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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months

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Dirty Work 6

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: I had the worst Monday that could have ever existed. Onto Tuesday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

"I trust this should be amenable to your work," Mr. Laufeyson holds open the door along the east wall of his study. One you've never opened before though you're familiar with the space within. The library also opens into the hallway and keeps you busier than many of the other rooms. "When you should require it. I expect much of your work will keep you afoot."

You peer past him, his tall figure like a second shadow. You clutch your kit tight and nod. You didn't exactly bring the tools for this new role.

"I should have a blank ledger somewhere, oh and a pen of course," he advises, "given our new... arrangement, I would require a contact point."

You nod and tear your attention from the full shelves and luxurious velvet chaise. You won't get to enjoy those but they give the space a much more welcome feel than the rest of the house. You face Mr. Laufeyson as he keeps the door propped open with his foot. He slides out his phone as if it's a task.

"Never to worry, I wouldn't bother you much so long as you do your work adequately," he assures, "but in case of... emergency."

"Oh, erm," you sputter and reach into your hoodie pocket, revealing the tiny flip phone.

"Hm, vintage," he muses, "as you would."

He holds his phone, gesturing to it with his other hand. You teethe your lip before you recall the digits of your number. Your plan doesn't include a lot of talk minutes but he doesn't promise much of that. He keys them into his screen.

"You'll have mine," he taps his thumb and your phone chimes. "In case."

"Thanks, uh, Mr. Laufeyson."

"Mmmm," he hums again. "Suppose you would need some sort of proper device, a computer of sorts." He clucks and checks his watch, dropping his arm with a huff, "I've an important event shortly, I'll try to venture by the electronics shop before I return.”

You nod and fold your phone, slipping it away as you peek back into the library. He inhales deeply, "suppose you should begin. The list is on the writing desk.”

You accept the command easily. You’re even thankful for it. It gives you a proper reason to find distance. You go to the desk and look over the typed list. You don’t sit, hesitating as you wonder if it would seem lazy, maybe even presumptuous.

“Let me fetch that ledger,” he says before letting the door drift closed.

You run your finger over the top line. ‘Create a schedule’. Hmmm. You look over the bullets that fill the paper. You can only assume he refers to all of that. It’s straightforward, you can handle a schedule. It’s everything that comes after that gives you doubt.

“And you’ll have to review what my wife, ex that is, left in shambles,” Mr. Laufeyson interrupts as he pushes through again. “Her little folder is here. She was always fond of order, even though she left me in much less. This is what’s left of her handiwork,” he approaches coolly and sets down a plain fawn coloured ledger, a fountain pen, and a white folder with golden flowers on it.

“Thanks,” you eke out as his hands linger on the edges.

You sense his gaze, discerning and weighty. He leans forward slightly and you nearly take a step across as he points to the list. You follow the line of his arm and his extended finger.

“Another point to add, ‘acquire work attire’,” he instructs and turns his hand over, flippant flicking his finger in a gesture to your plain hoodie and worn gray denim. “I trust my pay should afford that necessity easily, however should you require a write-off, I suppose it could be argued as a professional expense.”

“Sorry, Mr. Laufeyson,” you frown in embarrassment, “I didn’t…” You look down at yourself, wanting to hide behind your arms.

“You wouldn’t think of it, just a maid,” he dismisses, “very well, I think you have more than enough to begin. I should be some hours.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you agree. He is correct, there is more than enough to keep you busy.

“I will review the schedule upon my return,” he affirms. “Should you require refreshment, you recall where to go.”

You nod and cautiously reach for the ledger, sliding it closer as he backs up. You slowly sit, hovering before you let yourself rest. He lingers by the door as you roll the pen aside and put the ledger and folder parallel. You open the former and line up the list inside the cover, resuming your perusal of the bullet points.

The door closes and you keep your attention to the paper. You don’t dare a glance up until you hear his muffled footfalls cross his study. You feel as if he’s waiting for you to make a mistake. You think you might be too.

🧹

A clunk sharply pierces the tenuous peace of the empty house. You hadn’t heard the door or his approach, not even right next door, not until the hefty thunk. You listen but keep your nose down.

You’re just about done with the schedule. Two cleans throughout the week to spread the duties evenly. The main floor on Mondays, and the upper on Thursday. You’ll be able to fit in an unexpected tidying between your other to-dos.

You flutter through the pretty white and gold folder. The embossed suede speaks of a sophisticated owner. You wonder why she would ever abandon it, though you assume, a separation may not inspire sentiment.

You turn over another note. This one about the gazebo. A blurb on a repair. You’ll have too go out and check to see if it was actually done, there’s no confirmation of the job. You stop to admire her loopy writing, as elegant as the folder.

The door opens without pretense. You sit up and wiggle the pen between your index and thumb. Mr. Laufeyson as a flat white box in his hand, along with a smaller one on top. He does not near you, instead place his lot on the square table by the window.

“Here,” he orders shortly.

You rise and leave the pen in the centre of the ledger. You cross to him as he moves the smaller box aside and unfolds the two smaller flaps from the large one. You can’t help but watch curiously.

“This should suffice,” he shimmies out the cardboard insert, revealing a sleek silver laptop, “hmm?”

He shifts it towards you and lets you look it over. You put your hands behind you to keep from touching. You lean in just a little.

“It looks nice, Mr. Laufeyson. Thank you.”

“For your work, of course. These days, it is a requirement. And this,” he takes the smaller box and offers it up, “a proper work phone. It is more professional. Any calls on my behalf, you will make on this. That relic you have won’t do much.”

“Uh, yes, Mr. Laufeyson, that’s really thoughtful.”

“Thoughtful? Practical. Company property, of course,” he insists, “another point to add. Set these up. They should be functioning by the end of the day. You’ll need them to keep up with the rest of your tasks.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson. I will put it on the list.”

“Mm,” he circles around you, striding to the writing desk before you can react. You follow at a few paces, not wanting to crowd him. He takes the pen and uncaps it. He adds the bullet himself. “There you are.”

“Thank you, Mr. Laufeyson,” you recite again.

He snaps the lid on the pen and his lips twitch, not quite curving, “I’ll review,” he snatches up the open ledger, your schedule open to see. You almost rush forward. You meant to rewrite it before you handed it over. It has scribbles all over it. You won’t argue.

“Go on,” he steps around the desk, waving to the side dismissively.

You return to the table and gather the laptop and phone, along with the stray box. You bring them back to the writing desk and stay standing as you free the laptop from the insert. You let your eyes edge along the top of your vision as Mr. Laufeyson sits on the chaise and browses the ledger.

You refocus and investigate the cord buried in the box as a collection of booklets fall out. You sort through them and find the one in English. You start on the front page, reading over the different buttons and features. The diagram is especially helpful. You’ve never had a computer before, not that it belongs to you.

You squint as you read the precautions. Your mind flits back and forth between your current task and everything beyond. You would go to the library sometimes and spend an hour on the PC, and in school you did all your work in the resource room. This is much fancier than any of the boxy computers you’d used before.

It says you should plug it in and charge to full before booting. You unravel the cord and search for an outlet against the wall. There’s one not far. You hook up the cord to the port on the side of the slender laptop then trail it to the wall. The little light on the side glows yellow.

Then you take the little box. A phone. The flip phone was second-hand but this is shiny and new. You’re like a kid at Christmas, not that you got much for the holiday, even when you were younger.

You slide out the small device. Your hand is unused to it. It’s not clunky like your phone. It feels easy to drop even if it’s bigger than the flip. You peel off the plastic film around the border and across the screen.

You take out the booklet and read it as closely as the first. Same thing; charge before use. You don’t want to mess up any of this. You plug it in above the computer and place it on the closed lid. You carefully sit in the chair, careful not to jostle the cords.

You peek up and find Mr. Laufeyson looking at you over the top of the ledger. His green eyes gleam and flick back down to the page. You hope he doesn’t see how clueless you are. This stuff that’s all so normal to everyone else is new to you. A job alone is a novelty still.

“You may ask it,” he says abruptly.

You wince and shrug. You don’t know what he means. His brows tweak in amusement.

“You’ve not asked about time off. I am unaware of your previous commitment, what days you had to yourself.”

You didn’t think of it but he does seem to think of everything. You twiddle your fingers on the desk. You would work as much as you need to. You still haven’t seen the final hospital bill.

“Mr. Laufeyson, I worked three shifts per week, but I was on probation,” you explain carefully, “I can work more than that.”

“How much is more?” He wonders, his thumb tapping the corner of the ledger.

You blink. You don’t know what’s appropriate. You don’t want to say too little and come off lazy, or say too much and seem ignorant.

“Six?” You utter, “six days, Mr. Laufeyson?”

His thumb stills, “per week?”

You nod. His eyes narrow and his lips thin in consideration.

“Should do,” he accepts and his eyes fall back to the page.

You think you got the right answer. You look down at the bullet points. It seems like a lot written out but surely it can’t be. Besides, the more you think about it, the more exciting it is. This house is so beautiful and this list means you get to explore it.

You don’t sink too deep into the moment of optimism. Mr. Laufeyson stands, still intent on the ledger. He paces blindly around the library, a click of his tongue as he reviews your handwriting.

“There will be some nights,” he intones, “other occasions where I require you in the evening.”

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you accept as you flutter the pages of the laptop instruction booklet.

“Mm,” he hums flatly, “I do think the cook liked you, didn’t she? Suppose we might retain that service for the time being.”

You nod and make a note in the corner of the list; simply, Corissa. He shuts the ledger and grips it tight. He walks around the table then turns back, coming back to you. He lays down the book on the desk.

“I won’t know until the day in question. You understand, this would be on-call. I’ve a busy life and so will you,” he girds, leaning on the book as he bends over the desk. “You will be doing more than watching little birds flapping around the garden.”

You nearly recoil as he plucks the memory out so precisely. That was careless of you. You should’ve kept your head down and just got to work. It’s a warning you’ll remember.

“I won’t, Mr. Laufeyson, I understand,” you assure.

“Not to say that you can’t,” he stands and pushes the bottom of his jacket back, hooking his thumbs in his pockets, “but only when there are no other pressing matters.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

He sighs and tilts his head back, “you must resist distractions. You are prone to it. I’ve noticed.”

You chew your lip and accept the remonstrance. You’ll take it instead as advice. He is right, you do find yourself bewitched by this place at times.

“Like that man,” he says staunchly, “don’t think I forgot. I will warn you, he is my brother… regrettably. He is well above the staff and he knows it.”

You take the hint. It’s improper of you to stare. Even if he had touched you. Or maybe, you misinterpreted an accident.

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

“Hear me when I tell you, he is not interested in the likes of you,” he sniffs, “with any luck, he won’t be much around for you to believe anything of the like.”

You nod and pick up the pen, nervously rolling it between your fingers. His reproach scalds your cheek. To think he assumes you would ever think of something like that. That you might encourage a stranger in that way.

He watches you for a moment before he spins away. He checks the time on his wrist as you reach for the ledger.

“Very well, I must be at my own work,” he declares, “as I trust you will be diligent in your own.”

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #maid au #dirty work #mcu #marvel #avengers #thor

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amyriadofleaves · 3 months

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outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter four

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad ˚　.˚　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, wriothesley, clorinde, sigewinne ⌗ warnings : a lot of blood?? ⌗ word count: 6.6k (a little longer this time teehee)

“I never knew entourages were your thing.”

You tilt your head. “How’d you know I had someone with me?” The image of the Chief Justice flashes through your mind for a moment.

Clorinde shrugs. “Some people from outside the Pankration Ring were babbling about seeing someone with the head of civil affairs. Were you always such a high reward person? Fame catch up with you yet?” She says this as she deepens her voice, posture straightened with her hands on her hips. Your eyes wander around the fortress, at the brass that graced every corner, seeing a few puddles pooling under a number of leaky pipes.

Playfully nudging her arm, you snort at her jab. “You’re acting as if I’m some textbook rags-to-riches story. And no, fame has not caught up to me. I am no snob,” you tell her with a chastising look, but the attempt to steel yourself breaks when you feel your lips unwillingly quirking upwards into a smile, before you begin to shake trying to restrain your laugh.

It is not long before it infects Clorinde, too, and she falls victim to your foolish sense of humour. You lean on each other like two girls who’ve had too much to drink, afraid to let go lest one of you falls over; and you fail to notice the chiding looks of the people around you, but Clorinde shakes herself off before flicking your forehead causing you to stop your fit of laughter.

“Gosh, remind me why I’m here again?”

“Oh I’ve seen you in your office, working away like a lifeless machine—” Clorinde feels at your arm. “What a pity. All that muscle is now reduced to flab.”

“Okay, ouch.”

Someone clears their throat from the other end of the room, and a manly voice sounds. “Hey. Clorinde. Get your friend over here so you can finally get to sparring.”

“Alright, alright,” Clorinde groans before dragging you by the arm to the ring; you stumble on the heel of your boot, stride broken by the unexpected force.

She chuckles at your clumsiness, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Come on, don't be such a klutz," she teases, her grip firm as she leads you towards the sparring ring. You shoot her a playful glare, feigning annoyance.

As you approach the ring, the shouts of brutes and the scrape from blade against blade pierces the air in a dissonant choir. Clorinde releases your arm as you stand at the very base of the stairs leading to the ring, and you square your shoulders — drawing in a long, sharp breath. Acutely aware of their eyes on you, you smirk. You are knowing how their eyes follow you — others, a bit more indifferent in the ‘affairs of the ‘overworld’’ so to speak. If you were any younger and naïve as you were, you would’ve crumbled under their watchful eyes, but you know better than to have your weakness out for show, to be an open book.

A man clad in a dark grey coat and haphazardly bound black bandages stands in the centre of the ring, eyeing your every move, and you see him smile to the duelist next to you. From description alone, you surmise that this is the Duke; and you take in how he is a lot more different in appearance than you last saw him: a little bulkier in frame, the pinch of boyish recklessness now discreetly tucked under the guise of responsibility.

A cheeky grin plays on his lips, before he gives you a bow. You return the courtesy with a light curtsy. It is a lie to say you aren’t a little intimidated, but you play it off by avoiding his eyes, afraid that he might see right through you and immediately think you an idiot. And you are not an idiot, you tell yourself over and over like a broken record.

“It is a pleasure to meet you again, Your Grace.” Your eyes stay trained on the floor before a chuckle breaks the silence.

Bewildered, you look up to face him and he waves a gloved hand in jest. “There is no need for such formalities. If anything, it should be me doing all of that. And plus, a friend of Clorinde is a friend of mine.”

Clorinde sees right through his facade and dismisses it with a derisive ‘pfft’. “You certainly didn’t act like that when you first met me.”

“Oh come on my dear, dear Clorinde,” he places a hand on his chest in faux distress, a pout forming on his lips. “You know it isn’t like that.”

The duelist rolls her eyes before he puts his hands up in surrender and steps backwards.

The ring awaits, and you take a deep breath, ready for the impending spar. The crowd's anticipation adds to the pressure, but you push aside any lingering hesitation. Clorinde smirks, sensing your resolve, and steps into the ring beside you.

The announcer from the side announces the start with a rumble. “Let the sparring begin!”

The duelist bows her head, and you follow suit. Instinctively, you reach for the pellet gun at your hip as Clorinde does for her sword; it is an odd selection for a spar, and the crowd seems to raise a few eyebrows at this. Dejected as you are at the pellet gun resting in your fingers instead of your normal musket, you take this as an opportunity to give yourself more of an advantage with a slowing factor. A mere practice of skill, it was, really.

Clorinde rushes in with a burst of speed, her blade flashing downward in an opening diagonal slash at your torso. You slip left of the weapon’s reach and step backwards, barely missing a cut by a finger’s breadth. You and Clorinde possess different skill sets: she requires a closing of distance whilst you have to create distance.

A space separates the two of you and you slightly duck before firing a shot at her shoulder blade. The gun recoils against your arm and sends the bullet ricocheting against the wall and you stumble. Frustrated, you palm the holster of your gun and wriggle your hand to loosen your muscles. Can’t blame me for this, you think blindly, giving yourself a petty excuse for your blunder. Clorinde springs forward at the brief seconds of your imbalance and slashes at an angle. Rather than trying to escape backward or sideways, which you cannot do in time, you draw your gun as you drop to the ground on your back and you fire upwards. You cannot help but smile as the bullet hits her in the torso.

She grimaces in stinging pain as the bullet falls to the floor. Rolling onto your stomach, you fire again from a crouch. From all the spinning, your vision swirls in a blur and your head is clouded. Without thinking, you stand and attempt to create more space, but realise you have unequivocally cornered yourself against the restraints of the arena. Before you can manoeuvre your way through the ring, the duelist comes in at full speed and you are given a mere few seconds to react. Clorinde slams her own blade into the path of your weapon with the intent of disarming you with so much force that you feel the impact reverberate through you like a shockwave. You fully expect the impending pain to come at any moment, but it never does. Instead, a resounding clash sounds from metal against ice echoes throughout the ring. You do not even realise the sword that comes to manifest through your fingers until you notice the gleam of light blue shielding you from the overhead lights.

A still silence fills the air as both of you widen your eyes in astonishment. Amazed gasps sound from the onlookers, and they are now eyeing you with more intent. You do not dwell on it for long before you bring your sword down at a speed, sending Clorinde staggering.

You cannot help but laugh. “And you called me a klutz.”

The look in her eyes almost shouts a flippant: 'I am totally fucking you over,' and it makes you instantly regret even speaking.

Clorinde’s left hand seizes your hand, gripping hard. You let out a grunt of pain. With a light twist, she forces your makeshift weapon downward, and the numbing pain that grows in your wrist knocks the blade out of your arm, and you barely catch the glint of your own gun at the base of your feet. One final cry to win was you squirming in her grasp to reach it, but your fingers hover helplessly, unable to grab the grip of the gun.

The next move you make is miscalculated, an oversight. You jab your elbow into her shoulder, overlooking the blade that she left hanging in the little space between the both of you. Adrenaline pumps through you like a vice, and you push further, forcing another blade of ice spiralling through your fingers, ignoring how you are completely stripped of your energy and the sudden humidity of the room. The crowd gasps, and for whatever reason, you do not pay it any mind — until you see Clorinde stopping too, stepping away.

Your eyes flicker haphazardly and notice that her eyes trail slowly to your abdomen, and you absentmindedly comply. At first you do not notice anything, but then the hand that had come to rest over your stomach comes away red, and you stumble in horror at the wetness flowing down your pants as if your intestines had given out. Your blouse blooms red too, clinging to your skin like a lifeline, and the forearm that clutched your stomach is now stained with blood, diluting further as it trails down the sword swirling with the condensate that rests on the ice.

Clorinde steps forward, but you hold out an arm to command her to stop. You can handle this, it is nothing you can’t bear. You take a few steps backwards, your free arm reaching for the rope that lines the ring. Sweat beads on your forehead and suddenly everything is burning and your stomach is catching fire. Your heart thumps furiously against your ribcage and you greet the feeling like a friend; it is a familiar one, the same heart that beats whenever you are huddled in the corner of your room blocking out the shouts from the other end of the door along with other more unimportant things.

No. You can already vision how this would turn out for you. You cannot emerge from the depths of the sea injured and dead weight for the contract that stands. How will Neuvillette push through without you to serve as a catalyst? This was no one-man act, and this, you have come to terms with.

With your blade still held and your resolve unchanged, you advance with a futile step. Might as well push forward now; it would be pathetic to surrender in a friendly match against your own best friend.

Clorinde’s eyes flood with worry as you show no sign of yielding. “Name, stop. Let’s get you to the infirmary.”

You are wordless as the pain festers to your upper chest and you feel as if you cannot breathe and all the air is knocked out of your lungs. People are going to think you’re weak, unable to defend yourself: a delicate worse-for-nothing figure. But I’m not weak, you want to scream at the world. If they think otherwise, so be it. The thought teeters precariously before ultimately shattering into the void of the unspoken.

The duelist looks over at Wriothesley pleadingly as she stabilises your weakened figure and eyes the audience with a sort of disdain. “I concede,” she says, before repeating: “I concede.” She also doesn’t fail to shield you from them, and you wish to thank her later for it.

“Wriothesley, help me out here?” She manoeuvres herself so she can wrap your right arm around her neck and, expectantly, waits for Wriothesley to take your left.

“Yes ma'am.”

Though you do not hear it, you see the silhouettes of many receding from around the ring in a blur. Black spots form in your vision and you barely catch Wriothesley taking your left arm over his neck before your consciousness lurches what it feels to be a sudden moment. A brief thought is pushed to the forefront of your mind before everything swarms black — and the question is as mundane as the person it concerns:

Just what exactly could the Chief Justice be doing right about now?

____

“Ah, my dear Neuvillette. Don’t you just love the taste of fame?”

Neuvillette’s eyes do not leave his paperwork and the last thing he wants right now is to be pestered by the lady in front of him. “Now’s not the time, Lady Furina.”

She steps forward, the thud of her heels growing increasingly louder in an act of taunt. “And when is the right time, Chief Justice? This is a breakthrough for your career, and you’re sitting around your office like a nobody when you’ve quite literally stolen the hearts of the whole populace.”

Neuvillette taps in rapid succession at a blank piece of paper, subconsciously counting the dots that spray from the quill in his hand. It is not everyday that the Chief Justice loses his temper. But today is not everyday and nor is it anything normal. He still feels your warmth against his ear, and he lightly ghosts his hand over it.

Furina snaps her fingers repeatedly. “Monsieur Neuvilletteee! Earth to you?”

He responds with a darkening glower. Looking away, he makes out the shape of her pout through his blurred peripheral vision, and hears her sulk. “I need to talk to you about preparations for the proposal! This is very important — go too long without one, and the people will think the two of you are simply an affair. Oh, I bet you don’t like the sound of that.”

“The proposal? We’ve barely gone a day with the approval of the contract, and you’re already pressing me for the proposal? Give her a rest, she is out with a good friend of hers.

“Well obviously the proposal isn’t for today, I’m talking about preparations. You need to purchase a ring, she needs her hair done — perhaps a new dress tailored — I think the dress she wore yesterday was rather tattered and worn…” she tuts, finger on chin. “Oh! And I don’t think it would be much trouble to have the Melusines involved, would it?”

The silver-haired man sitting in his seat is being pulled from all his limbs like a puppet. He subconsciously notes all the things she had just listed, and his mind hiccups at the idea of purchasing a ring.

“Can’t it just be simple? Such exaggerations of a mere profession of romance shan’t be necessary.”

“But that is exactly the point! Don’t forget that I have my own duties to attend to in the dark, you are hot news. I saw how you two were this morning — everyone did!”

The flashing of cameras and the unwavering look on your face rushes through him like a deluge and his stomach pits. When he returned from his trip to the Fortress of Meropide, he had washed his face in a nearby restroom earlier and noticed the touch of lipstick on the very point of his ear. He found no point in removing it.

“So you want me to purchase a ring and propose to her in front of every breathing Fontainian, is that right?”

Lady Furina's smile widens a little too much and becomes a pain to look at. “Why yes, it is a statement of love and devotion, after all. Make sure what you pick makes her eyes pop. No woman wants a ring that dulls complexion.”

He does not care that it is him that has to oblige — but subjecting you to unwanted fame is beyond him.

Not wanting any further arguments, he caves.

____

You are in and out of consciousness, but not so much that you cannot make out the panicked conversations the two are having in hushed voices. Funny enough, you're unsure if the fact that they can't find Sigewinne anywhere troubles you a little or if you're simply just drained and want to go to sleep.

“Can’t you walk any slower?” Wriothesley grunts.

Clorinde snaps back with a glare .“Can’t you realise we’re dealing with a gash that could tear open if you keep up this pace?”

“Can’t you both,” your voice breaks off, and instead of continuing you droop your head before mumbling: “just shut up?”

The two people on either side of you are stunned into a chastising silence and if this were any different you feel that you would’ve laughed.

The man to your right clicks his tongue. “Oh, whoops. Forgot you were even awake.” He adjusts your arm a little too roughly and you let out a cry of pain as it doubles the sensation of your wound.

Clorinde smacks his arm and you slightly shift backwards at the lack of support. “What did I tell you? Okay — let's set this aside for now. We need her in the infirmary before her whole blouse gets drenched.”

You don’t see or hear his response, and so you briefly imagine him having an indifference to this. Sure, it is everyday for him in the Fortress, but you do not know him very well, so he might have had a different reaction — perhaps a brief look at Clorinde almost begging her through his eyes for her to know what to do even though he, too, knows basic protocol? Plausible too.

“You’re going to need to take a deep breath for this.” The duelist’s voice is as monotone as ever, and as your lids flutter open you see that you are greeted with your archnemesis.

Stairs.

Not like they were anything too taxing; a mere five steps up and another few steps down and you’d be in the infirmary; but you instantly flinch back as they assist you with the first step, and you feel their arms grab for your back. You almost black out again the moment you glance at your abdomen but Clorinde promptly pushes your chin upwards so you don’t see the worst of it.

“I don’t think I can make it up the stairs,” you say, defeated. You eye both of them carefully and they seem to almost weigh the possibilities and come to a solid conclusion (the word ‘solid’ is an overstatement).

“I mean we could bring the infirmary to her…”

Safe to say, Clorinde isn’t amused. “Wow, let's bring a whole bed out for everyone to see! Forgive me, but I won’t allow that for her. There are many problems on the surface as is, and I don’t think this paints a good image for her.”

As delirious as you are, you manage a nod in agreement and squeak out: “Whatever. Get me there.”

Wriothesley’s eyes are crazed as he looks at you with doubt.“W— you just said you couldn’t make it up the stairs.”

“...And that claim still stands. But what other choice do I have?” You say this through gritted teeth as the pain wells up in your side for the nth time this afternoon. The light peeking through the ceiling of the Fortress seems to dim and you take this as a sign that is just shy of dusk.

Clorinde’s lips quirk into a small smile, and you miss it because you are unable to keep focus on anything except the blood you feel dripping into your slacks. “Alright. Just squeeze something every step you take. On the count of three:”

Wriothesley starts and they alternate. “Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

With a yelp, you grip firmly onto the man next to you and let out a sigh of relief when your feet touch another step of the staircase.

“Next time, please grip me somewhere else.” You slowly eye where your hand lies and it is unfortunately somewhere not ideal. Oops.

“Not my fault you have a built-in stress ball,” you look at him and Clorinde and realise that you have four more to go. “OK. I think we can go at a faster pace.”

Clorinde’s hand leaves your wrist as she wipes her palm on the base of her shorts and finds your hand again. “Are you sure? You looked like you’ve walked ten miles and it’s been just a step up.”

You look forward and nod your head. “Affirmative.”

“Alright then.”

Wriothesely announces the count of three rather plainly and you grip somewhere else this time. You bite your lip harshly; you do not want to complain any more than you have and instead shut your eyes to steel yourself, but fuck, did it hurt more than the first time.

You thank the gods above that it did grow easier the more steps you took, and with having given Wriothesley more bruises than dignity you finally made it to the platform at the top.

“Tough part done,” you mumble, eyeing the corridor with contempt. Not as tough, you suppose, and push ahead, your arms still hanging limp by their shoulders. You can't help but notice your blood swirling in the pools that flowed from each end of the hall, but the metallic scent of the pipes overpowers the metallic of your own.

Your boots touch the ground with a heavy thump that echoes so loudly it feels like your head is whirling quicker and you can’t make out any object in front of you.

“Smells like murder.” His attempt at lightening the mood does more harm than good, and through your lethargy you still furrow your brow. Clorinde berates him in a low voice and you don’t even attempt to say anything in response. It is awfully silent, and suddenly you wish he had continued speaking. You force your eyes wide open out of fear that you might not wake up the moment you close them, but you have to fight against your weighted eyelids, and it is, by a mile, a terrible battle.

Fatigue - 1, You - 0.

A light shines from your left and you let yourself breathe.

“We’re here. Just need to tough through another flight of stairs and you’ll be alright,” Clorinde comforts, lifting your right arm a little more after noticing that you were slightly being raised a little higher on your left because of the height difference between her and Wriothesley.

“Here goes,” you tell yourself. This is not the first time you’ve been in a situation like this.

Just a bit of blood and you’re crying? You look just like your mother.

You do not particularly enjoy the feeling of descending the stairs, but at least it is better than ascending them, and faster too. No need for any counts to threes.

You wring your arms out of their grips, and soundlessly stumble to the bed closest to you. Mindlessly, you slip into the slight depression of the mattress and the springs groan under a new added weight.

Wriothesley frantically looks around and suddenly his head is in his hands. Clorinde seems to adopt the same wrinkles between her brows as the man beside her has, and they are both thrown in a panic. The duelist still appears calm and collected throughout, and you’re surprised that the ‘panic’ they are thrown into has been reduced to a civilised conversation on how to deal with you.

Unbuttoning your blouse reveals that it takes a lot of work to separate skin from material, and you feel something stir in the pit of your stomach, or lack thereof. Dried blood starts to flake from the chilly air and the skin lining the wound is swollen pink, puffy and tender to the touch. Turning away, you aren’t partial to someone like Wriothesley to seeing the other scars that are littered throughout your skin like a canvas, and you know it isn’t pretty. You do not like your idea on what you are to do next, nor do you think it’s ideal, but with nothing to show of Sigewinne, you have to take the risk.

“Clorinde. Pass me rubbing alcohol and a towel.”

Clorinde casts you a weary look. “Surely you’re not thinking to do what I think you’re gonna do —”

“Yes. It's exactly what you think. Now pass it to me.” You turn your head a little as your hands beckon her over, and she hesitates before reaching for what you asked for and passes it to you. You do not miss the long look she gives Wriothesley.

The items weigh like a burden on your hands, and you almost decide to hold out until Sigewinne arrives. Even though you know this is probably the worst choice you'll ever make, you choose to ignore the nagging voice and go forward with it because simply, you are impatient. And what good were you to the public if you were ugly and unkempt? You know that everyone and Lady Furina would find you ridiculous. Would the Chief Justice share the same opinion? Would he break his impartiality to think that of you? For a brief moment, the answer flickers to a yes, but you swallow it down like a pill. No. No, he wouldn’t.

“Shouldn’t be too bad.” Bracing for the sting, the anticipated pain hovers like a phantom before the fabric even grazes your skin, but before you can give yourself room to yield, you jab the cloth over the gash and almost scream at the sting. You keep your mouth sealed shut and only rapid pants escape your lips. The pain courses through your veins and suddenly every working limb is now subject to agony. You absolutely detest the feeling, and you were sure that you would never find yourself like this after your father…

Shaking your head, you distract yourself by observing how the blood seeps through the cloth with ease, and you begin to question just how much blood you’re losing and how your body hasn’t given out. But the answer to it is fairly simple. Or maybe it isn’t.

Your composure is so frigid you think the Duke is beginning to grow a little uncomfortable with just standing there.

“You can look away.” Even though you didn't have much energy to begin with, you startle yourself by being able to talk coherently in spite of everything.Your mind is dumbfoundedly collected, almost as if trained; for this you know why, and you decide not to mope over the memory. It still does end up slipping through the cracks.

The clean blade against skin. Your father’s nasty laugh as you let out a cry of defeat. The reopened wound triggers a cascade of memories, but you resolve to relegate it to the past: a mere memory. You know you will never see him again, the idea of closure long gone and ties severed. His name, once a burden, now fades into the recesses of your memory, and you find solace in no longer sharing it.

Wiping the blood around your wound, you robotically reach for a needle and thread next, and this time Wriothesley steps forward with his hand outstretched to finally say something. “Woah there. I think we’re gonna need Sigewinne for this one.”

Your arm retracts from the needle and you wave him off with a curt wave of your hand. “I got this under control, don’t you worry,” you declare, but the claim dies on your lips when you feel your eyes drooping and your limbs going slack and the two are thrown into another dispute.

“We need Sigewinne!”

“She should be coming in about,” the Duke checks his watch. “Five minutes.” He steals you a glance and continues: “Hang in there.”

Clorinde tears her gaze off yours and her brows knit again. “Well what if she doesn’t ‘hang in there’?” Her voice is thrown into a hush, but you can still hear it, and she knows you hear every word leaving her lips.

You use this time to silently teeter to the open cupboard of needles and thread. Surprisingly enough, you look back and find them in their own world. Perfect! You take a generous amount of thread along with a few needles with different gauges and slyly return to your place at the foot of the nursing bed. You dab antiseptic on the tender flesh of your gash. The sting is something you never get used to, and a low groan leaves your lips, and your head tips over.

Clorinde whirls lazily on her heel and points a finger at you. “You. Stop playing a fool. Your wound will get infected if you keep going at this rate. And don’t think I can’t see what you’re trying to do when I’m not looking,” the duelist reprimands, and you can’t help but admit defeat. Hah! She thought.

“Yeah, OK. Shut up and come over here for a second.” You do not face her, but hear her slow strides from behind.

“What is it?”

“Come closer.” you place the needle under her fingers, and flick her forehead. A zap courses from her fingers.

“Ow?”

Her complaints morph into incoherence as you study the needle and find that it is warm to the touch and slightly blackened at its point.

“Thank you!”

Feeling at your abdomen, you conclude that it is numb enough to begin stitching. The sanitisation is a mere precaution, because as much as you trust everyone in this room and the nurse that isn’t present, you cannot trust whatever might be in the Fortress’ air. It takes a few attempts before you successfully guide the thread through.

And before Clorinde can stop you, it is far too late. The needle pierces skin, and you squint your eyes at the discomfort. If you could manage one, you could manage seven more. You are nowhere adept nor do you have a steady hand, but you are quite proud of the deep cuts you’ve stitched up in the past; they still did their job.

The Duke’s complexion is nothing short of sickly as his hand flies to his mouth. “I can’t— I can't watch this.”

“You just don’t listen, do you?”

You smile wearily. “Well, Clorinde, that is my expertise.”

Just before your fingers swoop down for another stitch, a certain Melusine skips down the steps and pauses at the sight.

“Oh? What do we have here?”

Wriothesley scratches the back of his neck before cracking a smile that seems to say: ‘caught us!’. “Ah, Sigewinne! We were just looking for you. Now if you could tend to this high demand patient we have it would be greatly appreciated.” He points over his shoulder without turning his head, and yet the shaky undertone in his demeanour is unmistakable.

You give him a look even though his back is towards you.

Sigewinne nods her head. “Alright then. Let’s take a look…” if she’s surprised, her face betrays nothing. She waddles to the other side of the room and reaches for a new, cleaner towel; and you realise how comical a sight this is — with both the Champion Duelist and the Duke following her every move in silence as you sit stiffly on a worn mattress. She returns and studies the needle in your hand and holds her own paw-like hand out. Placing it in her hand, she dips the towel into a bowl of warm water and cleans the area properly this time.

“Take a deep breath in for me please.” you do not know why you silently follow her orders. “And out.”

That was your que to prepare for the second stitch. Not bad; it did feel less haphazard than your own. Sigewinne’s eyes do not leave your wound as she pops a question: “Will you need your entourage to escort you to the Overworld?”

Suddenly all your worries are gone and are now replaced with a new one. “My entourage? Oh, no, that wouldn’t be necessary.” The needle comes up from under your skin and her paws move downwards.

“Are you sure? I can contact him if you like.”

You playfully look to the side. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Sigewinne unfortunately does not take the hint and questions your dismissal of your dealing with him. “But you were just with Monsieur Neuvillette just now, I don’t see why it would slip your mind. Unless you’re suffering from short term memory loss, that is.” Your eyes widen at the mention and you motion your hand to to your neck to stop her before she goes off on a tangent.

The pair standing on the other corner both seem to share the same concerns. Wriothesley quirks a brow. “Monsieur Neuvillette? Surely you haven’t made yourself fancy for the Chief Justice.”

“No, he is not my suitor; just a mere colleague of mine. Our relationship is strictly professional — that is all.”

The Duke smiles. “Yeah. Sure. That’s how it always starts. Workplace romance is a classic.”

Clorinde tilts her head. “What has gotten into you? Always blabbering about romance this and romance that.”

“You, Miss Clorinde, should be aware that I have always been hopeless for things like this. I am not as stoic as you or the Chief Justice of Fontaine.”

“I am well aware. I just choose not to acknowledge it — oh and…” she breaks off mid-conversation, leaving Wriothesley sulking like a defeated dog. “How has Monsieur Neuvillette been? I’ve heard that he’s been involved in some ‘scandal’, but I’ve been too busy resolving business. I haven't an idea what it’s about.”

Dread fills your gut as you come to another decision you have to make today. Either you tell her the truth or skirt over some details so she doesn’t tie any link back to you. “As it turns out I haven’t really been well-versed in the melodrama of the people, but from word of mouth,” your hand cups one side of your face as you whisper, “he has entangled himself with a commoner.”

Wriothesley and Clorinde both shout a distressed “What?” in unison.

“I surmise he hasn’t taken any of it into account,” the duelist guesses, shooting a blind shot in the dark.

Your lips curve into a leer. “He’s doing what he always does. His job.”

___

"M-monsieur Neuvillette! What brings you here?”

“Good afternoon. What rings do you suggest would suit...”

The jeweller, filled with the delicate hum of conversation and soft hushes of conversation, momentarily hushes in anticipation. Neuvillette, however, maintains a calm demeanour, allowing the flustered individual to collect himself.

The person takes a moment, clears their throat, and continues, “... suit your refined taste? We have an exquisite collection of vintage pieces or, if you prefer, more contemporary designs. Perhaps something that resonates with the essence of your intended occasion?” He glances nervously at Neuvillette, awaiting his response with bated breath.

“A simple engagement ring would be right up my alley. Your guidance…” He quickly searches for the name etched into his nametag and spots a ‘GATTINEO’ on his person “Monsieur Gattineo,, in finding the perfect ring, would be much appreciated,” Neuvillette states, and he smiles stiffly, unable to tell if he’s just scared the worker senseless or struck the first normal human conversation he’s had in weeks.

The person behind the counter nods profusely and points his arm to the left. “R— Right this way, monsieur.”

Neuvillette gazes at the employee intently, studying the way his hands slips at the knob that seals the rings from under the glass display and slowly retrieves them, pushing the array of wedding bands toward the Chief Justice as if a single sound might shatter the fabric of time.

The Iudex takes pity and reassures him that he ‘need not be so tense’, but whether the employee buys the claim is a story he does not remain privy to. Gloved hands pick a ring from the second row from the array and he holds it in the light, checking the glimmer of the diamond that sits snug under the hooks of white gold. Too dull, he notes, already picturing it against your ring finger. He thinks that you do not deserve such a ring of commonplace, and he politely places it back into its respectful place on the display.

He reaches for another, acutely aware of the growing pairs of eyes that are burning into his back. Another ring is victim to the light and he needs little inspection to know that this wouldn’t flatter you in the slightest. Scrunching his nose, he turns to look at other options.

None seem to suit his taste.

Neuvillette stands stationary for a moment before noticing a glint to his right. It is a ring that appears lacklustre at first glance, but when he looks at it for longer, he realises that the ring is not as uninteresting as it initially seemed.

He points at it through the glass. “Would you mind if I take a look at that one?”

“Why, sure. It is a latest addition, monsieur, and is very much flattering on any bride.” The Chief Justice, who is ever impartial to opinions, disagrees. He does not think it is flattering on just any bride.

Its centrepiece is a gorgeous sapphire, and his mind immediately shifts to the casual blue undertones of the clothes you wear. It would certainly complement her eyes, he thinks, picturing the glimmer of blue on your skin. It would make your complexion ‘pop’, as Lady Furina had said. It is nowhere near extravagant, but keeping it simple is to make a statement.

He pinches the ring in between the pad of his thumb and index finger. “I would like to purchase this — does it come with a box?”

The worker is stunned, eyes practically popping out of his skull. “Y—Yes! It surely does. That would be one hundred thou—”

“Please, put it on my tab.”

Now the worker is really ogling at him. He hasn’t even heard the full price! He figures up how much he will get for this commission, and it will buy him a luxurious lifestyle for several months. Heavens above, he really was lucky today.

“I can do that for you. Just give me a moment to get the box from the back.” The man scutters away, and the conversations around Neuvillette are now brought into vivid technicolour.

“Is it for the woman in the tabloids? I heard she’s the newly employed head of civil affairs.”

“She really has done everything under the sun.”

The Chief Justice’s ears perk at the phrase in response. “You can’t trust everything you see in the media. Looks to me that she’s only in it for the money.”

“You are right… Perhaps it is a calculated move to push her way through the ranks! What a sly, sly woman she is.”

Are they seriously speaking about you around the very man that dictates the verdict of whom is guilty? That kind of daring makes Neuvillette's eyes narrow. He does not wish to entertain their idle gossip, but he also can't watch while his future wife is being disparaged in such a manner. To him, your resilience is remarkable. That, is one aspect of your character that he truly admires. But one thing rings true: fame comes with a price.

Neuvillette’s jaw ticks, and his warm, serene mien freezes over, his glare a piercing chill. He composes himself, and turns on his heel with a rigid calm. The words that leave his lips send the people’s blood running cold.

“If you are to speak ill of the woman I am to propose to — and that is certain — I hope you see to it that the repercussions are to be nothing but shy of being remarkably uncomfortable. ”

a/n: this one kinda strayed off my outline if im gonna b honest but like are we really complaining cuz PROTECTIVE NEUVILLETTEE OGME

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun

#neuvillette x reader #neuvillette #genshin impact #neuvillette fanfic #neuvillette genshin #enemies to lovers #marriage of convenience #arranged marriage

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paimonial-rage · 9 months

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why he rejected you (pt 2)

characters: itto, kaeya, kaveh, kazuha, mika, razor, thoma, tighnari, venti, wanderer, xiao, xingqiu, zhongli

synopsis: you finally gathered up the bravery to confess your feelings, but much to your dismay, they turned you down. but you deserve to know the reason, right?

notes: this group is more nuanced than part 1, so i was not able to capture the whole reason within a single paragraph. please keep that in mind when you read.

Itto - Bros Before Hoes

It’s not that he doesn’t like you. He may tell himself he doesn’t, but he likes you. A lot. It’s not like he can admit to that, though. Could you imagine how the boys would react if they found out? He’s the great Arataki “The One and Oni” Itto! What would they think if they found out the head honcho of the Arataki Gang turned into a stuttering mess over a little crush! No way, he’d never live it down. I mean, besides, the bros come first, you know?

Kaeya - (Self) Protection

It’s easy to fall for the silver-tongued Calvary Captain. Kind, exciting, and adored by everyone, everyone has had a crush on him at some point in time. Oddly enough, though, you’ve never heard stories of anyone confessing their feelings. Eventually, you found out why. With quick wit and an even quicker tongue, he doesn’t give you the chance. He dances circles around you with ease. And there in his eyes, you can catch glimpses of it. Amusement, yes, but something more. Fear? Self-loathing? Or perhaps something else.

Kaveh - Weighty Expectations

His roommate would tell you that Kaveh is nothing if not morally driven. He takes his sense of duty to an extreme degree. Some say it’s his best trait; others, his worst. It’s why he rejected you, his roommate states plainly. Kaveh knows what he is. He’s broke, temperamental, living with Alhaitham, depressed, troubled, living with Alhaitham… As he is right now, he is not in the right place to give you everything you deserve. You deserve better.

Kazuha - Self-pursuit

It’s often said that Kazuha floats from place to place like a leaf upon a summer breeze. Not even the popular Traveler can keep him inside their peaceful teapot for long. Stagnancy dulls the mind and the sword, after all. It’s why he keeps the wall he has built before you. How will he be led by the whims of the wind with a weight holding him down? As strong as his feelings may be for you, his heart will always know where it belongs. It will never be yours.

Mika - Overwhelming

You don’t need to know him well to know that Mika does not like attention. Even having worked with Varka of all people has not given him the confidence to converse easily. As much as you may wish not to, you are not exempt from this. For someone that plans and prepares meticulously as him, you represent an unknown. No amount of observation could ever prepare him to interact with someone that stands out as much as you. Sad to say, you're just too much for him.

Razor - Confusion

Though having spent most of his life around his lupical, a mate was always a simple concept to understand. A mate is a lupical you have a strong bond with. You take care of your mate and your mate takes care of you. You are bound to them for life. The human concept of mates though… Strange complex rituals bind it. It’s frivolous and random. It’s weak and can easily be broken. It can easily wear down over time. Really, Razor can’t wrap his mind around it at all.

Thoma - Higher Loyalties

It’s safe to say that Thoma is an oddity in Inazuma. Ignoring his appearance, he’s helpful and friendly. He treats everyone with the same amount of kindness. He’s gentle with children, not bound by pride. After meeting him personally, it’s hard not to like him. So it’s not much of a surprise that many mothers wish to welcome him into their family. But don’t be fooled. Thoma is a man of duty. His loyalties will always lay with something far greater than you.

Tighnari - Fantastical Expectations

Tighnari is nothing if not a realist. This is not something he exactly hides either. If he has something to say, he will make sure that it is heard. You can’t exactly blame him. He deals with delusional travelers on a near-daily basis that adore touting fantastical dreams of befriending dangerous creatures, after all. If he has to deal with you piling expectations on him of being treated like a princess with sickeningly sweet words of love and infantilizing care, he will go insane.

Venti - Guiding Wind

Though he has his faults, it’s easy to fall for a person like Venti. When he drops nearly everything to listen to and help you with kind words and a gentle smile, how can you not? It’s so easy to feel like he cares for you, that you truly matter to him. It’s such a wonderful feeling that it becomes easy to forget that trust is a two-way street. Has he ever relied on you for the same amount of support? When the wind is always forging ahead to lead the way, the only place it will never remain is at your side.

Wanderer - Safe

This traumatized boy would probably fall for anyone persistent and resilient enough to put up with his attitude.

Xiao - Kindness

He’s never hid his reason for rejecting you. Really, he warned you of it when you first met. So even though your smiles pique his curiosity and your laugh makes him long for more, even though the warmth of your eyes beckons him close and the sound of your voice calms him like the melody of a flute, he will never open his heart. It’s the kindest thing he can do for you.

Xingqiu - Interest

As a writer, there’s nothing that calls out to Xingqiu more than potential, story potential. This spark of inspiration can be found in many things—people, situations, places. Every new discovery is like unearthing a gem, drawing him close and pushing him to work his magic to make it shine. You, however? His eyes pass over you as if there’s nothing there. You might as well be a faceless extra in a large crowd. There’s no potential to be found.

Zhongli - Divine Perspective

Trying to get Zhongli to fall may frustrate you. You wouldn’t be the first. Though his amber eyes may reflect warmth upon seeing you, they never reflect that of a potential lover. Rather, it’s a look that brings you back to your younger years in a way you can’t exactly explain. Only his long-time friends would know why. Really, being thousands of years older, how can he not see you like anything other than a child?

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astoundingbeyondbelief · 5 months

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Kaiju Week in Review (December 3-9, 2023)

I made a frame from this shot Wikizilla's Image of the Week. No regrets. Monarch: Legacy of Monsters, I love ya. When I was a teenager, explicit queerness was anathema to most big-name franchises. Those dominoes have been slowly falling, often in lower-profile tie-ins first, and to me this is a huge one: 69 years without a queer live-action Godzilla character are over. And Cate's the main protagonist of the show! I'm not under the delusion that media representation will cure all society's ills, but it sure doesn't hurt. Now, the non-Tumblr parts of the fandom are being completely normal about this, right? Right? Whatever, that's why you'll never get rid of me here. Cate had a couple more sweet moments with May in this episode, and Mariko Tamaki wrote episode 7, so don't expect her to stop kissing girls. Hopefully she's learned a valuable lesson about cheating though.

"The Way Out" is also another gift to those of us who have always wanted to see more of the ramifications of a world where Godzilla exists, from underground towns for the super-rich to ruined cities where federal troops shoot looters and harass people experiencing homelessness. And the show continues to find ways to use kaiju to talk about COVID, from Cate and Kentaro's exchange about San Francisco truthers ("It's easier than waking up every day and thinking, at any moment, the same could happen to you") to the blink-of-an-eye speed at which the threat went from on the news to her front door in the flashbacks.

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As I foretold, we got a Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire trailer, an amusing contrast to the weighty Toho flick and Apple show already fore of mind. It's Adam Wingard unbound, that's for sure. The human cast seems pared back, a longstanding Monsterverse problem, and the kaiju fights were far and away the best part of Godzilla vs. Kong, so hopefully this approach will play to his strengths. But that movie also had excellent VFX, and some of the shots in here are rough. There's time to fix them, at least... which probably can't be said of Godzilla's design. I like that he's pink (did some Warner Bros. executive take the wrong message away from Barbie?) and sporting a thagomizer on his tail, but his proportions are uncanny. And I see Kong found the Infinity Gauntlet; good for him.

I am, of course, not done talking about Godzilla Minus One. It added over 200 screens and made $8.3 million in its second weekend in the U.S., a minuscule drop considering that its $11.4 million opening "weekend" spanned five days. Almost a third of all tickets sold this weekend were for Godzilla or Hayao Miyazaki's The Boy and the Heron, remarkable in a market so allergic to foreign imports. That brings its total to $25.3 million (more by the time you read this). With an avalanche of Christmas blockbusters on the way, its grip on premium-format screens is about to slip. Still, I see it hanging around theaters for a while. I have never seen the fandom so united in praise for a film before, and it's making plenty of new fans.

Some of those fans are in high places. Variety leaked that it's on the 20-film shortlist for Best Visual Effects at the Oscars (to be narrowed to five nominees), something I, again, never expected to read about a Toho Godzilla film. Alas, it's locked out of this year's Best International Film category due to the quirky nomination period.

Much has been made of how great the film looks on a $15 million budget. I have two caveats, one in each direction. No one is quite sure where the $15 million figure came from; Yamazaki said at a recent con appearance that he only wished he had that much to play with. (He has yet to divulge the actual budget, just that it was above ¥1 billion.) Now, unions in the Japanese film industry are much weaker than in Hollywood, so a given production budget goes a lot further in Japan. All the same, I doubt that alone explains Minus One looking better than most superhero movies made for twenty times the cost. I'll offer a couple more reasons: Yamazaki has extensive visual effects experience (he's been the VFX supervisor of all but one of the live-action films he's directed), and the film's big effects scenes aren't as busy or lengthy as many of the Hollywood counterparts. I don't know if Disney will ask Yamazaki to direct the next Star Wars movie (that would require there to be a next Star Wars movie), but the studios here should be taking notes.

the sphinx, a blog with a ton of American Godzilla rarities to share, has outdone itself—behold a continuity and dialogue script for the U.S. version of King Kong vs. Godzilla! Included in the download is a detailed comparison with the film. No huge differences, apart from the script giving the secretary added to the U.S. version a name, but a fascinating piece of history all the same.

The Minus One incarnation of Godzilla (MaiGoji?) has joined Godzilla Battle Line, accompanied by [SPOILER]. To be honest, my enthusiasm for this game has been flagging, and I'm not caught up on the strategies developing around these two, so I'll just refer you to Sir Melee's channel as usual. This Godzilla's also doing a collaboration with the Japanese mobile game Fleet of Blue Flame.

Tiffany Grant, Asuka's original voice actress, will narrate the audiobooks for the Neon Genesis Evangelion: ANIMA light novels which explore an Instrumentality-free path for the show. Seven Seas Entertainment published them in English from 2019 to 2021, which, to be honest, was also news to me.

This one's for my fellow library workers: the obscenely popular Who HQ nonfiction series for children is publishing a book about Godzilla next June. I don't know if this will have quite the same impact on today's young Godzilla fans as the Ian Thorne tome had on Gen Xers and Millennials, what with the Internet and all, but it's certain to be more factual. Expect illustrations instead of licensed photos, and not just because of Toho.

I can finally talk more about the Godzilla x Kong: Titan Chasers mobile game without fearing a DMCA. Not that there's much to talk about; it's freemium through and through and I'm not sure I know a single person who's excited for it. Interesting to see some critters from the comics break into another medium, at least. Here's the trailer.

#kaiju week in review #godzilla minus one #monarch legacy of monsters #godzilla x kong the new empire #kaiju #godzilla

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upwards-descent · 10 months

Text

Redemption

(Good guy TotK Ganondorf AU)

Link watched the clouds leisurely glide past the Temple of Time. It stood like some stalwart soldier over the floating island, a beacon that made him feel as safe as it did uneasy. His head had been hurting since he came to and as he skidded down the beaten path, he couldn't help but grimace.

"I'm sorry," The ghostly image of Rauru sat nearby, his chin propped up in his palm. It was weird to witness, seeing that it was now Link's own hand. Or was it? He winced as his head throbbed. "I wish I had more answers for you but so much time has flown by. I'm... Mainly passing on messages now."

"I don't even understand what that means, you're being esoteric," Link snapped back but there was no true heat in his words, only pain. His arm hurt, too, and the ping between his bicep and temple felt like his nerves were being juggled around. "Either you do know or you don't know where Zelda is, I don't really care about anything else at this point."

Rauru's melancholy sigh was the only answer he needed.

At least the Constructs were pleasant, the non-hostile ones at least. They reminded Link of the old Guardian technology, when they weren't corrupt with Malice. Sweet Hylia, he'd barely rested across five years and now here he was once more, Hyrule in peril, Zelda lost, and a piece of himself missing.

"There's someone awaiting you at the Temple." Rauru reappeared, an arm slung around a tree.

"Yes, you told me."

"No..." His voice went quiet, eyes narrowing. "Someone else. Someone... Different. Keep your guard up and your wits about you."

Link had half a mind to flip the spectre off but felt it'd be going too far. He was tired, his body ached, and the frustration he felt within himself writhed burning heat in his chest. Instead, he forged onward.

There was in fact someone waiting for him.

He was a large man with long flowing red hair, dressed in garb Link recognized as some Gerudo style. What appeared to be a sword was lain out at his knees and the Hylian understood it was a position of submission, of surrender. Regardless, he unsheathed the weighty stick slung across his back and approached with confidence.

"And who the hell are you?" Link demanded, stopping at the top of the ruined staircase. The air up here was somewhat warm at least, in the light of the sun. "I've been told to watch out which really doesn't give me... A lot..."

His grip tightened and he held his weapon in a more threatening manner. Some spark of recognition tugged a scowl at his lips.

"You look familiar. Like that... Corpse we found under the castle," Link growled. He leveled the stick at the man's head. "Who are you? Answer me before I let action speak instead."

The man looked up at him and the Hylian nearly flinched. Though Link himself rarely wore his emotions openly, simply as an aspect of his personality, he was pretty good at reading other people instead. There was a great sadness on the man's face that drew in his heavy brows and touched at his frown.

"... I am Ganondorf, leader of the Gerudo," His voice wasn't as deep as Link expected given how large he was but he spoke with some degree of command that couldn't be ignored. "I... I only ask you hear my story first. After that, it's your call whether or not to slay me. I wouldn't exactly blame you for lashing out."

"Watch yourself," Rauru stood nearby, probably unseen by the strange Gerudo man. "This man, as I know him, is the greatest threat against Hyrule in our entire history."

Link held back the urge to heave a loud sigh. He was so tired. Still holding up his weapon, he gave a casual sort of flourish to urge his words further.

"Long ago, when the gods were nearer to the ground below," Ganondorf began. He sat up straighter but the sadness never left his eyes. "I was a chosen leader of prophecy. As had been foretold in my people's history, a male Gerudo is born only once every 100 years and is expected to lead. I was... Or at least, I tried to be what my kin deserved," Link questioned if Rauru was visible as the Gerudo seemed to glance forlornly in his vague direction. "I lead with pride and a steady hand. I listened to the complaints, the concerns, and dedicated every bit of energy I had to bettering our situation. The desert can be cruel but... It's our home."

"I've never heard of a male Gerudo," Link interjected, eyes narrowing. "And trust me, I'm closer to them than you'd think."

"The Gerudo... Persist?" The first glimmer of life lit up Ganondorf's eyes. "I see. Unfortunately, it's because of me that the legend is no longer spoken, or at least I can assume," Link watched as a broad hand kneaded at his chest above his heart. "See, there's a second prophecy I have unfortunately found myself tangled in. I can sense it's one that effects you, too."

The Hylian quickly glanced over at Rauru's ghostly image and he had the gall to shrug.

"Oh," Ganondorf's eyes widened. "I can sense the power within you, but you... Do you know of the Triforce?"

"Only because Zelda has a passion for history," Link let down his guard for a moment, brows knitting in confusion. "It's a big artifact, holy light, gifted to humanity by the ancient goddesses or something like that. I've... Seen her use a power that looked incredibly similar before but..."

"These are strange times indeed," Ganondorf muttered before refocusing. "Regardless. I have to assume that she and I and probably you are the three destined champions chosen by the Triforce, and by extension the gods. It's... A whole other history for another day but all you need to know is that the branch that effects me has been corrupted. Before any of our times, when the universe was young, an ancient evil--"

"Listen, if you're pleading for your life right now," Link cut him off by adjusting his stance, holding up his weapon with confidence once more. "I don't think a whole library's worth of storytelling is gonna convince me either way. Can you give me the short version?"

"Yes, of course," Ganondorf seemed bewildered but shook it off and continued. "I've essentially been cursed. That... Corpse was in fact me but it also wasn't me. As I grew into a man and matured, a powerful evil was sewn into my very soul. I was slowly taken over, used like a puppet by the shadows, until only my subconscious was my own. My thoughts, my words, my actions; perverted by this great evil."

Link felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when Rauru pulled an odd expression, like some great revelation was dawning on him.

"Though it was my hand that threatened Hyrule long ago, it wasn't by my will," Ganondorf frowned and huffed. "However, as I was imprisoned for millennia, the powerful magic of the Zonai--"

"Me," Rauru mumbled, as if that made anything clear. "He's... Referring to me."

"--The spell acted like a slow exorcism. That corpse is made of pure evil, mimicking my appearance," The Gerudo laid a hand over his heart in earnest. "I've been cleansed and... Now I have to make things right."

Suddenly, he shifted and Link dared to take a step forward, tightening his grip on the wooden club. Instead, Ganondorf laid his palms flat on the ground and touched his forehead to the pale stone beneath him.

"Spare me, don't, I only ask that you use me so I may pay for my sins," He begged, his voice thick with emotion. "I've watched through eyes clouded by hate, powerless, as innocent people were slain, as the world was torn asunder. Use me and let me correct these wrongs. Use me and we shall prevail to slay the true evil that's been left behind."

#idk why i made the poll a week long the results seem pretty final as is lmao #ganlink #totk ganondorf #totk link #in preparation of this i made a link personality guide on my personal characterization of the four links i had in that poll #it'll be interesting to see how it compares to others #scribbles

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lavellenchanted · 6 months

Note

It's Edwina Week! What are your favourite headcanons for this bean?

Ooooh, let's see . . .

She's a very tactile person, very free with her affections when she feels close to someone and needing physical reassurance when she's upset.

She inherited her love of reading from her father - when she was small she would curl up in his lap while he was reading and he would read out loud to her, often weighty histories and philosophy that she was young too to understand at the time but loved because he loved them.

When she got older she reread them herself and loved them for their own sake.

She often hums to herself as she's going about her day.

She's very good at embroidery and sewing, and often remade her own gowns growing up to be economical.

Much as she loves Newton, she's more of a cat person herself and gets a beautiful calico kitten that she calls Lalla, after Lalleshwari

She's an excellent chess player, and takes advantage of the fact that her opponents always underestimate her.

She's very good with babies and small children, and can entertain them for hours with retellings of the fairytales and folk stories her father used to tell her.

So much of her identity was based on pleasing other people and not being A Problem (it was the only thing she could really do help her mother and Kate after her father died, being good and making sure they didn't need to worry about her) that after the disaster of 1814 she has to put the pieces of herself back together and rediscover who she is and what she actually likes and wants and a lot of it surprises her.

Like that although she wears a lot of pink, it's not actually her favourite colour - she likes it, but she wears it so much because she was told she looked pretty and like a proper English lady in it. Her actual favourite colours are greens, blues and yellows.

Or that she doesn't mind opera, but she prefers plays and the drama of the theatre, particularly Shakespeare but she's also partial to Aphra Behn.

She loves lemon flavoured things.

She learned to sing and play the piano because it would be expected of an accomplished lady, but prefers not to perform.

(When she meets him, Friedrich will occasionally persuade her to give him a private performance, which is usually paid for in kisses.)

Diwali is her favourite holiday, and she and Kate always make sure they celebrate together.

When she finally agrees to marry Friedrich and they have to start planning the wedding, she starts getting panic attacks at the thoughts of another hugely public ceremony and everyone watching to see what will go wrong this time.

They can't elope because of Friedrich's status, but a few nights before he takes her to a small chapel where he's arranged for them to have a private ceremony - so she can relax knowing the the big wedding is just for appearances' sake and they're already married.

She has a ring that belonged to her father's mother that she wears as a good luck charm.

She makes Anthony call her 'Your Highness' for the longest time just because she can.

She tried writing her own poetry once but it was not good.

Of her sister's many Bridgerton in-laws, she likes Benedict and Francesca the best.

Friedrich tells her he loves her before he returns to the continent to fight Napoleon, and it's almost an apology because he knows she isn't ready to say it back.

(She feels it, but she's still afraid, still can't quite trust herself.)

But one day a few months later, when he's in Paris negotiating the post-war treaty, he gets a letter that says only, "I love you, too".

He carries the letter with him wherever he goes, and Edwina tell him he's ridiculous but secretly she loves knowing, without a doubt, that it means that much to him even when they've been married for years.

#okay this is a lot I'll stop there #happy edwina week!#edwina sharma #bridgerton #edwinaweek #with some bonus #edwina x friedrich

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margridarnauds · 3 months

Text

Alright. So it's like.

You start off publishing in your undergrad. And you're scared, because you came into fandom when sporkings where still common. But you do well, you get a tiny following of friends, you develop a niche for yourself in small fandoms. You start to think that maybe you're okay at this.

Then, you get into a grad program, you move countries. But...you're happy. There are some adjustment issues, there are some isolation issues, there's the whole...pandemic. Thing. That happened. But still, you're happy. Because you're treated with respect and told to take time off on the weekends. And you write. A lot. You make friends, you join Discord servers, you're told that you're not JUST a good content creator, you're a great friend as well. You're happy. Sometimes, it still hurts when you write something that goes out of your comfort zone and it doesn't get the reception you'd like, or you feel like there's an awkward line here or there, but still. You're happy.

Then, you move countries again. And the new environment is...well. Everyone's trying their hardest. But the stress is high and there's no time off on weekends. You're told at various times to your face that they don't know what to do with you, and when it isn't said directly, you feel it. Your non-fictional work is often treated as being inferior or derivative. Your writing slows to a crawl, projects get abandoned as you go into survival mode. The person who once told you you were more than just a content creator suddenly grows to hate you, and then proceeds to make your life miserable for six months and, to add a cherry to the top, starts a smear campaign that means that you can never trust being in another fandom again. You keep some of your fandoms in the ~divorce~, and you'll always wonder whether part of the reason why is because you were the primary content creator, not because you were more likable or you had more evidence on your side. And your colleagues find your private social media so you don't even have that anymore. You have no sense of privacy, no outlet, either creative or otherwise, and you're in an environment that feels custom made to remind you that there will *always* be someone better. That's the year that your family and close friends expect you to come back home in a pine box.

And things...get better from there. You claw your way out. You start to gradually become a part of the department, but your own words feel foreign and awkward to you. You are treated like. Well, like a human being, you make strong relationships with the faculty and some of your colleagues, but you still hold off on publishing because, after two years of basically being locked in an environment that was obsessed with telling you that you weren't enough, it's hard to turn the switch back on. The fictional words don't flow like they used to. And there's a...melancholy in them now. Everything's weighty, everything's sad and filled with images of death and loneliness and regrets. You can't write like you used to, but some part of you also thinks that it's your only redeeming factor. There's a lot of words, but they don't feel artistic or inspired, and you feel like you HAVE to write them because, otherwise, what are you? Why are you here? You can't write through the depression, but part of the depression is because you can't write.

#suicide reference tw #I'm FINE I promise I'm FINE #just...let me work through this one

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lumine-no-hikari · 3 months

Text

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #48

I did it!!! I finally did the thing!! I did it with help!!

Look!!!

I took a broken Dance Dance Revolution (DDR for short!) pad, which wasn't a very good pad to begin with for a variety of reasons, and turned it into a DDR pad that actually works!! I'll show you how!!

There were a lot of steps involved with this, but obviously, the very first step was to take the broken DDR pad apart and figure out how it works:

As it turns out, on the inside there are two sheets of plastic with conductive paint on the inside. When the conductive paint on the top sheet touches the conductive paint on the bottom sheet, a button press is recorded! A thin foam sheet with holes perforated in specific spots is put in between the two sheets of plastic, such that the conductive paint only touches if you step on certain parts of the pad.

The pad was broken because the plastic sheeting with the conductive paint ended up being crunched up in certain spots, which made it more difficult for the paint to conduct properly. After taking the pad apart, my husband and I used packing tape on the sides of the sheets without conductive paint to smooth out the wrinkles and reinforce it.

When the crunched-up sections were able to lie flat in a satisfactory fashion, I then used a staple gun to affix the bottom plastic sheet to a very sturdy piece of board. From there, it was time to reapply the foam in the correct orientation. That was also stapled down. Then finally, I aligned the top sheet of plastic with the bottom sheet (the foam was slightly translucent even in the parts without holes, so this was relatively easy), and stapled that down, too. Here was the result:

After that, you have to protect it with the sturdy plastic cover. I wanted a pad where the arrows were slightly raised, and I wasn't going to use the foam bottom of the pad for anything, so I cut little squares in the shape of the arrow buttons and applied them to the bottom of the plastic cover, like so:

And then I flipped it over, aligned it with the plastic sheeting, and stapled it down!

And do you want to know what??? IT WORKS!!! So far, it works better than any other pad I've ever owned, and that includes my old RedOctane that gave out after 10 years of heavy use (RIP, my trusty RedOctane; I miss you dearly).

DDR is a very old game at this point, so they don't make high quality pads like the ones RedOctane used to make anymore. RedOctane as a company no longer even exists. It's a real shame.

Anyhoot!! I went and played one of my favorite DDR songs on Stepmania, on Expert level difficulty! The timing of this pad couldn't be better (though I wish I could say the same for my stamina at this point, hahaha!), and despite the fact that I am very much not used to this kind of exercise anymore, I still managed to get an A!

And the best part about it is that it's HEAVY. The wood that the pad is stapled to is fairly weighty!! This means it doesn't slide around on the floor all crazy when I am using it, and that's a HUGE bonus!! I've sprained ankles in the past from mis-stepping on a thick foam pad that moved without me realizing it while I used it, and goodness me, such an occurrence is NOT a fun time!!

Now that I have a pad that works properly and a funky green half-oval that can stick my ribs back together after the fact, I'm hoping to be able to play more DDR in the very near future! Maybe if I can get my stamina back and start playing on Expert mode all the time again, I'll even record a little video for you of me derping around on my Frankenpad! It'll look ridiculous, but it'll be fun!! Hahaha!

I'm really pleased with how this turned out; it works a lot better than I expected for a first attempt at trying anything like this! I'm hoping to make another one! If I do this again in the near future, I should do a better job, because next time I'll have a better understanding of what to do and what to expect! Then I can play with multiple people at the same time!! And that would be amazing!

Have you ever built anything cool? Heck, have you built anything that you think is uncool? If you have, then I wish you could tell me about it! I suppose I'll have to settle just for asking without ever receiving any answer, hahaha... Oh well.

I think I'll end this letter here for now. As you might expect, my grip flexors are VERY angry with me right now because repetitive uses of the staple gun is not something that squishy noodle-arms like mine are accustomed to, hahaha! Also, I moved around a lot, both for the construction of this and for testing it, and so my ribs are pretty angry at me, too... Sheesh...

I'll work at getting my stamina back so that I can send you a neat video. Count on it, okay?

Please stay safe until then. Remember you are loved. Remember that you are human. Make good and kind choices. Take nice care of yourself. And if you can spare the time, maybe try to see what sorts of things you can build, even if it's something silly like a little person made of sticks and twine. Building things is good for humans; it doesn't have to have a use.

I gotta rest now. I promise I'll have a bunch of amazing pictures to share with you tomorrow (but I'm not gonna tell you what they are gonna be pictures of!! I'm gonna leave you in suspense!!! NEENER NEENER NEENER!!! Hahahaha!), so just you wait...

I'll write to you again tomorrow. So don't disappear anywhere, okay? Promise me.

Your friend, Lumine

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pantoneyoongi · 10 months

Text

the sun & the stars | kth | 04

title ; the sun & the stars pairing ; taehyung x you

word count ; 6k

description ;

taehyung’s known you almost his whole life - his sister’s best friend, the girl who invades his home and his life on the daily. you’re the one who gave his sister the nickname ‘sky’ to begin with - and also the one who relented when he whined about it at age five and said okay, you can be the stars, then.

it’s funny, because to him, you’re just the petty, mischievous neighbor from across the street with a penchant for stealing his snacks. but over the years, you’ve somehow landed yourself a reputation that stretches beyond the 1.5 year age gap he has with you - for someone who generally likes to keep things low key, you sure have a way of drawing attention.

sky’s friendly, teasing best friend is known for being cold, impassive, and immovable. which is weird, because when he’s around you, all he sees are unabashed grins and terrible jokes. until he realizes maybe he doesn’t know you like he thought he did. maybe they’re right - it just so happens that the walls you throw up around him look a little different from the walls you throw up around everyone else.

tracklist ; willow - taylor swift, give me your forever - zack tabudlo ft. billkin, limbo - keshi

tags ; college!au, best friend’s little brother!au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, a lot of it, fluff, mentions of absent parents and financial instability, insecurity, brief mentions of infidelity, arguing, fun fact i wrote this entire fic based almost entirely off one (1) scene in this chapter lol, please give my girl sun a hug after this is over thank u

you’re not sure if the luck counts as good or bad, but both you and sky finish your finals earlier than most of the other students do. your finals stack up back to back, leaving you a couple extra days to breathe easy after. so while jimin and taehyung are still frantically cramming and testing, you crash at sky’s apartment for a day after jinyoung convinces you to take a day off before you actually collapse at the restaurant.

slouched on her couch and half-awake is when sky decides to ask you. you almost topple off the couch, startled awake. “come again?”

“do you want to meet namjoon?”

you hesitate. “are you… official, or something?”

sky shakes her head. “not yet. but i mean, you know everyone i know, and… i just thought…” she trails off, but you know what she means. namjoon is an anomaly compared to sky’s other friends. most of her friends are your friends.

you sit up on the couch, trying to look nonchalant knowing full well you are anything but. “feels like i’m the parent meeting the new boyfriend.”

sky cracks a grin. “feel free to chew him out.”

you narrow your eyes at her playfully. “oh, i will.”

her eyes light up with amusement. “i expect nothing less.”

sky looks happy; it’s easy to tell by the way she can’t help smiling. her excitement is subtle but palpable, and you try to reciprocate, but your heart feels weighty in your chest, and you’re struggling to keep it held up. you make an acknowledging noise when sky jumps up to make food for the two of you, watching her flit about the kitchen, light on her feet.

you and sky tend to communicate less in words and more in implied feelings and actions. you know it’s not the best way to communicate - it’s what landed the two of you in trouble the last time - but even despite having what jinyoung calls “half a conversation, dammit, sun,” you can tell the tension has faded. sky looks like she feels more comfortable in her own skin, like it’s a relief not to be holding onto a secret anymore.

your shoulders relax a little, watching her. even if your heart feels like a traitor in your own chest, the majority part of you feels relief, too. that sky’s happy, that she found someone who won’t love her in halves. it’s a testament to namjoon’s sincerity, that he’s able to step past sky’s basic levels of kindness, becoming part of her life. even without your protectiveness, sky’s circle of friends is deeply exclusive, just from sky’s shy and introverted nature.

she smiles at you from the kitchen, and you smile back. for her, you shove down the insecurities, push yourself off the couch to go wreak havoc in her perfectly organized kitchen, and hope that no matter what position you hold in or outside of sky’s life, that she’ll always have someone who makes her laugh as loudly as she does now.

“i need a ten year nap,” jimin says into your countertops, voice muffled from his face being smushed into it. his arms dangle lifelessly at his sides, back arched from the way he’s sitting in the chair.

you click your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “go take a nap at your place then. stop bothering me at mine.”

jimin lifts his head, and you snicker at the red mark that’s left on his forehead. “i feel like you favor taehyung over me,” he complains. “you feed him once a week, you’re nice to him, and what do i get? kicked out of your apartment in less than ten minutes.” he jabs a finger in your direction. “this is blatant favoritism.”

you smile sympathetically at him, and he makes a disgusted face at the mocking saccharine look. you even pout a little. “are you mad everyone likes taehyungie better than you, jiminie?”

“you - you know what?” jimin looks like he’s going to be ill. “don’t ever use that voice on me again. never mind. you can have her,” jimin hops off the chair and goes to faceplant into your couch instead, leaving behind a bemused taehyung in the kitchen with you. you share a look with the younger, eyebrows flicking up as you smirk in amusement.

taehyung just shakes his head, nursing his glass of water. he looks exhausted too, but he’s still poring over his notes, with two exams left before the week is over.

you whip up a simple fried rice for the boys, setting a bowl in front of taehyung before going over to nudge jimin with your foot. “get up, freeloader. go eat.”

jimin pathetically lifts his head from the couch cushion. “leave me here to die. at least if i die, my classmates will get automatic a’s.”

you smack him against the head. “get up, you overdramatic gremlin. we all know you’re acing all your classes anyway.”

jimin grins. you have half a mind to drag him up by his ear, but that would go against your policy of putting minimal effort in when it comes to men.

eventually the two of you join taehyung at the kitchen counter, though taehyung hasn’t even touched his food, still buried in his notes. you tap your fingers against his notebook. “hey. eat.”

he looks up slowly, like his brain and body are out of sync. you want to run your hand through his hair, smooth it back and away from his forehead, take away that tired look on his face. you soften, pushing the bowl closer to him. “you need to eat to be able to study, tae.”

quietly, he nods, relenting and putting his books away. jimin looks between the two of you, offended by the blatant difference in treatment, but he keeps his mouth shut at the look you throw him. you watch them both affectionately though, chin propped against your hand.

when they both look like they have a little more life in them, you start up conversation. “hey, are either of you coming to the dinner with sky and namjoon or is that just me?”

“there’s a dinner?” jimin says at the same time as taehyung shaking his head, saying, “i have an exam that night.”

you wince. “you have the worst finals schedule. that’s literally the last slot of finals.”

taehyung groans a little, burying his face in his hands. “please don’t remind me.”

you huff out a laugh, giving in and patting him on the head, ruffling his hair a little. “i’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

“is no one gonna explain to me the meet the namjoon thing?” jimin interjects, and you almost instinctively flick him on the forehead, but cut him some slack and don’t. you shrug at him instead.

“sky wanted me to meet namjoon this friday before everyone goes back for winter break. guess it’s just a ‘meet the bestie’ thing since she didn’t invite anyone else.”

jimin hums thoughtfully, thumb rubbing at his chin. “well,” he finally says. “if he can pass your standards, then he’ll probably pass mine.”

you deadpan. “what am i, like the final boss or something?”

jimin snaps his fingers. “exactly.”

you can’t even argue with him. he’s probably right. you settle for pretending to take his food away, jimin sputtering out nonsense to steal it back from you, scraping rice into his mouth as fast as he can while you laugh, eyes crinkling happily.

the dinner with namjoon makes you more nervous than you let on. you’re meeting sky and namjoon somewhere a little ways off campus, within walking distance. it’s a relatively known and popular ramen spot, with a cozy interior, booths lined up against windows and tables neatly lined in the middle otherwise.

you wish taehyung was coming. but seeing as taehyung has one last final to take, and most of campus, including namjoon, is leaving for winter break tomorrow, that leaves just you for this dinner, sky mentioning in the group chat that she’ll introduce him to the broader group some other time. your palms sweat and you wipe them against your jeans, dragging your hands against the material, trying to find your grounding.

you stand outside the restaurant, counting numbers backwards. you remind yourself that this is sky, and someone important to sky, and that means you need to find the right balance between making sure he won’t hurt her, and making sure you don’t scare him off.

with a deep breath, you enter the restaurant, scanning the room until you spot sky and namjoon at a booth, off to the right. a waiter comes up to you but you shake your head politely and gesture towards your friend, and he steps out of your way so you can make your way to them.

sky and namjoon sit opposite each other, sky sliding in to make room for you. you offer her a smile and try to extend it to namjoon as well, but you’re you and you’ve always had issues smiling at people you don’t know well. he takes it all in stride, offering that dimpled smile he’d given you the last time you’d seen him, at the library.

he really does give off good vibes. you almost feel bad about your half-assed smile.

sky leans towards you, and she’s practically vibrating in her seat, though you can’t tell if it’s because she’s happy or nervous. probably both, honestly. “this is sun,” she introduces, and that’s how the night starts, with her exchanging your names and namjoon’s kind eyes so obviously captivated by her, but still finding time to shift to you, friendly and open. he’s so effortlessly inviting that you find your defenses lowering, even if you let sky and namjoon carry most of the conversation, watching the way they interact, the shy grins sky tries to hide, and the affection pouring out of namjoon whenever he looks at her.

you smile. a real one, and even when namjoon catches it and matches you, you keep it.

you slide out of the booth when sky mentions she needs to use the restroom, letting her slip past you while you sit back down. sky glances back but you give her a look promising that you’ll behave yourself and she smiles and heads off, to the bathrooms in the back.

you return your gaze to the table, eyes flicking up to meet namjoon’s. now it’s just the two of you, and you regard him carefully. he doesn’t shy away from the way you assess him, like he’d been expecting it, especially now that sky isn’t here to serve as a buffer.

the silence passes, like he knows better than to say anything while you gauge whether he’s worth sky’s time. he doesn’t even seem to mind.

you relax against the booth. “seems like you know me.”

he rubs the back of his head. “sky talks about you a lot.”

“did she tell you i’d threaten you?” you say it with a smirk, eyes glinting.

namjoon gives a small smile. “she said it was a possibility.”

you won’t admit it yet, but you like namjoon. he seems honest and casual, and there’s something reassuring about the way he cares for your friend. he doesn’t look scared of you, nor does he seem amused by the possibility of your five-foot-nothing ass trying to beat his. he regards you with respect - like he already knows how much you mean to sky.

your smirk eases into a smile, eyes growing gentler. “i won’t,” you say. “i don’t think a threat would be particularly effective. what i’ll tell you instead, is that she’s important to me. she’s the most important person in my life. and i regret it, but i haven’t always been able to protect her like i should have.”

you lean forward slightly, smile fading, and while your expression hardens, your voice remains soft. “i don’t plan on having any more regrets like that, do you understand?”

something about the way your voice stays quiet, firm, how there’s no malice strewn into the words, only a simple promise, is what freezes namjoon in place. it’s not technically a threat, but the way you look at him holds a guarantee that if he fucks up, he’s not getting any second chances. the person sitting in front of him would do anything for sky. you, without hesitation, would commit a crime for her if she asked you to. take the fall for something she’d done if you needed to. you would do anything if it meant protecting sky.

“understood,” namjoon’s voice comes as a low murmur of confirmation. you know he hears you loud and clear, so you straighten, smile returning.

“good.” your eyes drift over to the window. despite being located right next to campus, the restaurant has a decent view of more than just buildings and parking lots, overseeing a small field. “you know why we call her sky, right? ‘cause,” you gesture outside, where you can see the sky turning the different shades of blue directly post-sunset, the beautiful hues of cerulean, cobalt, indigo. your voice grows nostalgic. “she’s my whole sky. the only thing that encompasses every part of the world.” your eyes slide back to him, and he meets your gaze. “take care of her. please.”

it’s a request. one you’ve never asked of anybody, because sky doesn’t need someone to take care of her, not when she has you on her side. but she deserves to have someone worry about her, bring her lunches, remind her that she’s special and worth loving, out loud, with their whole chest. the way namjoon stares back at you, you know he can give that to her. he can treat her like she’s his whole world.

he smiles, and nods. without words, you know he’s made the same promise you made when you were five years old.

when sky returns, neither you nor namjoon give any indication of the conversation you’ve just held. you’re all smiles and light banter, and when sky looks to you, silently hoping for your approval, you beam right back at her, the way you always have.

because it’s sky. for sky, you would do anything.

it’s when you part for the night that you break. you head back towards your dorm, after five solid minutes of convincing sky that you don’t need or want an escort. but halfway back and your knees give out on you, and you drop into a crouch in the middle of the sidewalk. you hang your head and try to breathe evenly, to smooth out the shaky way you inhale and exhale.

it shouldn’t feel like this. you should be happy for sky - you are - but you’re so fucking selfish, you’re so fucking scared, the ugliest parts of you sneaking behind your back to strangle you, remind you of who you are.

to everyone else, sky’s the one who needs you. sky, who is too nice to say no most of the time, who is gentle in everything she does, who has always been the one you’ve protected. sky’s quiet, demure nature gets taken too often as compliance. as someone who can be bent to anyone’s will.

but that’s not true. you know that. sky’s just simple and patient; she doesn’t mind much. she goes with the flow, content to follow after you, let you take the lead.

but she doesn’t need you. she never has.

you press your hand firm against your mouth to muffle the cry that threatens to slip out, eyes squeezing shut. no. no. you’re not going to be upset about this. you’re not going to be selfish about this.

fuck.

everyone looking from the outside in says you’re the strong one.

you and sky sit at distinct parallels, impossible to intersect. on one hand there’s you, cold, hard, and impassive. you don’t know how your reputation spun wildly out of control, but people dodge you like you’re poison. they fear what you could do, even if they don’t know what you would do.

on the other hand there’s sky, elegant, trusting, and caring. she’s a bit shy, much quieter than most others, but she’s sweet, and people like that. she embodies the definition of a good girl, with off-the-charts intelligence to top it off. she’s your best friend. you’d protect her with your life. everyone knows it. you’re her personal guard dog.

but the truth is, she’s not the one who needs protecting. you’re the one that’s fragile, quick to come apart. one nudge and everything around you will crumble, scatter in the wind and you’ll be left with nothing. they say sky needs you, but it’s you who needs her.

she’s your safe place. she makes you feel wanted. you don’t know anyone else like her, who makes you feel like there’s something worth fighting for. because what else are you going to do? if not to protect sky, what else are you worth?

not much, apparently. after all, you’re the one who hurt her the most.

you’ll never shake the self-inflicted blame for it. for falling for seokjin and not realizing the entire time that sky also had feelings for him. that he was playing the field, holding your hand while sweet-talking sky, keeping her his secret, leaving her with the guilt of having feelings for her best friend’s boyfriend. you were blind to all of it, rose-colored glasses fogging what was right in front of you.

they can say all they want about, it’s seokjin who hurt her, it’s seokjin who shouldn’t have done that, but even if you’re not the mastermind, you’re the accomplice. you know that because of you, sky experienced heartbreak before she could experience love.

the world sky existed in was perfect, until you fractured it.

you did everything to patch it back up. return to sky the picture-perfect she used to have, before you weaseled your way into it, selfishly begging to be a part of it. to have even an ounce of what normalcy might feel like. but even in doing so you couldn’t bear to give it up. you need sky.

nobody understands that. you need sky, but she doesn’t need you. least of all now that she has namjoon.

you don’t really like school breaks. winter and summer breaks are longer than spring break, which means you can go back to your hometown. you usually spend it working most days, but being home also means unlocking your door to an unlit room, hardly any food in the fridge and your parents never there.

it’s a little better now that you’re older, and can stay up later. you catch them when they get home at midnight, weary eyes and tired smiles. they hug you and you feel like a child again, melting into your mother’s embrace that you’ve missed so much. but they’re too tired to spend much time with you, and most mornings, either you’re gone before they wake up, or they’re gone before you wake up.

you know they love you, and that’s why they work so hard to provide for you. but you really miss them sometimes. you missed them in elementary school, when they didn’t show up to see your science fair project. you missed them in middle school, when they couldn’t be there to see your artwork displayed for the night. you missed them in high school, when they weren’t amongst the proud parents watching their kids walk across the stage for graduation.

your pictures are scattered throughout the house, though. your science fair participation ribbon is tacked to the fridge, your artwork framed on the wall. your high school diploma is kept displayed on a dresser in your parents’ room, a reminder of what you accomplished that they never got a chance to. and when you graduate college next semester - you know they won’t be able to attend your graduation ceremony then, either, but they’ll leave a picture frame out for you to place your university diploma into, and a slice of cake will sit in the fridge as their way of celebrating with you, too.

you know better than to believe you aren’t loved. but you also don’t really know your parents at all, just know that they have sacrificed everything to make sure you could have a better life than them. that includes being there for you in all the little moments, and all the grand ones, too.

it’s a lot of pressure. they give up every waking hour, bending over backwards to pay for your future. but the child in you cries while you sit under a single light in the kitchen at a table meant for a family and you’re utterly alone.

coming home means a lot of things. it means comfort, in the form of your parents arriving in the middle of the night, getting to see them even if it’s brief. it also means sitting alone with your own thoughts, forced to confront the parts of you that you can escape when you’re away at university.

you’ve always known what you’re afraid of. it’s why you put up such a big front, whether it’s the cold and calculating way you treat strangers, or the bright and adoring way you love your friends.

you’re afraid of being alone. you’d think after years of it, you’d find the time to get used to it, but you never have. you don’t want to be alone. you want someone at your important events and life milestones and even for the little stupid things that don’t matter and can easily be forgotten. you want someone there for all of it.

that’s sky. when you had your science fair, sky’s parents stopped by your booth for a full twenty minutes, fascinated by everything you had displayed. sky was never part of the art exhibition, but she and her parents and taehyung all showed up, taking pictures and ooh-ing and ahh-ing over your mediocre middle school artwork. and when your parents couldn’t attend graduation, sky’s family drove you there, cheering as loudly for you as they did for her.

sky’s there for everything. she listens to everything you have to say, no matter how mindless or menial. she remembers most of it, too, even better than you do - can recant stories that you don’t even recall telling her in the first place. if you love sky fiercely, defensively, sky loves you quietly, peacefully.

what you’re afraid of is that sky will find her happily ever after, and it won’t include you. that the family you forced your way into doesn’t actually want you, and you’ll go back to your empty house and your dinners alone and the child in you will peer out across the street and wonder again what it’s like to have a family that can afford to be home. with you. that you’ll have to once again get used to an absent family, with no one to go running to.

but you can’t tell her that. you can’t tell her, or taehyung, or even jimin. they’ve already shown you so much love. given you so much more than you deserve. you can’t beg them to stay if they don’t want to.

you stare out the window. when it’s winter, it gets darker earlier, and all you can see is black.

lonely, lonely, lonely.

sky is pacing.

sky doesn’t pace. sky generally sits still, in fact, so still that sometimes jimin will pretend to double check if she’s still breathing. taehyung’s eyes follow his sister back and forth and back and forth as she crosses the length of the room over and over again.

“you okay?” taehyung ventures, after sky’s doubled back for god knows how many times now. sky pauses, head turning so slowly, she could give a slowly deteriorating animatronic a run for their money. taehyung makes a face. “sky.”

she blinks at him. “something’s wrong.”

he raises his eyebrows. yes. something is wrong, but sky doesn’t usually say it out loud. both you and sky have this in common: when things go south, you hide.

taehyung noticed it a week ago, when the first stop you made since coming home wasn’t his house, but yours. you actually haven’t even been here since winter break started, and this is usually the place you come to lie down on the floor and complain about your creaky old joints. your messages in the group chat have been dwindling further and further, and you’ve canceled on group invites, even the ones that include yoongi and hoseok, who you haven’t seen in an entire semester. you cite work as an excuse, even though you normally would’ve found a way to make time for them regardless.

sky looks stressed. “sun hasn’t come over.”

taehyung chews on his lower lip. he’s not really sure what to say. taehyung has gone looking for you, of course, but he keeps missing his chances at actually seeing you. he’s considered just walking over to your place, but when you get like this, there’s the distinct possibility that you’ll just pretend no one’s home, which you’ve done before.

sky resumes her pacing, and taehyung lets her. he wishes he had answers, solutions, anything - but the best he’s got is an attempt to get to you before you can step foot into your house. the problem is your schedule is not exactly consistent, and somehow you manage to sneak back into your house in the precise moments when taehyung isn’t creepily staring out his window trying to catch you before you head in.

he hates when you get like this. hates that when you’re hurting, or insecure, you don’t come to him. or sky, jimin, yoongi, hoseok, someone. you draw into yourself instead, refusing to reach out. you lock yourself out, and taehyung’s banging on every door trying to find the room you’ve hidden yourself in. he’s looking for you in corners and around bends and in nooks and crannies, trying to figure out where you’ve hidden yourself this time around, because he cares about you. he worries about you. he knows he might not know you the best, but god, he wants to. but you won’t let him.

it aches, to see you pull into yourself. to watch you work yourself to the bone, until you’re so tired you could collapse. yet you say nothing of it. neither the work nor the feelings that smother you; you keep all of it sealed tight under lock and key. the lock is shaped with your blinding smile and taehyung has spent years trying to find the goddamn key.

he hates that you always tell him you’re fine. that you always tell him not to worry. that your smile is just convincing enough that he can’t argue, can’t push hard enough for you to waver and cave, confess what he knows is true.

he can see how much you’re hurting, and you still won’t let him in.

you honestly wondered how long you could keep this up. it’s not like you can call on yoongi this time to help you dodge sky and taehyung, considering he’s been blowing up your phone trying to pry an answer out of you. yoongi’s a little better at reading people than the rest of your hometown friends, and the fact that you haven’t shown face to him or hoseok yet is a little too telling for him.

you opt for just ignoring his messages lately instead.

(note: yoongi is not amused by this.)

your luck runs out on you, naturally, on a day that you are more exhausted than usual. your shift ran over and you were definitely a hazard on the road driving home. you genuinely consider taking a nap in your car before heading in, except it’s fucking cold and there’s no way you’re leaving your car on to burn gas just so you don’t have to physically move.

that’s how taehyung catches you. he’s sitting on the curb outside his house and when you finally manage to drag yourself out of your car, he stands, catching you off guard.

“you’re home late,” he comments casually, but the way his brows knit tight together gives away his worry. you shrug.

“long day.”

you step towards your house, and he doesn’t stop you, just follows behind. “sun.”

you’re so tired. you lower your head while your back is still facing him, trying not to be agitated by his presence. but you just want to lay down. you just want to take a shower and pass the fuck out. you don’t want to face your demons, and you definitely don’t want to face them in the form of a conversation led by kim taehyung.

with a deep inhale, you turn to face him. “yeah, tae?”

there it is. that look you keep trying to avoid, pretty brown eyes revealing all his emotions, because unlike you, taehyung isn’t scared of them. all his concern, his care, everything he’s wondering about you is laid open on his face, but if he’s not asking them out loud, then you’re definitely not answering them.

his tongue swipes over his bottom lip nervously, and he struggles a little with what he wants to say. you wait, as patiently as you can, and briefly ponder whether he can see your eyebags actively getting worse by the minute or if you’re just tired enough to feel like they are.

when he continues to say nothing, you rub your forehead and scrunch your face a bit. “taehyung, i-”

“wait,” it comes out a little desperate, and he flounders a little, which is unlike him. he breathes out a steady breath. “i…” his eyes fall to the scarf looped around your neck. you wear it every day now, cradled by its warmth and familiar scent. “was just… looking for my scarf.”

it’s an excuse to keep you here and you know it. but it still takes you aback, face contorting into a frown almost immediately, and you can see the regret on taehyung’s face just as instantly. your hand comes up to grasp at it, but you don’t move to take it off, instead clutching it a little too tightly.

it doesn’t belong to you. it’s taehyung’s. he’s asking for it back.

he’s starting to panic, but you don’t really notice it so much as the rush in your ears. you hold onto it, entire body tense, like you’re geared to run any second now just to keep it with you another day.

“shit. wait. that’s not - you can keep the scarf, sun, that’s not really what i came for. i promise. i didn’t - you can keep it. please keep it. i just -” he scrubs at his face, frustrated, shaking his head, clearing it. when he lowers his hands, he looks calmer, adjusted, but there’s still too much in the way he looks at you for you to bear.

“sun,” he starts again, gentler this time. “i’m just worried about you. we’re all worried about you. you’re working so much, and you come home so late, and you look so tired. i know you think we don’t notice, but we do, and - you don’t have to work so hard, sun.”

anything else he says is lost after that. you don’t have to work so hard, sun. your head spins, everything sounds muffled, and every emotion you’ve tamped down shoots straight through you, hard and fast.

“do not fucking talk to me about working hard, taehyung,” your voice comes out like steel, and whatever he was in the middle of saying cuts short, taehyung startled into silence. you look at him with borderline disdain, scoffing. “i-” you shut your eyes, trying to calm your temper. but the waves keep rising and if you don’t want to say something you’ll regret, you need to leave. “i’m going home, taehyung. you should too.”

you turn around. you don’t want to have this conversation. you don’t want taehyung’s worry and you don’t want anyone else’s, either. you don’t do well with confrontation, you don’t do well with letting people in, and you don’t do well with people making empty promises telling you that you can rely on them.

people like sky and taehyung, live their lives so comfortably. in every moment, everything they say and do, they make it so abundantly clear that they were loved to the fullest as kids, and continue to be loved. that their family had the ability to shield them instead of needing them to grow up too fast, like you did. it makes you resentful, sometimes. you hate that part of you the most.

but the anger is so much easier to manage than the hurt. the anger is so much easier to feel than the jealousy.

“sun-”

“what?” you whirl around at his voice, voice so fierce he almost takes a step back. “what, taehyung. what do you want?”

you’ve never looked at him like this before. you’ve never let the smile slip from your face. taehyung’s part of your inner circle, he’s always had the privilege of seeing your free laughter, be on the receiving end of your playful jibes. he gets to see you without restraints, without guards. but now you glare at him like you don’t even know him, like he hasn’t been there for almost every step of your life.

except he hasn’t. he only knows that side of you, the side that’s bright, content, the side that lives to please. he’s gotten glimpses of the version of you that’s exhausted, the version you kept so neatly tucked away in dark houses and latchkeys. but never really because you chose to let him witness what it means to be you behind your brilliant smiles and easy-going jokes. the best he has to see that side of you are the rumors that swirl and follow you around.

when he stays silent, you advance towards him. “what do you know, taehyung? be fucking for real. what do you really know? you live the definition of a white picket fence family, you have everything. do you even realize what you grew up with? your - your fucking - packed lunches and juice boxes and 6:30pm dinners and-” your hands wave around, gesturing to nothing, and taehyung doesn’t think it even hits you that you’re crying by now, tears welling helplessly in your eyes as you go, “all the times someone was there to pick you up at the bus stop, or make you breakfast in the morning, take care of you when you were sick, taehyung - you have no fucking idea! you don’t know what it’s like! to be scared in your own house because no one’s home to protect you, to be lonely in a place you’re supposed to call home, to know that every decision you make, everything you do, it has to be worth something - i don’t have to work so hard? i have no fucking choice, taehyung, so tell me what the fuck it is you really think you know, because you don’t!”

you end in an explosion, breathless, in tears, shaking. that’s when the recognition settles into your features, trembling hands lifting to wipe at your tears, scrub them away. it feels hard to breathe, chest tight, and your head lowers, eyes growing distant as the fight starts to leave you. the exhaustion returns, draining all the anger out of you.

you stare at some aimless spot on the ground, tired. “you don’t know,” you repeat, voice almost inaudible. your eyes slowly lift to his, and there it is - your defense mechanism, ruined; you give him a broken smile. “i never wanted you to.”

the way you say it is heartbreaking. he can see something shatter in your eyes. his lips part but the words fail to come, feeling all of your anger and grief and hurt all at once. he’s never seen it as plainly as he does now, written all over your face. you look away, and your smile falls, useless, now.

and then you’re gone. you trudge back into your house, and by the time taehyung figures out how to move again, it’s too late. your front door is closed and locked, and he doesn’t know where to go from here.

#taehyung x you #taehyung x yn #taehyung x reader #taehyung angst #taehyung #series: tsns #series: kths

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lucassinclaer · 11 months

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BREAK FROM THE PACK

Jonathan tries to escape from a party. He's not used to people noticing.

NOTE: a stonathan sunday ficlet inspired by the prompt "why do you care?"

you can also read this on ao3 here

“Hey, Byers!” Jonathan turns around reluctantly. He’s just managed to disentangle himself from the masses, so close to a successful escape. But no. That would’ve been too much to ask.

This never used to be a problem. First, he never used to show up at any party full stop and tonight’s reminded him of all the reasons why. Second, when he does show, no one’s ever noticed him slipping away before.

“Wait up,” Steve Harrington says now, squeezing through the crowd to catch up with Jonathan, completely unaware that he’s breaking all the rules. He never seems to notice. That it’s not supposed to be like this.

Jonathan tries not to let it show, just watches as Steve closes the distance between them and throws an arm around his shoulder. He smells very Steve-like with an added pinch of sweat and liquor. His cheeks are flushed pink. Definitely on the drunker side of things. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Why?”

Jonathan wonders if alcohol can have the magical effect of Bambi-fying a person’s features. When his father gets drunk, his face only grows more sunken. Not Steve. He’s beaming at Jonathan in that weird way that makes his stomach twist and he could swear his eyes are bigger somehow. And soft.

“Why do you care?” It comes out crabbier than Jonathan intentioned. He really wants to get out of here and the weight of Steve is distracting and threatening to change his mind.

Steve leans in closer, bringing their heads together as if they’re sharing a secret. Jonathan hasn’t drunk anything, but in his chest there’s a low fluttering. “Because,” he says, slowly, like he’s contemplating the question very seriously, “I just do.”

The breath escapes Jonathan. The hum in his chest doesn’t go away, but the tension in his shoulders does, built up in the weighty little pause Steve built into his sentence.

“Okay,” he says.

“No seriously,” Steve insists and puts a little more of himself onto Jonathan’s side. He’s not heavy, just warm and close, getting rid of the last spaces between them. “Did something happen? I saw you with Tommy and Carol. They just talk a lot of shit, you know? They’re idiots.”

Then why are you friends with them? Jonathan thinks and realizes then that he isn’t really. Not anymore. It’s just this kind of party. Everybody comes and it doesn’t mean anything. He hates it.

“They are,” he agrees. “Just isn’t my crowd, I guess.”

Steve moves to the side and Jonathan isn’t expecting it. They sway together as one and stumble over their own feet, halfway into the hedge that borders the little stone path leading to the gate.

“Mh. Okay.” He turns and looks directly at Jonathan who idiotically forgot to avert his gaze in time. Another pause. Jonathan can smell his breath. It’s not great, but he doesn’t mind so much when it’s paired with brown eyes flicking up and down, catching him in place. “Do you wanna go somewhere else, then?”

It takes a second or two for Jonathan’s brain to process. “With you?”

Steve grins. “Yeah.” He frowns briefly. Sways again. “But I don’t think I should drive.”

“No.” Jonathan looks back to the house and then into the darkness where Steve wants to take him. Only him. “Come on, I’ll drive.”

#stonathan #stonathanweek #jonathan byers #steve harrington #stranger things #this is good writing practice especially for someone who always needs a prompt or a project to write ficlets #so this is amazing tyvm!!#only very lightly edited fic-posting is still nerve-wracking to me personally #*ficlets #also i went over 500 words BUT WHO'S COUNTING EXCEPT AO3 AND WORD??#jonathansteve #emstuff #emfics

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p3ski · 5 months

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Pairing: RK900/Gavin Reed

Tags: Post Pacifist Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Masterlist

Read on AO3 here:

Summary: A lot has changed since the revolution. Crimes against androids are now punished in the same way as crimes against humans. A reluctant Gavin Reed and his new partner RK900 have been assigned to investigate a string of disturbing murders. Despite the shift in Detroit's social climate, Gavin still holds reservations about whether or not androids are truly alive. Will his developing feelings for 'Nines' be the thing to change this?

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Depression/Self Destructive Behaviour, Eventual Smut

Word Count: 3.9K

Gavin didn't take his garbage out nearly as often as he should. His apartment was on the fourth floor, and the communal trash cans were on the opposite end of the building - down several flights of stairs. It never really occurred to him how much junk had amassed until he was literally wading through it, unable to see his floors.

It was odd how his sudden compulsion to clean coincided perfectly with Nines' visit. After all, the android was already acquainted with his usual living standards. He had hardly concerned himself with making a good impression before. After securing the ties on two weighty trash bags, he surveyed his progress, feeling satisfied. That was until he heard a gentle rapping at his door.

" Fuck. " Cursing under his breath, his watch informed him that it was 8 pm exactly. He should have known Nines would be the punctual sort. Attempting to slip the trash bags inconspicuously onto his fire escape, the bottom of one started to rip. He cursed again, louder this time, as the persistent rapping continued.

Abandoning the bags in the centre of his kitchen, Gavin wiped his grubby hands on the front of his jeans. Once they were sufficiently clean, he navigated the cramped walkway through the living room, and went to answer the door:

"Give me a second, Jesus Christ - " Swinging it open, he readied himself to continue his tirade when his words caught in his throat.

Nines stood on the mat, so broad and tall that it was partially obscured by the doorway. Its hair had been rinsed of its usual product, giving it an uncharacteristically soft and bouncy appearance. Its CyberLife attire was absent, replaced by a grey turtleneck sweater and straight-leg black pants. The style and colour complemented its features, and Gavin couldn't help but notice just how well everything seemed to fit.

"Good evening, Detective."

He had completely zoned out, staring vacantly without sense or purpose. Upon realising this, he forced himself to look away, thoroughly unnerved. "Come on in'', he said reluctantly, trying to swallow the traitorous lump that had formed in his throat.

Passing the threshold in silence, the android studied the living space, eyes darting between the uncharacteristically clear floors and surfaces. "I had not expected you to clean on my behalf."

"It needed it anyway", he quickly excused, "Was getting out of control."

"The gesture is appreciated."

"I'm gonna finish - that", Gavin gestured vaguely to the kitchen and the abandoned bags on the floor. "Make yourself home, or whatever. Tiff is in the bathtub, don't know how much luck you'll have in coaxing her out."

Returning to the kitchen and creating a comfortable distance between them, Gavin attempted to tie off the damage he had done to the split bag. This only worsened matters, as the tear nearly doubled in size. Admitting defeat, he went to his cupboard and retrieved a second bag, slipping it over the first and manually gathering the loose remnants. Upon exiting the room, his houseguest was nowhere to be seen. Presumably, it had gone to the bathroom, searching for Tiffany. He seized the opportunity to drag his overstuffed bags out of the apartment, heading in the direction of the stairs.

On the way down, he cursed himself for not sticking to his earlier convictions. Inviting Nines over had been a terrible idea. One that he was already coming to regret. The only person he had allowed to stay in his current apartment had been Tina - a tenuous arrangement in itself, given her vendetta with Tiffany. Hosting Nines felt…different. It couldn't be so easily categorised. They weren't friends, nor were there any romantic or sexual pretences. It was the sort of dissonance that could only be quelled by a drink. Or six.

Making his way back up his stairs, he reasoned he should be upfront, telling Nines that he'd changed his mind. Writing the experience off as a lapse in judgement would be much easier than enduring an evening of painful awkwardness. This changed, however, when he made his way back into the apartment and saw it standing in the living room. Cradling Tiffany in its arms.

The usually fractious cat was surprisingly calm, purring appreciatively as the android scratched behind her ear. "She seems more affectionate than usual." As if on cue, the cat's head lolled back, tucking into the crook of its elbow. "I suspect it is due to the change in her hormones."

Gavin had never seen his pet look so peaceful nor his partner so content. There was no way he could ask it to leave now, he was trapped.

Having made a swift break for his kitchen - and, more specifically, the beers in his fridge - the bottles clinked together as he rustled to grab one. "I, uh, don't have anything you can drink," he loudly excused, pulling out a beer and using the magnetised bottle opener on his fridge to crack the lid. "Sorry."

"No need to apologise. Although I wouldn't think it the most opportune time to be consuming alcohol," The disembodied voice was calm and distant, but with the subtle air of judgement. "When did you last eat?"

Gavin pursed his lips as he stared haplessly into his fridge. It was devoid of contents save for the remaining bottles and a half-eaten yoghurt. "I'll order something later."

"I really would advise against drinking until you have compensated for -"

Slamming the fridge door shut, he returned to the living room, annoyed. "Can you stop making me feel like I'm on trial?" he snapped, pointing forcefully to his couch. "Sit down. I told you to make yourself at home."

"I rarely sit down when I am home", Nines reasoned, combing its fingers through the expanse of Tiffany's back, "I prefer to stand."

"Well, I'd prefer it if you didn't. It's fucking creepy."

His companion stirred at the insult but quickly grounded itself, shrugging dismissively, "If it makes you feel more at ease, Detective, then I suppose I can sit."

"Do it then - and stop calling me ‘Detective'. We're off duty; Gavin is fine."

"Alright then…Gavin." The words sounded stiff as it tested the name on its tongue. As requested, it sat itself onto the couch, shifting Tiffany into its lap. The cat remained docile during this, never once stirring.

Gavin busied himself with his television. The set was a relic - early 2010s, with limited functionality, save actually switching on. The remote had to be smacked several times before it would even respond. Still, it was one of the rare models to have a DVD player built into the screen, which paired nicely with his expansive collection.

"It's still early. Thought we could watch something." Running a finger across the boxes, he wondered what, if anything, would be the best choice for entertaining an android houseguest. "So dipshit…what's your favourite scary movie?"

The reference flew directly over Nines' head. It looked back at him with a blank stare before shrugging its shoulders. "I am unfamiliar with the horror genre. I do not believe I have seen any films that fit the criteria."

"We'll be starting with the classics then." After some deliberation, he selected two DVDs from his collection and held them up to his partner. "Take your pick: A or B."

Its eyes narrowed, carefully scrutinising the box art of both choices. Its LED whirred yellow briefly before it let out a gentle hum. "I find the synopsis of A more compelling. It would be my preferred option."

Realising what it had done, Gavin allowed his arms to fall limply to his sides. "I told you to pick a movie, not read the Wikipedia."

"Should I not inform myself of the plot of a film before I watch it?"

"It's more fun if you go in blind." He popped the disc into the side of the TV, and the old mechanism whirred to life. Remote in hand, he slumped himself into the space on the left side of the couch.

Once the menu had booted up and the movie started, Gavin tried to get comfortable, picking up his beer and sinking further into the cushions. Nines sat in silence, intently focused on the scene playing in front of it. As ominous music played, a young girl walked alone through a boiler room. This continued for quite some time until she was loudly accosted by a deformed-looking man in a striped sweater.

Much to Gavin's delight, Nines reeled back at this, visibly startled. Tiffany, who had been stirred from her nap, yowled and scampered away - but only made it as far as their feet before settling down again.

"Don't tell me that actually got you?" Gavin snorted before breaking out into a fit of cackles. "Big scary Robocop can't handle a jumpscare."

"I wasn't scared. It was an involuntary reaction to what my central processor perceived as a threat."

"Sure, I believe you," his laughter tapered off as he took a generous swig of his drink, "Want me to hold your hand in case there's another one?"

"That won't be necessary", The android fired back. It clearly did not appreciate the mockery, jaw hardening defensively. "I know what to expect now, and I shall be more prepared next time."

Nothing more was said for a while. Gavin finished his beer, setting the empty bottle in front of him. He was about to fetch another when his stomach let out a thunderous growl. This did not go unnoticed by his guest, whose attention snapped from the movie over to the source of the noise.

"You are hungry," It said matter of factly. "It is getting late, you should consider acquiring food."

Gavin tensed, resenting the fact that the machine was calling him out. He honestly couldn't afford to order another takeout despite his previous assertion. Perhaps some beans would be enough to quell the lingering pain in his gut, as well as to keep the android off his case.

"You are partial to pizza, correct? I recall several empty boxes the last time I visited."

"You mean the last time you tried to break in?" There had been little point deflecting the question. Nines was frustratingly astute with details, and there was no convincing it to drop something once it had committed. "I'm not feeling pizza tonight. Might just see what I've got in."

"That is unfortunate, given the fact I have already placed an order."

Gavin shot up, thrown by the statement, "Are you being serious? When did you -" He cut himself short, catching sight of the LED that spun on his partner's forehead. He held his breath, exhaling deeply before he continued. "You're not supposed to buy me dinner. I'm the damn host."

"I do not need to eat, and you do - As you could not be trusted to make arrangements, I took it upon myself to do so."

Ignoring the backhanded nature of Nines' remark, he pushed himself up from his seat, muttering under his breath. "You better not have got me trash. Any olives or pineapple, and I'll fucking end you."

"I made an order based on your established preferences."

It had been a while since someone had thought to buy him dinner - and even longer without an ulterior motive. The conflict of emotions it left him with made his stomach twist. He grabbed two bottles from the fridge, one for enjoyment and the other for assurance, before pocketing the bottle opener.

Gavin returned just in time to catch one of his favourite scenes. Upon witnessing the comedic extension of the killer's arms, his shoulders shook with involuntary giggles. "Good old Stretch Armstrong. Just wait until he starts running at her. It's fucking hilarious."

Nines seemed perplexed by this statement, "I thought the intention of this film was to frighten, not to amuse?"

"Ehh, it's a bit of both with this franchise." He opened one of his beers before sitting back on the couch. Propping his elbow onto the armrest, he leant his head on his hand as he gently sipped the foam. "The later movies get really stupid. Freddy's Dead is a straight-up comedy."

"For a series you hold in such high regard, you seem rather critical of it."

"Nah, that's the beauty of these old movies. Sure, the effects are goofy and outdated, but that's part of what makes them fun."

Nines looked away, tuning in to a series of loud, pained screams emanating from the television. "...I can see how you might find it entertaining, although the logistics of this scene are rather questionable."

"That's because it's a dream, dumbass", he chided, rolling his eyes. "Dream rules means no rules. Get used to it."

It wasn't long until a knock could be heard on the door, disturbing what was building into a suspensefully quiet scene. Before Gavin had a chance to stand up, Nines had already done so and was answering the door with a polite greeting. A few muttered words were exchanged, after which the android returned with a large paper bag, handing it to its partner. "Here you go."

Tiffany, who had been curled up asleep on the floor, abruptly stirred at the new sounds and smells. Her head peered up at the bag, nose upturned curiously. She let out a small yowl as her owner pulled it open.

"No. Not for you. Fuck off", he said, firmly waving her away. "You've got food in the kitchen that you've barely touched."

Retrieving the pizza box from the bag, he scrutinised the label. "Double pepperoni with stuffed crust. Very nice." Digging further into the bag, he noticed an unlabelled polystyrene container sandwiched at the bottom. Opening the container, he was hit with an abrupt wave of disappointment and confusion. "Did you order a fucking side salad?"

"Given your affinity for calorie-dense, processed foods, I felt some nutrients would not go amiss."

"I'm not eating the salad."

"You may find it agreeable", it argued, the corner of its lips pulling upwards. "Surely I don't have to feed you?"

Gavin pulled a face, smacking his hand open and closed to mock the nagging tone. Setting the unwelcome salad down at the table's edge, he cleared space for the pizza. Not long after he'd pried the box open, he dug into the food like a hungry animal. Slurping at the cheese and tomato shamelessly, licking up remnants from his fingertips. Tiffany was still skulking around their feet, groaning and growling, to which the Nines picked her up and settled her back into its lap.

"I must admit, I am enjoying this more than I anticipated", it said. "Lieutenant Anderson and RK800's taste in films leaves much to be desired."

"Oh yeah? What sort of garbage have they got you watching?"

"The Lieutenant is partial to action films, whereas RK800 leans more towards romantic comedies."

Gavin set down a half-eaten slice of pizza, pointing to his throat in a gagging gesture. "Figures Connor would be into chick flicks. Remind me never to come round on movie night."

"Fortunately, they are both equally partial to animals, so we find some compromise there. I must say, though, I found the last film we watched to be…distressing."

"What was so distressing about it?"

Nines looked on, a little forlornly, "It is about a couple who adopt a Labrador, and it follows their life as the dog grows up. Towards the end of the film -"

Oh no. The detective cursed his curiosity as a wave of unpleasant memories swiftly assaulted him. "Let me guess. Marley and Me? "

"I take it you've seen it before."

"Once, when I was six. That movie was why I wasn't allowed pets growing up. It took me a week to emotionally recover."

"I imagine that came as a disappointment," it said with a look of solidarity. "You seem very fond of animals."

"I made up for it as an adult." Gavin went to take a sip of his drink before realising it was empty. Picking up the bottle opener, he retrieved his third beer of the evening and gently pried off the cap. "Got my first dog straight out of college. Great Dane, called 'im Scoob. Was great until I realised what a fucking ball ache he was to take care of. After that, I got Dipshit, a rescue tabby. Been a cat man ever since."

"When did you purchase Tiffany?"

"I didn't. She was a gift from - " Gavin stopped himself, realising he didn't want to go there. At least not now. "Not important. I've had her for about four years."

They returned their attention to the movie just in time to witness one of the more iconic scenes. Nines tilted his head to the side, evidently struggling to process what was happening. The killer pulled a man into his bed before a geyser of blood erupted from the mattress. "Is this another instance of dream rules? Because there's far too much blood to realistically be contained in a single person."

"With this scene, I've got no fuckin' clue. I think they just wanted it to look cool."

"I find it surprising that as a child, you were so deeply traumatised by a fictional dog when this level of violence did not faze you."

Pausing for a moment, Gavin wondered how honestly he ought to respond. "That's not completely true", he confessed. "When I was little, my dad would stay up late watching movies every single night, but he never let me join 'im. I was a stubborn shit and kept sneaking peeks around the corner, so eventually, he sat me down to watch Child's Play . I was shitting my pants the entire time. Gave me all kinds of nightmares."

"If the films frightened you so much, why did you continue to watch them?"

Gavin knocked back his bottle, swilling the liquid around his mouth before swallowing heavily. "After my parents split up, I only ever saw my dad on weekends. I wasn't about to waste any of the time we had."

Nines said nothing but listened closely, its lips pursed tightly in thought.

"When he got sick, he couldn't do much of anything. Except watch his movies. We’d worked through his whole collection in months, and I was desperate to find something new we could watch together." He started to laugh. "One time, I convinced him to take me to see some shitty slasher movie, and I decided I'd make myself look older. In case the workers got funny about it. I wasn't very convincing, drew on stubble with my mom's eyebrow pencil."

"I'm sure your father found that amusing."

"Sure did, it was great. You should have seen his face" The laughter he had forced throughout the story promptly stopped. His chest felt heavy from the exertion, and he struggled to breathe. "It's weird. He's been gone for 23 years, but it still feels like yesterday that I was at his funeral. Grief like that never goes away; you just learn to live with it."

"...Gavin." He wasn't sure when Nines had moved, but the distance between them haf decreased massively. A hand slid out towards him, stopping just shy of grazing his fingers. "I know you may not appreciate me saying this, but I am genuinely sorry for your loss. I can't imagine the pain you must feel."

The detective bit his lip as his increasingly inebriated state threatened to breach his resolve. "You ever lose something, Nines? Something that tears you up until you feel like there's nothing left?"

Nines stilled, its LED shifting to red instantaneously. It opened its mouth, emitting a crackle of static. "Yes."

"Then you get it. To be honest, I think you get a lot more than I've given you credit for."

It raised a quizzical eyebrow as the corner of its mouth pulled into a faint half-smile. "If you didn't detest me, I might hesitate to call that a compliment."

"Don't get used to it. I won't be doing it again any time soon."

"A shame, really." Having turned its body away from the television, it was now staring directly at Gavin. "I would consider it a great honour to see more of this sincerity from you."

With only a dull light to guide him, Gavin struggled to make out the other’s expression. In his efforts, however, he picked up on something that had previously escaped his notice. He had always assumed Nines' skin formed part of its 'perfect' design - being smooth and entirely free of blemishes. However, on closer inspection, he noticed a faint dusting of freckles across its cheeks and nose. It leant its unusually stern face some much-needed softness.

His lips felt dry, and he subtly tried to wet them.

Why did they have to make him so fucking attractive?

The rogue thought slipped its way through, emboldened by the alcohol. As it began to sink in, Gavin felt overwhelmed by an abrupt sense of panic. Pulling back, he scurried to his feet.

"I need a piss."

Nines, confused by the abruptness of the statement, also inched back. Its mouth gaped open, but it was unable to say anything as Gavin made a hurried exit for the bathroom. Once inside, he took himself directly to the sink, running the tap until it was cold and splashing the water into his face. He tried to calm himself down as his mind worked over itself in a frenzied internal debate:

I mean, yeah. Objectively speaking, it’s hot. A lot of the androids are -

Exactly. It's an android. Have you lost your mind? What the hell is wrong with you?

Tina was right. His current dry spell had gone on for too long, and it was time to do something about it. He resolved to call her tomorrow. Right now, however, he faced a more pressing issue.

He had locked himself in his bathroom, with the machine he had made accidental eye sex with sitting feet away behind the door. Gavin knew he had to face it eventually, and after taking a long, steeling breath, he prepared himself to do so.

Inevitably, Nines was waiting for him as soon as he emerged. It followed his movements closely, face marred with a look of concern. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, all good", Gavin said smoothly, doing his best to avoid eye contact. "I'm really tired, think I'm gonna head to bed."

"Did you not want to finish the film? I imagine we are close to the end."

"Nah, it's fine. The ending kind of sucks, and I've seen it a million times."

The android was clearly unsatisfied with this response but relented in arguing back. Its concerned expression morphed into something more detached and neutral. "I understand. That was the purpose of my visit, after all. To ensure you got a good night's sleep."

"Right." There was little else Gavin could think to say as he made his way to his bedroom. Before disappearing into the room completely, he spared his partner a quick backward glance. "See you tomorrow."

Nines watched after him, a little too intently, before letting out a gentle sigh. "Goodnight, Gavin. Sleep well."

#dbh #reed900 #dbh fanfiction #dbh gavin #dbh nines #dbh fanfic #dbh rk900 #detroit become human #gavin reed x rk900 #gavin900 #g9 #gavin x rk900

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kujakumai · 2 years

Text

Wherefore Art Thou 5,010 words; Complete [AO3 Link]

Atem has come out the ceremonial duel not with death but with a life of his own, and with that comes questions, problems, paperwork. He'll need a checklist of things, a birthday, an address, a hometown, a last name. A weighty decision, a name. They already went through so much trouble getting the first one.

About being in the right-wrong body at the wrong-right time and the chances we never expected to get; about how I was always me and you are no one else but you, and we'll never be like that again, but there are still things we can share with each other.

Or: A story in which Atem writes some things down, gets a new shirt, and fails to buy eggs.

Sunlight. That was the first thing you noticed about the house, the way the Ishtar siblings had angled everything towards it, falling in through wide-open windows and flooding the kitchen, bouncing off golden antiques brought up from the tombs and settling over the plants Rishid left on counters and shelves. In a place with too much sunlight, where it radiated over the sand without end, this place welcomed it, as if there could never be enough.

The second thing that came to mind was that there was something off about it, like you couldn't tell when it was supposed to be. It was half in old Egypt and half in 1998, shiny modern convenience sitting next to remnants of the old ways. Artifacts and incense, videogame systems and new athletic shoes, crashing up against each other without rhyme or reason like a patchwork quilt, like an odds-and-ends drawer, like a warzone. Atem found it unpleasantly mismatched and a little ugly, but oddly comforting in a way he could not describe.

It wasn't big enough for an extended visit, but while they were all in Egypt the Ishtars insisted that they stay for dinner at least once—Rishid, they were informed, was an excellent cook. So Atem, Yugi, Jonouchi, Anzu, Honda, Otogi, and Bakura were all piled into the cozy too-small living room, strewn about couches and on pulled-in kitchen chairs, and even then a lack of space left Bakura cheerfully sitting cross-legged on the floor. Ten people, too many, laughing about nothing and everything, about Anzu's study abroad plans, Ishizu's work, Shizuka's health, and a brief tangent where Honda and Marik traded bike specifications in arcane mechanical terms that left everyone else out of the loop.

"Ateeeeeeem, you're so quiet." Jonouchi flopped onto an overstuffed chair that Honda was already sitting in, elbowing him in the face and squishing in over his objections. "This is your party!"

"Ah, sorry." He had been quiet, listening to the conversation without hearing it, letting everything wash over him.

"Leave him alone, he's busy." Anzu scolded. "Atem has to get those papers done for Marik, or we can't leave."

"Atem has time! He should relax."

They were all saying his name a lot, more than was natural. He suspected they'd all gotten together when he wasn't in the room and agreed to practice it so they could stop accidentally calling him "Yugi." So they tacked it on to the end of every sentence, Atem, Atem, Atem, a very old name in new voices that had never spoken it before, or maybe a brand-new name in old and safe and familiar ones, or both at once or neither depending on your point of view. They all kept saying it a little wrong, reflexively adding the shadow of a "u" at the end, not used to the foreignness of it. Atem knew he should tell them that wasn't quite right but he loved it, and every time he heard the way they said it it tugged at something in his chest and made him want to smile.

Atem was sitting on the couch next to Yugi. Because he could do that now, sit next to him, because he had a body. Because a day ago he and Yugi dueled, and instead of taking him away forever like everyone expected the doors opened up and spat him back out, flesh and blood all his own just like the day he died, and before he even knew what was going on he'd been tackle-hugged by four or five people and everyone was sobbing. So he'd walked back out into the world and the sunlight, a little dazed and on his own two feet. He'd left his crown and cape at the hotel, kept his earrings and his cartouche, and put on a t-shirt someone had hastily grabbed from a tourist tchotchke shop. It was bubblegum pink and had a cartoon sphinx on it, and didn't fit quite right because they bought it in Yugi's size.

Yugi leaned over his shoulder in a way that very real and warm and solid and definitely not incorporeal, which Atem somehow never expected no matter how many times it happened. "What's it say?"

Atem offered him the two or three pages he was holding. "You can read it if you want, partner." Was it weird to still call him partner? Partners in what? They weren't in the same body anymore, so they couldn't duel together, exactly. Should he call him something else? If he stopped saying partner, would Yugi notice? Would he be hurt? What was the better word, then?

"This is a lot of info." Yugi's eyes traced down the page. Not so much a form as a handwritten list. Name, date of birth, place of birth, address, parent's names, blood type. "Marik really needs all this?"

"Yes. The more the better." Marik was sitting on the floor, eating nuts out of a bowl on the coffee table and trading cards with Bakura. "You can make up the stuff you don't know, just try to keep it believable." He looked up and gave them a mischievous smile. "Or don't. Go wild, if you want. I'm just putting it on paper, if you get stopped at the airport because your expertly forged new passport says you're three thousand years old, it'll be on you."

"I think," Otogi noted, from the opposite end of the couch, "if you're inventing a whole new identity from scratch, you're obligated to include at least one thing that's a little crazy. For fun."

"Exactly."

"Please don't listen to anything Marik says." Ishizu Ishtar was dressed more casually than any of them had ever seen her, but she carried herself with a practiced grace that always somehow emanated authority. She walked in with a silver tray covered in mugs of something, and held it out to Marik with a look that wordlessly communicated the ancient sibling art of I did this part, now you do the next.

Marik made a face, but stood up and started passing out drinks, and as he walked by Atem caught his own distorted reflection in the polished surface, which startled him because he looked exactly like he was supposed to look and not like Yugi Muto. Same hair, certainly, but not much else. An inch and a half shorter, because Yugi had grown but he hadn't, broader shoulders, not as skinny, warm brown skin. It shouldn't be that weird, just to see himself in the mirror. He'd has his memories for a month, even if the body was new. He knew what he looked like.

Tiny little discrepancies in his new existence, like someone secretly moving all the furniture in your house two inches to the left. A thousand irritants too subtle to notice, too minute to bother complaining about. Food that tasted a little wrong because he was used to someone else's tastebuds, the abrupt change in eyeline that made all his friends slightly the wrong height, the sound of his own voice in his ears, now lightly accented, because his head still knew Yugi's perfect Japanese but his new (old?) mouth wasn't practiced with the sounds. He'd picked up a phone this morning and stood there for thirty seconds like an idiot, waiting for muscle memory to kick in, until he realized that it wouldn't and had to search and press each button in a way he knew was slow and wrong. The weight of the puzzle was conspicuous in its absence. He was so used to it hanging from his neck and resting against his chest that the lack of it was odd, an empty triangular space where something should be, the way you suddenly notice background music when someone turns it off.

Ishizu sat down with perfect posture, somehow made a displaced wooden kitchen chair look elegant. "If you do have problems at the airport," she said, "call me first. I know people at the embassy."

Rishid leaned casually out of the kitchen doorway. "You won't have problems." he said, a spatula in one hand, his Japanese polite and careful. "Marik's work is good. We have never had issues." He smiled. "Easier than god cards."

"My papers are real," Ishizu said, with the tiniest smirk, "but you don't have time for that, pharaoh."

Jonouchi half-stood up and reached over and snatched the papers out of Yugi's hand. "So how far didja get?"

"Hey!" Yugi objected.

"Dude," Honda squinted at it from next to Jonouchi, "did you write anything yet?"

"I was thinking." Atem said, not at all defensively.

Jonouchi reached over to a side table and grabbed a pen, and clicked it. "C'mon, let's get this done with." He skimmed the page and seemed to pick at random. "When's your birthday?"

"19th of—" he started, automatically, before realizing midsentence that it was not the sort of date that anyone could use. "Shemu Epiphi." he finished, out of momentum.

Jonouchi did not write down "Shemu Epiphi," or anything like it, and just looked at him blankly, pen at the ready, awaiting clarification. Atem did not have any.

"Low water," added awkwardly, was the best that he could do.

Ishizu threw him a life raft. "That would be in the summer. Somewhere in July, I would think."

"It is not." Marik objected. "That has to be May or June. Early June."

"I'm sorry, Marik, do you have a degree in Egyptology?"

"No, but I—RISHID! Epiphi is early summer, right?"

"I cannot hear you, I'm cooking!"

Ishizu curtly gestured at Jonouchi to continue. "We will do the math later."

"Alright, easier one." Jonouchi resumed. "Place of birth?"

"Nowe." he said. The name rolled easily off his tongue. Capital city, on the river's east bank.

Jonouchi clearly did not recognize the name, and didn't write this one down either. He shot a glance at Ishizu.

"That's here." she corrected, or perhaps merely offered. "Luxor." She gave Atem what he was sure was supposed to be a reassuring smile. "Of course, in the interim it was Thebes, and in the Old Kingdom before your time they called it Waset, and there are several other..."

Jonouchi nodded and scribbled something on the page, and Atem felt weakly like he should object, because he wasn't born in Luxor, and this city was new and strange to him, and it wasn't the right answer. The right answer didn't exist, though, not anymore. There were only the ruins of what had once been right answers, crumbled to dust and built over by strangers, studied by experts and marveled at by tourists.

It wasn't wrong, it just wasn't right either. How he and Yugi kept bumping into each other because they didn't expect to both be corporeal, how the Ishtars' decor was confusingly out of time yet entirely correct, how he was alive and with his friends a day after everyone expected him to die and how the whole place smelled like food and sounded like laughter and it was supposed to be for him but for some reason he wasn't happy, how he mostly felt strange and tense and like he was doing everything wrong. A pervasive sense of not-rightness, all over his skin.

"Alright! Making progress! Next up is the easiest one of 'em all, name. First is Atem, aaaaand..." He paused. "What's your last name?"

Atem thought about this. Technically as pharaoh he had six names, none of which would sound normal on a birth certificate. "That's not really how it worked."

"You gotta have a last name, Atem."

"I don't know what to tell you. That's not how we did it." He smiled. That's what you're supposed to do, when you're alive and with your friends and at a party and everyone is staring at you waiting for an answer, is smile. Smiling always helped, when you didn't know what to say.

Yugi was thinking, and he leaned forward and tapped the back of his foot on the bottom of the couch. "I guess you can just pick something?"

"If you want to be boring, you can just choose something common." suggested Marik. "Omar, Sayed, Hassan. There's a ton of Hassans."

"He wants to be a Japanese citizen though, right?" Bakura piped up. "If he doesn't want to stand out, he could be a Satou, or a Tanaka."

Discord erupted. Suddenly everyone had a suggestion.

"I think he's going to stand out regardless..." "Just use your dad's name, maybe?" "He doesn't look like a Sayed." "Atem...puzzle? No, that's stupid." "Something related to pharaohs? Lots of names that mean king." "Takahashi sounds nice." "How about—" "What if—"

In the midst of the fracas, new names dueling on all sides, Yugi had his own polite suggestion, offered from right next to his ear. "You could always be Muto." he said, with a tiny shrug, like it was nothing. "Grandpa already thinks you're his grandson anyway." he added, with a smile.

The discussion continued but Atem froze and felt his mouth dry up, the world still moving while he stood still, and all of it turned to noise.

Names were still being thrown across the room but somewhere between "Kamiya" and "Qadir," Rishid poked his head out of the kitchen again. "I hate to interrupt, but I'm short an egg. Could someone run to the corner and—"

Atem stood up a little too quickly. "I will go." he announced, in the solemn tone of someone volunteering for a dangerous quest to save the realm from evil and not going down the street for a minor kitchen staple.

"You...sure, Atem?" Marik never added the phantom u. He pronounced it like he'd been doing it all his life. "We can make someone else go."

"Or you could go, Marik." Ishizu remarked.

"Nah, I'm good."

Atem was already extricating himself from the living room. "No! It's fine. I need the fresh air. And it's nice to see more of...Luxor." Keep smiling. No problems.

Atem escaped before anyone could say another word, out into the evening air. The desert didn't hold heat, but it was the end of summer, so it was only pleasantly cool. He was mostly looking for a place to breathe. After a block or so of wandering while looking very much like he knew what he was doing, because nothing in this city was where it was supposed to be anymore, he settled for a quiet bench under a date palm where there weren't many passersby.

And he managed to breathe.

He had lungs now, to breathe in. His own lungs, without borrowing. He tried to calm his antsy heartbeat and it didn't work very well.

Breathe. You're alive now. It is a good thing, to be alive. You are alive and everyone is so happy to see you.

He just hadn't been expecting it, was the problem.

"You can tell us if it's too much, you know." Atem nearly jumped out of his skin when Yugi spoke, appeared from nowhere, nearly silhouetted against the sunset. "It's okay. You've only been back for a day."

"No!" Smile. "No. I'm fine." He almost said "partner," and then didn't. Of course Yugi noticed. Of course Yugi went after him. Yugi, always after him. Yugi, always behind him, always standing just out of view.

"I wish you wouldn't lie to my face." There wasn't any malice in it. Yugi said it plainly, merely politely stating a fact in that incisive way he did. When did that happen, that Yugi stood up so straight and spoke so plainly? He tilted his head and gave him a small, sweet mile, the one that seemed to say You are not as good at hiding your feelings as you think you are. You get away with it because I let you.

Atem tried not to let a muscle in his face move, or show the way the words pierced right through him. Sometimes talking to Yugi felt like getting caught.

"Can I sit down?"

"Of course." Atem moved over.

Yugi sat down and bumped against him, in a way that continued to be very warm and solid and he should be getting used to that why isn't he used to it and why does it surprise him every single time stay cool stay cool stay cool.

Evening was turning into dusk and porchlights and windows were flicking on, yellow spots across the neighborhood. He and Yugi sat in silence.

On instinct, he mentally reached out Yugi in the way he always did, linked hearts and minds, and instead smashed facefirst into a brick wall in his own head. There wasn't any way out of himself. No other heart, no second voice or presence to be detected. Just his own thoughts, bouncing back at him over and over again when he least wanted them. He was so used to their peculiar sort of cohabitation, Yugi's thoughts drifting at the edges of his own, Yugi's memories crystal clear, Yugi's joy and Yugi's grief and Yugi's rage, tangled together until he lost track of what belonged to who. That was all gone now, had stopped abruptly at the start of the ceremonial duel. Whatever was going on in Yugi's head now was fraught and unknown to him. He put a hand up to his chest, instinctively, but there was no hefty chain to grab, so instead it wrapped around the much smaller cartouche, pressing the hieroglyphs into his palm.

"Sorry." Yugi looked up at him, sheepish. "I keep thinking things at you. None of that works anymore, but for some reason I keep expecting you to answer. It's weird, right?"

"I was thinking the same thing."

Yugi laughed, short and bright. "We have to get better at talking to each other."

"We do." He nodded, watching the sunset. "But some things are harder to say out loud."

Yugi considered this quietly. "They are," he said, "but we have to try."

More silence, easier this time. It was starting to get cold. Wind ran through the grass.

There are a lot of things, in fact, that are very difficult to say out loud. Many of them can arise from a situation wherein roughly 24 hours ago you were going to die, or more accurately that you asked your friends to kill you, and they did, because that is what they thought you wanted, because that is what you insisted you wanted. That you were a weight around Yugi's neck who did not belong in this world and whose time had long passed but now the chain was broken and you suddenly had a whole future in front of you that no one had told you was an option before and you have no idea where it goes or what happens next.

Atem was usually very good at knowing how to say things. He knew how princes were supposed to speak, and then learned how kings are supposed to speak, and then how friendly ghosts and great duelists were supposed to speak. None of those scripts fit anymore, and he didn’t have one to fall back on. He had assumed he would be dead by now and therefore had not written one. Another empty space where something should be. Now he had, what, another 70 years? That sounded like a very long time. He didn’t know of a script that went on that long and no one seemed set to provide one.

There were no clouds in this part of the desert, almost never, since there was never any rain, so the sky was clear and endless. More empty spaces, this one too big and dark to look at without getting vertigo, too much to look at at once. It seemed like it could swallow someone whole.

"There are endless options." He blinked at the sky, not looking at Yugi. "And it's so important. You only get one. How am I supposed to know what to do with it?"

Yugi smiled. "It's just a name. You can call yourself anything you want. It's up to you." He added, "You get two, technically."

"The first one is already done."

"Then that should narrow it down, right?"

"Anything that I want." he repeated, but he said the words reluctantly, like describing a pain he didn't want to trouble everyone by complaining about. He closed his eyes, as if tired. "I was never expecting to have to make the choice."

"I guess it is a lot." he said, looking down. "Sorry if I upset you earlier. You don't have to be a Muto if you don't want to." He was pretending not to be a little sad. "It was just a suggestion. I know you have your own name, and family."

Atem scrambled to ensure that Yugi didn't feel like he'd done something wrong. "It's not that." He struggled, again, in the search for the right words, a feeling that continued to be alien in its frustration. "It's not about that."

Yugi looked at him, curious, waiting for an explanation.

He didn't know how to explain it. That he was trying not to impose. That was all he'd done, for years, was impose on something that wasn't his, and Yugi had quietly let him and Atem didn't want to anymore. That Yugi let him have everything, and it wasn't right. He did not want to be the reason Yugi didn't stand up straight, and he was trying to find the right way not to be.

There had to be a way, for him to live and for them to be different. There had to be a balance, a way for him to be here and for Yugi to stand on his own, a way for them to sit together and be alone in their own heads, a way for them to share so much and be such different people, a way for them to rely on each other but in the right way, in the way you're supposed to, and not the way where they become each other's crutch. There had to be a way, because he couldn't be here and alive if meant that Yugi was going to keep standing in his shadow, because if there wasn't a way he would have to leave, and he didn't want to leave. He didn't want to leave. He never wanted to leave. How do you say all of that, though? Where do you even start?

Well. Out loud, maybe.

Yugi stood up off the bench and stretched, watched the strangers walking down the street. "You don't have to go back with us, if you don't want to." he said, his back still to him.

"What do you mean?"

"We all just kind of assumed." Yugi wasn't looking at him, quiet and plaintive. "This is where you're from, right? If you decided you wanted to stay, we wouldn't be mad at you. You should do whatever feels right." Yugi Muto's brave face, a shallow fake-cheer Atem knew very well, how Yugi swallowed fear the same way he covered up spiked accessories.

"No!" He said it a little too fast, a little too loud. "I told you, I want to be with you forever." He felt very stupid, saying that so loud, like it was obvious, a cheesy promise from years ago.

Yugi looked back at him again and smiled, relieved.

"It's just that I—" he started, attempted, still no script, he hated not having a script, looking like an idiot fumbling through uncharted territory.

Yugi waited.

"...We can't be," he said, "the same person."

Yugi wasn't expecting this answer, and after a moment of surprise he seemed to think it was a little funny. "That's what you're worried about?"

"You don't need me to take your place." he insisted. "It is yours, and I won't take it from you. You have to stand on your own."

Yugi glanced at the ground and murmured to himself, thinking. "Not in my place, and not in front." He sighed. "Can't you stand next to me?"

"What?"

Yugi's smile, sheepish, uncertain, polite, but always with more determination in his eyes than most people expected. "I don't want you to be me. We're not doing that anymore." Yugi stood up straighter, resolute. "I'm Yugi Muto, and I'm no one else but me." he recited, a day-old quote and a tongue-in-cheek imitation, and not a bad impression either. Atem felt a deep twinge of embarrassment hearing his own words thrown back at him. "And you're Atem! The only Atem in the world." He reached out a hand. "But if it's okay, I was thinking we could be Yugi and Atem together."

Atem took it, hesitantly, and let Yugi pull him off the bench, with more strength than he expected from Yugi, but there it was. Solid and strong and mutually corporeal.

"I'm glad you didn't really have to go." Yugi said. "If you left because of me, I don't know what I would have…" He trailed off, frowning.

"…Let's go back." Atem said, gently. "Before they worry about us."

And Yugi and Atem set off for the night, together and apart.

"What about the eggs?"

"...I don't have any money."

"Atem! What were you going to do?"

"I would have figured something out, partner."

"ATEM!" There it was again, that phantom u. Jonouchi was standing up as tall as he could make himself, face bright beet red in the way it got when he knew that whatever he was about to say was horribly schmaltzy and embarrassing but was going through with it anyway. Oh, god.

Atem smiled. "Yes, Jonouchi?"

"We were talking while you were gone." he said, crossed his arms, standing brazenly in the middle of the Ishtars' living room. "And I just wanted to, well, that you should know, maybe, thaaaat..."

"Spit it out, idiot!"

"Shut UP, Honda!" Jonouchi hissed, and you could hear at least three people snicker.

"I wanted to say," he continued, "that as a token of our friendship, and our unbreakable bond as duelists, if you really needed a name," he said, "You could be a Jonouchi. If you wanted."

"I am honored." he said, with the utmost gravity. "I will keep that in mind."

And Jonouchi nodded at him, and he nodded at Jonouchi, and this was all either of them needed to say.

"Um," Bakura started, politely raising his hand as if asking the teacher to call on him, "I pulled up the site I use to name role-playing characters and searched by etymological root, and I got a bunch that have meanings I thought you would like."

"And we," Marik said, with an arm around Otogi, who tolerated it with an awkward smile, "told him which ones were awful and made him cross them off the list until only the good ones were left."

"Thank you." he said, and meant it. "Anyone else?" he asked, as a joke.

Anzu looked like she wanted to say something, but when his eyes fell on her she just blushed. "It's not urgent. You'll think of something."

"He'll figure it out." Honda said. "We already almost died getting the first one. I think he can handle the next name by himself."

"I will." he said. He again reached up reflexively to touch the puzzle, but there was nothing there, so instead he just let it rest on his chest, which was his and no one else's, even if that still felt a little wrong. He would get used to it. He could.

Ishizu, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, sensed an end to the conversation and promptly intervened. "You know, you can all eat dinner as soon as you're ready. Any time now."

Somewhere around two in the morning, a couple of hotel rooms sat empty because everyone was having too much fun to leave the house once it got too late and the adults did not have the heart to kick them out. Instead Honda and Jonouchi had fallen asleep in one chair, curled up in a position they would both be very embarrassed about when they woke up in it tomorrow morning, which they would not do until after Otogi took photos; Anzu and Atem were both using Yugi as a headrest, close on either side of the couch; Otogi held a throw pillow and snored. The only ones left standing, Marik and Bakura, were still playing cards in the half-light until eventually ever so softly Marik asked, "So is he really just...gone?" to which Bakura smiled vacantly, opaquely, and did not answer except to put his deck back together, mid-game, and say he was going to bed.

Eventually the sun rose over the Nile, but there was no palace and no pharaoh for it to shine on, because there hadn't been a king of this country since 1952. Instead it fell through the windows of an ordinary house and on a very ordinary boy in a pink t-shirt, who wasn't a king of anything but just another exhausted teenager in a pile, drooling a little and holding tight to another ordinary teenager who bore a faint resemblance to him. When he woke up he would realize that he had no idea what he was going to do that day, and that was scary, but probably fine; and very soon he would go home and meet grandpa, properly as himself, and not realize until a few days in that he had been saying "home" and "grandpa" automatically and no one had tried to correct him, not once.

That would be in a few days, though. Today they would visit tourist traps, and buy a shirt that fit him better, and hand Marik a stack of papers, to which he would chew on the end of his pen and nod before returning less than an hour later with an ID and a birth certificate, and a copy of the left leg of Exodia as a freebie.

M U T O , A T E M 7 / 2 7 / 1980 KAME GAME 4-1-8, DISTRICT K.C., DOMINO-CHOU

#alt title: The Only Atem in The World #if you remember the text post from way back i based this one on u get a gold star #ygo #hashtag content

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