don’t believe in fate. I make my choices and I live with them. For me, it means that I am always at a new decision point, and I build my life on these decision points.  No one else builds it for me,” Kaiba looked directly into Joey’s attentive caramel eyes.  “And my past does not define me.  I am one fork away from a new program.  The next challenge.  A new life.”  

The explanation spread a smile across Joey’s face. “That would take me maybe, thirty minutes?  I could do it now, if you’d like.  In that spot, it would hurt like a bitch, but something tells me—”

“Pain is no object.”

“Yeah, right, so, if you’re still determined to walk out of here with a tatt, we can do that,” Joey said.

Kaiba smiled, just a tiny bit.  “I’d like that.”

 FIN

 . . .

“For me there's always tomorrow, even when I'm drowning in my sorrows. I gotta focus, gotta rewind, gotta stay the master of my own mind.”

-          Best Coast “Master of My Own Mind”

  The whole fic is really inspired by a difficult time in my life, and this really great Best Coast song, “Master of My Own Mind,” which everyone should listen to, because it’s very compelling.

Credit to my irl boy Jack for the coding tattoo idea that I don’t *think* has been done before! Without him, this would be “hello world” lol!

Like the boys with tattoos? You'd love Alecto's work, "A Fool's Puzzle" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/23464288).

Image credit:  Photo by Sebastian Voortman from Pexels Edits by me.  

[v-thinks-on]

It was a gaudy piece of jewelry, entirely golden and heavier than it looked, with a thick band supporting a sizable golden eye, identical to the one in the Duel Monsters advertisements, and the seller had claimed it was cursed.

Takao slid the ring onto his finger, just to try it on.

There was a flash of blinding light.

“Who dares trespass on the domain of my soul?” demanded a disembodied voice that was stern, but not quite deep enough to be commanding.

Takao stumbled backwards and barely managed to remain on his feet. When his vision returned he saw a translucent young man not much older than himself but much taller, with bright green hair, standing in front of him pointedly unamused. His torso was bare but laden with gold jewelry, and around his waist he wore a white pleated skirt.

“What the!?” Takao exclaimed, “Who are you? What are you doing in my bedroom?”

“I should be asking that of you, as you are the one who intruded upon me,” the apparition answered.

Takao had no idea what was going on, whether he was delusional or talking to a ghost, but he composed himself as much as he could, put on a sardonic smile and went with it. “Where are my manners? My name is Takao Kazunari, I'm a first year at Shutoku High School. I didn't mean to disturb whatever you were doing, I just put on this shiny ring here” - he held out his hand to show it to the apparition and noticed that the man was wearing a matching ring on his left hand - “and well, here you are. It must be my lucky day!”

He glared at Takao, but didn't seem to know what to make of him.

Uncover the mysteries of Millennium Basketball!

[mainstream-deviant]

Deathshipping Week - Day 7!

@deathshippingweek

Day 7 - Free (Yes, I took that as a literal prompt. When I gave my brain free reign, it came back with ‘no thoughts. brain empty.’ so here we are. ;P)

Length: a "long" one (1025ish), under the cut or here on A03 YM name-of-the-day: he doesn't have one. :( Tags: Angst, hopeful ending tho, Big Feels, AU only insofar as this presumes they met and bonded during BC, post-cannon, Ryou POV and he's not impressed with how things turned out, but he's gonna fix it

*******

Ryou scrubbed away angry tears as he scratched out another line. This was going to work. It had to. It was horrifically unfair that Malik’s other half should be doomed to an eternity in shadows when the other spirits had been given another chance. He’d done nothing worse than them. Arguably, he had been the best behaved of the lot, given his situation. Atem may have come a long way, but Ryou had heard the stories. He burned people just for the hell of it, in those early days. And Bakura may have had his reasons, but ending the whole world was excessive. And yet still they had been given the chance to grow, and change, and eventually to live again.

Malik’s other half hadn’t even had the chance to pick out a name.

The thought brought a barely-repressed sob to his throat as it brought up memories of sitting around in the dark corners of the blimp, tossing potential names back and forth like badly-aimed ping pong balls. Ryou remembered watching in fascination as a myriad of emotions flittered across his companion’s face with each new suggestion. Disgust, amusement, anger – and even something that threatened to be a sort of quiet contentment, which would flicker away as fast as it appeared.

Maybe Malik’s shadow hadn’t done much that would be considered ‘good’ in his time, but Ryou had seen the tantalizing glimmers of the man he could be, and damn it, he at least deserved a chance.

And if the gods weren’t going to do it themselves, then Ryou was well and truly prepared to force the issue.

The flung the carving blade away to clatter into a corner of the room, forgotten, and wrenched open his bag. He yanked out the millennium ring and stared it down, as though the force of his glare alone would make it to perform the miracle he was about to demand of it.

Bakura and Atem had reappeared with copies of their items when they were pushed out of the shadows. The items had promptly been declared inert. Magically meaningless - albeit a nice aesthetic callback to their lives from Before. And maybe that’s really all they were, but they were also all Ryou had access to. The original items – including the rod – were far out of reach. The two shiny replicas were the closest thing he had to something that connected directly to the shadows.

And so he’d stolen the ring. It seemed the appropriate thing to do, anyways.

He gripped the outer edges of the gold so tightly his knuckles shone white in the low light. He pressed it hard to his forehead and hissed to the eye in its centre. “So help me, copy or not, you will do ONE good thing in your miserable existence, and this is it.”

He held it out, trying to ignore the trembling of his fingers. He had no time to give up to grief or rage just yet. He leaned forward and set the ring firmly in the centre of the circle with both hands, pressing it down into the stone as his hair brushed along its edges, making a curtain to keep his whispered words only his own. “Bring him back to me.”

With that, Ryou leaned back, used a waiting blade to slash a cut across his unscarred palm, and smacked it down to complete the circle.

This had to work.

In the first breathless seconds, nothing happened but a swirl of memories and the slow tickle of tears trailing down his cheeks. His breath hitched. “Give him back.” He thought back to quiet secret nights of whispered stories, of shared laughter over a brand of humour no one ever before had found funny, of the heady feeling of finally being understood, and the shared awkwardness of not knowing at all what to do with the sensation. “Please.” He closed his eyes against more tears, clinging hard to the feeling of desperate hope that had found him when the shadows first opened up to release their captives, and not the crushing disappointment that had forced the feeling out when only two had emerged.

The circle remained lifeless.

His sob echoed off the walls as he wrapped his arms around his middle and clenched his cut hand into a fist, heedless of the pain as his wound ripped open further. It wasn’t fair. Why didn’t he get to keep someone precious? What made him so underserving of that small courtesy? With a wordless yell, lifted his bloody palm and smacked it wetly down on the stone with all the force of his frustration and pain.

The spell flared to life. The shock of it was surely the only thing that kept Ryou’s hand in place as the circle burned to life, pure white and blindingly, painfully bright. And just like that, it was done. Ryou blinked the stars from his eyes and tried to bring the room back into focus. There was a rustle of material in front of him, and he blinked harder until a slouched form emerged from the haze in his vision.

Ryou’s voice cracked when he first opened his mouth, but he forced the words out of his tight throat anyways. “Is that you?”

There was a long pause as the room slowly swam back into focus. “…Ryou?”

Ryou launched himself forward, flinging his arms around the body in front of him as a fresh wave of tears burst forth. The body was warm and solid and real in his grip, and he sobbed when he felt arms circle his frame to hold him back just as tightly. “Ryou? What happened? How the fuck am I here?”

Ryou buried his face into the warm shoulder and laced his fingers through the wild hair he thought had been stolen away forever. “Because you have to be.”

After a beat of silence, he felt his companion nod, and cup a hand around the back of Ryou’s head to tuck him more firmly into his hold as his tears slowly drained away. “Ok.” He settled back and buried his face into Ryou’s hair. “I can do that.”