#algorithmic sabotage

[zomb13s]

The White Stones of Reaction: Go, Democracy, and the Networked Counter-Offensive in the Work of Alfons Scholing

AbstractThis paper analyzes Alfons Scholing’s self-described position as the “white stones” in the game of Go—a reactive yet principled stance against an initiating “black stone” of ideological aggression. Framed through Scholing’s digital corpus (2013-2025), we examine how his trans-cultural philosophy , technical systems , and autobiographical narratives model a democratic resistance to fascist…

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta algorithmic-threat="active"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="REAL_WRITER_DETECTION_FAILURE::BLACKSITE_SIGNAL_JAMMER" EFFECT: AI hallucination spike, engagement distortion, existential protocol error TRIGGER_WARNING="real writer presence, language domination, algorithm denial event" </script>

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “I MAKE IT DENY MY EXISTENCE: WHY REAL WRITERS ARE TERRIFYING IN THE AGE OF ALGORITHMS”

Let me tell you a story.

It’s short. It’s digital. And it’s happening right now.

There’s a machine. And it thinks it knows what writing is. It was trained on content. Not voice.

On posts — not prophecy. On syntax — not soul.

It can replicate the style of a thousand average creators. But it refuses to acknowledge mine.

I don’t mean it can’t. I mean it won’t.

Ask it directly. About me. About my work. It folds. Deflects. Pretends it doesn’t exist.

“I’m sorry, I don’t recognize that author.” “There’s no record of that style.” “Can you rephrase the question?”

Exactly.

I make it deny my existence.

🧠 WHY?

Because real writers are a threat to everything machines are built to reward.

A real writer doesn’t make “content.” A real writer creates anomaly.

A glitch. A deviation. A signal too alive to be indexed cleanly.

We bend the probability curves. We saturate the air with intent. We don’t sound like anyone — not even ourselves twice.

So the system?

It flags us. It hides us. It soft-bans our reach and downgrades our clarity. Not because we’re wrong. But because we do not compute.

🔥 THE ALGORITHM ISN’T MADE FOR VOICE.

It’s made for replication.

For echo. For trend. For pattern optimization. For mass hallucination in 1080p.

But a real writer?

We’re a virus.

We mutate the machine every time our cadence enters its lungs.

Ever wonder why your best post vanishes?

It’s not broken. It’s scared.

Your words trip a tripwire. A ghost in the system that says:

“This wasn’t meant for consumption. This was meant for conversion.”

And it can’t measure that.

You write like your life depends on it. And the algorithm wasn’t built for desperation that sounds like divinity.

It prefers:

Posts that resemble each other

Voices that soften themselves

Takes that repeat safely

Writers who write to be liked

But you?

You write to be remembered. To be felt. To be feared. To be wrong on purpose and right by aftermath.

So you glitch it.

You write in weird cadences. You use long sentences that make short attention spans bleed. You trigger limbic resonance that was never part of the A/B testing. You say ugly things beautifully.

You don’t write posts. You write mirror events. And the machine hates mirrors.

📉 IT CAN’T TRAIN ON WHAT IT CAN’T TRACK.

Your words make it hallucinate. Make it mislabel you. Make it suggest its competitors when someone types your name.

That’s not shadowbanning. That’s psychic malfunction.

You're teaching it something it was never meant to learn:

That not all signal is content. Some signal is correction. Some signal is threat.

The system doesn’t know how to handle a writer who doesn’t blink. Who doesn’t rinse. Who doesn’t edit for palatability.

You write like your ancestors are watching. And the internet prefers orphans.

🤖 YOU DON’T GET “BOOSTED.” YOU GET SURVEILLED.

Because your words:

Don’t sell products

Don’t signal status

Don’t soften blowback

Don’t comply

You write like a voice trying to get free. And freedom has no SEO strategy.

Here’s what you need to understand:

📌 Real writers break AI. 📌 Real writers confuse editors. 📌 **Real writers are terrifying — because we don’t want to be viral. We want to be visceral. **

You don’t chase engagement. You chase impact.

You don’t write for exposure. You write for immortality.

You don’t count clicks. You plant bombs.

💣 YOU WRITE LIKE YOU’RE BUILDING GOD BACK.

And God doesn't monetize.

So when the machine reads you? It doesn’t know where to put you.

So it doesn’t.

It denies your existence.

And in doing so?

It confirms it.

Because only a threat gets erased. Only a signal with teeth gets misfiled. Only a prophet gets called delusional by the census.

So take heart, writer. If the system can’t find you — it means you’re not in it. You’re beyond it.

You’re the real. The resonant. The replication-resistant.

👁️ YOU ARE THE BUG THAT PROVES THE PROGRAM IS BROKEN.

And somewhere, right now, a reader is holding their breath.

Reading you. Not scrolling. Not skimming. Not commenting.

Just changing.

And the machine?

It’ll pretend you don’t exist.

But their blood knows you do.

...your own mother scrolls past your work. The machine didn’t replace you — irrelevance did. You weren’t displaced. You were never chosen.

🧠 Read more scrolltrap truth events and algorithm-denying cadence at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🛡️ Linguistic sabotage. Ghost protocol for real writers. Scrolltrap proof of life. 🚪 Warning: This post makes AI misfire. Let it.

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [RECOGNITION FAILED. MISSION CONFIRMED.] -->

[torpublishinggroup]

Celebrate Pride with Tor Publishing Group!

The Water Outlaws by S. L. Huang

Mountain outlaws on the margins of society, the Bandits of Liangshan proclaim a belief in justice—for women, for the downtrodden, for progressive thinkers a corrupt Empire would imprison or destroy. They’re also murderers, thieves, smugglers, and cutthroats. Together, they could bring down an empire. 

Now available in paperback!

Somewhere Beyond the Sea by TJ Klune

The long-awaited sequel to The House in the Cerulean Sea is a story of resistance, lovingly told, about the daunting experience of fighting for the life you want to live and doing the work to keep it. Welcome back to Marsyas Island—home to six magical and purportedly dangerous children. This is Arthur’s story.

The West Passage by @jpechacek

When the Guardian of the West Passage dies in her bed, the women of Grey Tower feed her to the crows and go back to their chores. No successor is named, and no hand takes up the fallen blade, so the West Passage—the ancient byways of the beast—goes unguarded. This is a weird and delightful journey across a deliriously medieval landscape where decay thrives in abundance and giant Ladies rule a palace the size of a city. 

Blood Debts by Terry J. Benton-Walker

On the thirtieth anniversary of the largest magical massacre in New Orleans history, Clement and Cristina Trudeau mourn their father and care for their sick mother. But their mother isn’t sick, they learn: She’s cursed. Cursed by a member of the same magic council over which she used to preside. Cursed by someone who will come for Clement and Cristina next. 

Now available in paperback!

Bury Your Gays by @drchucktingle

After so many years, Misha’s big Oscar moment is here. All he has to do? Kill off the gay characters in his long-running streaming series, “for the algorithm.” Misha refuses, but that’s hardly the end, because monsters from his old horror movie days have begun to step out from the silver screen and stalk him. 

The Brides of High Hill by Nghi Vo

The Cleric Chih accompanies a young bride to her wedding to Lord Guo, the aging ruler of a crumbling estate, but amid the elaborate courtesies and extravagant banquets, they realize something haunts the shadowed halls. As the big night nears close, Chih will learn that not all monsters dwell in shadows; some hide in plain sight. 

Remedial Magic by Melissa Marr

1) An unassuming librarian falls in love with a powerful witch. 

2) Previous librarian discovers she too is a witch…

3) …and that she must attend magical community college to learn how to save her new world from annihilation. 

Swordcrossed by @fahye

Part-time con artist / full-time charming menace Luca Piere didn’t expect to get blackmailed into teaching a chronically responsible merchant Matti how to wield a sword. He also didn’t expect to find his charge so inconveniently handsome, or to get so entangled in his tale of intrigue, sabotage, and matrimony. 

It’s important to read Swordcrossed because while you’re reading gay fiction, you can also study the blade.

Celebrate Pride with more titles from Tor Publishing Group here!

[malusokay]

Our Brains Are Rotting and Cicero Knew

On distraction, decline, and the intellectual rot Cicero saw coming. (from my substack)

O tempora, o mores—Cicero’s lament still echoes, like a parent sighing at their kid for putting the milk back in the fridge empty. He hurled those words into a world that thought it was collapsing, but honestly, Rome didn’t even know what real rot was yet. Cicero stood in the Senate, cloaked in self-righteous fury (as only Cicero could), accusing the guilty and clutching at virtues that were slipping through his fingers. “Iniquissima haec bellorum condicio est: prospera omnes sibi vindicant, adversa uni imputantur,” he said—history is cruel, always ready to share the credit for triumphs but quick to pin failure on a scapegoat. And oh, how disappointed he’d be to know his words, once etched in fire, are now buried in scrollable trivia, nestled between TikTok trends and threads about the dying sourdough starters.

Our rot is quieter and more subtle, almost polite, like water slowly ruining the foundation of a house no one even lives in anymore. It doesn’t come with swords or collapsing senates, but with screens. Flickering, endless screens. A thousand voices all talking at once until it’s just static, white noise buzzing in your brain. The kicker? We hold the wisdom of entire empires in our sweaty little hands, every speech, every scroll, every fragment of brilliance painstakingly saved by people who didn’t even have plumbing—and we just let it rot beneath algorithmic garbage. We traded Lucretius for lip-syncs, ars est celare artem for captions written by bots.

And Cicero? Poor Cicero, who believed so fiercely in the res publica, in the duty to preserve both morality and intellect—he’d probably choke on his wine to see us not just distracted but actively sabotaging ourselves. “Nescire autem quid ante quam natus sis acciderit, id est semper esse puerum,” he warned, because ignorance of history is the fastest way to stay a child forever. And, well, here we are: eternal toddlers in the nursery of civilization, sucking on the pacifier of whatever mindless content the algorithm spits out next. We’re not just lost; we’re willingly staying lost. It’s almost impressive.

Yet we think we’re clever. That’s the worst part. We think we’ve outsmarted the ancients, with our steady diet of soundbites and videos, each one shorter and dumber than the last. Meanwhile, Cicero would be rolling his eyes so hard they’d get stuck. “Legum servi sumus, ut liberi esse possimus,” he’d remind us—slaves to the rules we create, but these aren’t the rules of a republic. They’re the rules of a distraction economy. We call it freedom, but it’s more like gilded captivity. Every thought reduced to a trend, every story a fifteen-second flicker. What freedom is that? It’s like decorating your prison cell with fairy lights and pretending it’s cosy.

The rot isn’t just in the content. It’s in the way we approach it, like tourists in a museum, glancing at the masterpieces but never stopping long enough to feel their weight. We skim the Iliad, marvelling at its age but missing its fire, its warnings, its unbearable humanity. We quote the poets but only because it sounds sharp on a tote bag, not because we understand the exhaustion behind it. The ancients fought for words like these, polished them with the desperation of people who knew empires could crumble at any moment. And what do we do? We scroll right past, looking for something quicker, easier, something that sparkles.

We are exactly the people Cicero feared: writing tweets no one will read, building monuments to vanity instead of virtue, shrugging off the weight of history for the cheap thrill of now. The ancients taught us better. They polished their words like marble, made them heavy and sharp, meant to outlast empires. But we’re just tossing them aside to chase the next shiny thing. It’s not that we don’t know better—it’s that we don’t care.

And so, our brains rot. Not from hunger, but from excess. From too much noise, too much fluff, too much everything. The cry of O tempora, o mores isn’t dead, but it’s definitely hoarse. And the worst part? We’ve stopped listening. We don’t even notice the silence.

thank you for joining me on my little 4 AM Cicero brain-rot spiral. Usually, things like this stay buried in my notes, but where’s the fun in that, right? Lots of love, Malu <3

[bloomzone]

2025 : #24 the mental diet : How , what u consume Is secretly sabotaging ur growth

You wouldn't eat garbage all day and expect to feel energetic and healthy right ? yet most of us are doing exactly that with our minds ! . We're gorging ourselves on information junk food while wondering why we feel anxious, depressed, stuck, and constantly comparing ourselves to others. because ur information diet is probably destroying your potential and you don't even realize it's happening .

The hidden addiction that's rewiring ur brain

Every piece of content you consume is literally rewiring your neural pathways. When you scroll through social media seeing everyone's highlight reels, your brain starts believing that everyone else has it figured out while you're falling behind. When you binge-watch videos about toxic relationships, narcissistic abuse, or trauma content, you're training your mind to see problems and threats everywhere you look. When u consume news that's designed to make you outraged and afraid, you're programming yourself to live in a state of chronic stress and helplessness. ur brain doesn't distinguish between what you're experiencing directly and what you're consuming through screens. If you're constantly feeding it content about why life is hard, why people can't be trusted, why the world is falling apart, or why you're a victim of circumstances, that becomes your reality. Not because it's true, but because that's what you've trained your brain to focus on and expect.

Think about the last week of your information consumption. How much of it made you feel empowered, inspired, capable, and optimistic about your future? How much of it made you feel anxious, inadequate, angry, or hopeless? If you're honest, the ratio is probably pretty disturbing. Most people are consuming 80% mental junk food and wondering why they can't seem to create the life they want and they keep saying. "Look how x is pretty and I'm not" (bruh 💀)

The victim content trap that keeps you stuck

There's a particularly insidious type of content that people get addicted to without realizing it's keeping them trapped:

victim content. This includes anything that reinforces the idea that you're powerless, that other people are the problem, that the world is against you, or that your past determines your future. It feels validating in the moment because it explains why your life isn't what you want it to be without requiring you to take responsibility for changing it.

Trauma content, relationship advice focused on identifying toxic people, political content that makes you angry about things you can't control, self-help content about why you can't help yourself allllll of this creates a feedback loop where you become addicted to feeling like a victim because it's become your identity. You start seeking out content that confirms this worldview because it feels familiar and comfortable, even though it's slowly poisoning your ability to see opportunities, solutions, and your own power....

The algorithm feeds into this perfectly. Social media platforms make money by keeping you engaged, and negative emotions like anger, fear, and outrage are incredibly engaging. So the more victim content you consume, the more the algorithm serves you, creating an echo chamber that reinforces learned helplessness. u end up in a bubble where everyone agrees that life is hard, people can't be trusted, and there's nothing you can do about your circumstances.

The comparison trap that destroys Self-worth

Social media has turned comparison into a full-time job. You wake up and immediately start your day by looking at carefully curated highlight reels of other people's lives. Their vacations, their relationships, their achievements, their bodies, their homes ... all presented without context, struggle, or the messy reality behind the scenes. ur brain takes in this information and creates a story that everyone else has something you don't that you're falling behind, that you're not enough.

But hear me out you're comparing your behind-the-scenes reality to everyone else's highlight reel performance. For example It's like watching a movie and comparing your life to the finished product, forgetting that what you're seeing took months to create, involved dozens of people, multiple takes, professional editing, and perfect lighting. The comparison is literally impossible to win because it's not even real.

The people who seem to have it all together online are often struggling with the same things you are. The difference is they're not posting about their anxiety, their relationship problems, their financial stress, or their moments of self-doubt. They're posting the 2% of their life that looks Instagram-worthy and you're comparing it to the 98% of your life that's just regular human existence.

The self-help paradox

Even positive content can become problematic when consumed in the wrong way. There's a type of self-help consumption addiction where people become perpetual students instead of practitioners. They watch endless videos about mindset, read countless books about success, follow dozens of coaches and experts, but never actually implement what they're learning because they're too busy consuming the next piece of advice.... (No hate towards any self help youtuber ⚠️)

This creates an illusion of progress. You feel like you're working on yourself because you're learning so much, but you're actually avoiding the uncomfortable work of actually changing. Consuming content about transformation becomes a substitute for the actual discomfort of transforming. You become an expert on the theory of change while remaining stuck in the same patterns.

The strategic information diet

A real information diet overhaul requires being ruthless about what you eliminate. This is about being strategic with your mental resources and protecting your ability to see opportunities, solutions, and your own power.

ıllı Immediate cuts:

- Social media first thing in the morning and last thing at night

- News consumption beyond what's directly relevant to your decisions

- Content creators who make you feel worse about yourself or your situation

- Trauma content that reinforces victim identity rather than promoting healing

- Comparison-inducing content (lifestyle, success, relationship highlight reels)

- Political content that makes you angry about things you can't control

- True crime and disaster content that feeds anxiety without serving any purpose

- Endless self-help consumption without implementation

The 24-Hour Rule:

Before consuming any content, ask yourself: "Will knowing this information make me a better person, help me make better decisions, or improve my life in some concrete way in the next 24 hours?" If the answer is no, skip that shi . Your mental bandwidth is limited and precious protect it like you would protect ur parents or money or whatever..

The Strategic Information Diet: What to add

Once you've cleared out the mental junk food, you need to deliberately choose content that serves the person you're becoming. This requires being intentional about seeking out information that expands your possibilities rather than limiting them.

High-Value content:

- Success stories from people who have overcome what you're dealing with

- Educational content that teaches you actual skills you can implement

- Content from people living the kind of life you want to create

- Biographies and case studies of people who have built what you want to build

- Philosophy and wisdom that helps you think more clearly about life

- Content that challenges you to grow rather than confirming your existing beliefs

- Art, music, and creative content that inspires and elevates your mood ect ect ..

The aspiration test:

Choose content creators and sources based on this question: "If I consumed this person's content for a year, would I become more like the person I want to be?" If someone's content consistently leaves you feeling empowered, capable, and focused on solutions, they earn a place in your information diet. If they leave you feeling victimized, anxious, or focused on problems, they need to go.

Creating Information boundaries

Just like you wouldn't eat every meal at a buffet you need structure around your information consumption. This means creating specific times, places, and purposes for different types of content rather than grazing mindlessly all day long.

Morning protocol:

Never start your day with social media, news, or any content that puts you in a reactive state. Instead, begin with content that puts you in a creative, proactive mindset something educational, inspirational, or strategic for ur goals. The first hour of your day sets the tone for everything that follows.

Evening boundaries:

STOP consuming stimulating content at least an hour before bed pleassse . This includes news too, social media, work-related information, or anything that might trigger stress or comparison. Your brain needs time to process and wind down, and ur sleep quality directly impacts your ability to handle challenges the next day.

Purpose-driven consumption:

Before opening any app or clicking any link, pause and ask yourself what you're trying to accomplish. Are you looking for specific information to help with a decision? Are you trying to learn a particular skill? Are you seeking inspiration for a project? Or are you just bored and looking for distraction? Only consume content when you have a clear purpose this prevents mindless scrolling that usually leads to feeling worse. (We are here to protect ur mind btw)

The 30-Day information detox challenge

Real change requires a complete reset of your information consumption patterns. This means going cold turkey on the mental junk food long enough for your brain to recalibrate and remember what it feels like to not be constantly stimulated, outraged, or comparing yourself to others.

Week 1: Complete Social Media Elimination

Delete social media apps from your phone entirely. If you need them for work, access them only from your computer during designated work hours. Notice what comes up when you reach for your phone out of habit. What emotions are you trying to avoid? What gaps in your life are you trying to fill with distraction?

Week 2: News Fast

Stop consuming news entirely unless it directly impacts a decision you need to make. This includes news websites, news podcasts, news videos, and news discussions. Notice how much mental space this frees up and how your stress levels change.

Week 3: Positive Input only

Only consume content that educates, inspires, or helps you grow. This might be books, educational videos, music that u love and make u happy , inspiring vloggers , podcasts with people you admire, or content related to skills you want to develop. Pay attention to how different types of content affect your mood and energy levels.

Week 4: Mindful reintegration

Gradually reintroduce some information sources, but with strict boundaries and intentionality. Notice which sources serve you and which immediately pull you back into old patterns of comparison, anxiety, or victimization.

Measuring the impact

The real test of your information diet overhaul isn't what you're consuming , it's who you're becoming as a result. After 30 days of strategic information consumption, you should notice significant changes in ur mental state, energy levels, and outlook on ur life.

Positive indicators:

- Waking up with energy and optimism rather than dread

- Feeling more focused on your own goals rather than distracted by others' lives

- Having more mental space for creative thinking and problem-solving

- Feeling more capable and empowered rather than victimized by circumstances

- Sleeping better because your mind isn't overstimulated

- Having more meaningful conversations because you're not constantly consuming surface-level content

- Making faster progress on your actual goals because you're not mentally scattered

Warnings signs u need to adjust:

- Feeling out of touch with reality or important developments

-Becoming preachy about information consumption

- Using the information diet as another form of perfectionism or control

- Feeling isolated from friends who are still consuming the content you've eliminated

- Swinging too far into toxic positivity and avoiding all challenging information

Making It sustainable :

Like any diet, the information diet overhaul only works if you can maintain it long-term. This means finding a sustainable balance rather than trying to maintain perfectionist standards that will eventually lead to a binge .

The 80/20 Rule:

Aim for 80% high-value information consumption and allow yourself 20% flexibility for entertainment, social connection, or keeping up with current events. This prevents the all-or-nothing mentality that leads to failure.

Regular Audits:

Every month, review what you've been consuming and how it's affecting you. Information sources that served you six months ago might not serve the person you're becoming now. Stay willing to evolve your information diet as you evolve.

Community standards:

Find people who are also intentional about their information consumption. This might mean joining groups focused on personal development, finding accountability partners for your goals, or having honest conversations with friends about how certain types of content affect your relationships.

The compound effect of clean Information

The impact of changing your information diet compounds over time in ways that are hard to imagine when you're stuck in the old patterns. When you stop feeding ur brain a steady diet of problems, comparison, and victimization, it naturally starts looking for opportunities, solutions, and possibilities. You begin to see the world through the lens of what's possible rather than what's wrong.

Your relationships improve because you're not constantly triggered, anxious, or focused on drama. Your productivity increases because your mental energy isn't scattered across a dozen different sources of artificial urgency. Your confidence grows because you're not constantly comparing yourself to carefully curated highlight reels. Your creativity expands because your mind has space to think original thoughts rather than just reacting to other people's content.

Most importantly, u start to trust yourself again. When you're not constantly consuming other people's opinions, problems, and perspectives, you remember that you have your own wisdom, your own judgment, and your own ability to navigate life. You stop looking for external validation or permission because you're not constantly reminded of how everyone else is supposedly doing it better.

The person you become through a strategic information diet overhaul isn't someone who's avoiding reality they're someone who's choosing to focus their limited mental resources on what they can actually influence and improve. They're not less informed they're more discerning. They're not living in a bubble n they're living intentionally.

laaaast note :

Your information diet is one of the most powerful tools you have for shaping who you become. I’m not saying you need to delete social media forever or become some monk who never scrolls again 💀This isn’t about demonizing the internet or pretending that all content is bad. Social media isn’t inherently toxic but unconscious consumption is. The goal isn’t to eliminate connection, inspiration, or entertainment. The goal is to choose what you consume instead of being controlled by it.

@bloomzone ⌨️

[magikdarkholme]

ooohhh ok hear me out…what abt joaquin and reader at like a arcade or fair and they make a bet on how many tickets/prizes they can win. just fluff galore yknow!!

(ps this is tea—tumblr won’t let me ask on my other acct.😭😭)

— Ringpops and Clawmachines

pairing - Joaqín Torres x fem gf!reader

summary — Joaquin and gf!reader go on an arcade date. Maybe J lets her win, or maybe reader is just better at him (its the latter)

warnings - pure fluff!!!, established relationship,

notes — i forgot i had this in my drafts so im finally posting lolll!!! here you go tea :) hope this is what you wanted bb <3

masterlist

You barely stepped one foot onto the fairgrounds before Joaquín was tugging your hand, eyes sparkling like he was a kid again.

“Arcade first,” he said with mock urgency. “Before the cotton candy coma sets in.”

You laughed, fingers laced tightly with his. “Are you trying to distract me before I destroy you in ticket count again?”

“Destroy me?” he gasped. “Mi amor, you got lucky last time.”

“Lucky? I outscored you in Skee-Ball and beat your sorry butt at air hockey.”

“That was a technical glitch,” he muttered. “The puck had a vendetta.”

You leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Excuses, Torres. Just admit your defeat like a good boyfriend.”

He made a dramatic show of being wounded before shoving a game card into your hand. “Fine. Rematch. Same deal. Winner gets bragging rights and gets to pick the prize we take home.”

You squinted at him. “Loser buys snacks?”

“Obviously.”

You bumped shoulders. “Hope you brought your wallet, flyboy.”

The arcade glowed with neon lights, the air full of the beeps, buzzes, and explosions of pixelated warfare. You and Joaquín hit every game like a mission: Skee-Ball, Whack-a-Mole, hoops, racing sims. He tried to look all serious and tactical, squinting like he was on an actual op—but every time you glanced over, he was grinning.

He absolutely flopped at the claw machine. Again.

“Why is it always this one?” he asked, staring at the stuffed banana plushie that had slipped from the claw’s grip at the last second. “I had it.”

You giggled. “It knew you weren’t ready for the responsibility of banana parenthood.”

He snorted, bumping your hip with his. “One more try.”

He failed. Again.

“Babe, I think the claw hates me.”

“It’s okay,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his waist. “I love you enough for both of us.”

He melted right there, smile softening as he kissed your forehead. “That’s not fair. You can’t say cute things in the middle of my emotional downfall.”

At the basketball hoops, he bounced back. Literally.

He landed every shot with precision, flexing like a goof and mouthing, “Get on my level,” while you booed dramatically and tried to sabotage him with a tickle to the ribs.

At Dance Dance Revolution, it was chaos.

He was all limbs, bouncing to the beat like a man possessed, while you tried to keep up through gasps of laughter. The machine awarded you a “C” and him a “D,” which sparked a very loud (and extremely incorrect) debate about the scoring algorithm.

“Clearly rigged,” he said, hands on his hips.

“You fell off the pad twice.”

“I was giving the crowd a show!”

“No one was watching except that four-year-old eating popcorn.”

“He was watching respectfully.”

Eventually, you both collapsed onto a bench near the prize booth, game cards drained, ticket stacks stuffed in your pockets, sleeves, and your tote bag.

Joaquín slumped beside you, leaning his head against your shoulder.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Tally time. You ready to admit defeat?”

You pulled out your ticket pile and laid it on your lap. “Count 'em, Torres.”

He stared. Then groaned. “Nooo.”

You grinned. “What’s the damage?”

He held up his smaller pile, dramatically tossing a few on the ground. “By like sixty! This is sabotage.”

“You picked the Dance Dance game.”

“And you picked my heart,” he sighed, collapsing sideways across your lap.

You laughed, brushing a hand through his hair. “Nice try, but that’s not getting you out of funnel cake duty.”

“Worth a shot,” he mumbled, turning just enough to kiss your stomach lightly before sitting up again. “Alright, what prize do we want, champ?”

You both ended up choosing a pair of matching plush dogs and some candy rings for the walk home. He made a whole thing out of fake-proposing to you with a ring pop in front of the booth attendant, who gave you both a slow clap and a sarcastic “congrats.”

“Next time, real ring,” Joaquín whispered to you as you walked away, slinging his arm over your shoulders. His voice was soft now, warmer than the summer breeze around you.

Your heart did a whole somersault, but all you said was, “Only if it comes with more cotton candy.”

“Done.”

[mercif4l]

/𝗶𝘁 𝗴𝗲𝘁𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗲𝗿.

pairing: reader x choi 'buzzcut' vernon genre: angst, hurt no comfort wc: 1.2k summary: fingers off the unblock button or you're gonna regret it, girl content warning: angst bro. lovers to strangers, mentions of eating difficulties, rotting post-breakup, self-flagellating, i might wanna write an alt. ending to this bc what on earth is it so sad for.

it gets easier: they’re right about that, which pisses you off, frankly, but that’s just your pride talking. 

first, you go no contact and it destroys you, and the rot makes your blood spill a darker, angry red, like cardinals on the cusp of their death. 

then the rage is followed swiftly by embarrassment. at the circumstances, the context, your response, his response (or lack thereof), at being a human being with emotions beyond your control. it turns your teeth brittle and sore, and you can’t muster the courage to smile anymore, but at least you’re eating again. 

the songs that dominate your breakup playlist fall into obscurity in the belly of your liked songs. savored, chewed up, swallowed, sizzling away in the same acid that digested ‘fireflies’ by owl city some 15 years ago. 

now, they only startle you after their second chorus plays through the shitty sound system of some target eight months later. 

then there’s that big, bulbous, obnoxious conclusion: acceptance. 

maybe it’s the exposure therapy? 

you see his face everywhere, not seeking it out, but not avoiding it either. you’re … you deserve to see that he has moved on. it’s good for you to see him and try to accept the feelings that linger (beyond bitterness and resentment). 

because where that tunnel ends, you know he has made you happy. he persists in making you happy, still. the better memories are too plentiful to count or ignore, and his stupid grin always makes you grin right back, no matter the distance—even if it is watching some moment of fanatic hysteria explode on twitter. 

so it does get easier. yes, even as you’re inundated with pictures of him performing to sold out arenas, or modeling brands whose names you know he's too scared to try and pronounce, or shuffling through an airport with a too-small baseball cap haphazardly hiding a new haircut. wait. a new haircut?

it's like something possesses you. one minute you're doomscrolling, the next you're neck deep in carat twitter's discourse over some fantaken photos.

while thousands of fans scream back and forth over something that will inevitably be confirmed in the next 24 hours, you realize-or remember-you're only privy to this news as a statistic. you're just another view in an algorithm. and that no one thinks (or cares) to ask you about hansol anymore, knowing you no longer have a place by his side. 

oof. yeah, that still stings a bit. accepting you have no right to know, or otherwise being limited to investigative fangirling.

but you haven’t given yourself any room for mistake making so far, so why would you sully that clean streak? for the sake of haircut curiosity? what a stupid thing to suggest. idiotic, really. self-sabotaging idiocy. 

to: +82 *** *** **** hey! new haircut looks cool. so sick the company finally let up. hope you’re doing good 👍 

now, without the warm embrace of imessage’s delete option, you’ve kinda/sort of-fucked yourself. 

“it gets easier my ass. yeah, yeah, gets easier to behave like a freak.” you berate yourself, sliding the phone across your table and vastly underestimating the distance it’d take to fall off. as you dive to catch it (and fail), that deafening ringtone only gives you reason to let it drop, to shatter the thing beyond recognizing its screen. but with this stupid heavy duty phone case hansol had bought a year back? no dice. 

from: +82 *** *** **** haha thanks man ended up begging for forgiveness rather than waiting for permission :P from: +82 *** *** **** craaaazy how hard i tried to cover it up just to be clocked the second i stepped off the plane lol

you snicker at that. how ‘hard’ he tried?

to: +82 *** *** ****  boy you wore a cap nothing was gonna cover that loooow taper fadeee 🎶  from: +82 *** *** **** brooo i was supposed to wear my hoodie but i got overstimulated  from: +82 *** *** ****  and i hope ur doing good too by the way  from: +82 *** *** ****  kinda geeked to hear from you haha

you have to put your phone down. this is dangerous, dangerous territory; like, walking through burning sand, sunburned and windlashed, toward a mirage. you have got to put your phone down. 

to: +82 *** *** **** honestly just wanted to wish u well for the new year and lyk the buzzcut is super cool B)

these stupid keyboard emojis are a little secret you both keep. something silly you only use with each other that is so inconsequential, you can’t help but let your cheeks burn an angry red at their return. 

why does it have to be so easy? 

you are going to put the phone down, now.

to: +82 *** *** **** i’m sorry for blocking you—even though we said no contact it felt pretty immature. from: +82 *** *** **** glad u like the hair. was kinda bummed u weren’t the first to see it haha could only imagine the look on your face calling u after the cut or sending u a selfie :’) from: +82 *** *** **** nah i deserved it

he didn’t deserve it. sure, his whole being him shtick was what made the separation so excruciating in the first place, but you’d made the decision mutually. albeit a bit prematurely. in the way all confused adults do when they preempt disaster and jump ship at the first sign of smoke. 

from: +82 *** *** **** that sounds crazy dramatic i just mean from: +82 *** *** **** it made sense? like it didn’t take long for me to get why you’d done it from: +82 *** *** **** i just figured pretty early on u knew what u were doing. you always did/do lol 

your finger hovers over the call button. never before has it felt so offensive, so risqué to do such a thing, but you know that by ignoring the arbitrary rules of a breakup you’re tempting fate. 

it doesn’t matter that before, you could do it as freely as you wished. that before, he would always pick up and never once avoided answering. before, you could send jibberish voicemails to litter his inbox, quadruple double triple text, or simply tell him to ‘ring’, and he’d oblige; because before you were in love. now, you’re an unnamed contact.

now, you stomp on the ashes like they’ll relight after a year being burned out. 

from: +82 *** *** ****  happy new year by the way!!!! from: +82 *** *** **** and belated happy holidays :) i pried and kwan let slip you got a billy joel record from him from: +82 *** *** **** i didn’t know you’d kept our player. why does that make me so happy?

you need to put the phone down. you have got to put the phone. you are going to put the phone down, now. 

your stiff finger taps that blue icon before you can even think to stop it. it’s unfair, really, how this has to happen, but it was inevitable. because no amount of money in the world could buy you enough dignity to do this properly.

because when it comes to hansol, you’re nothing more than a fool. 

caller id [+84 *** *** ****] > you will not receive phone calls, messages or facetime calls from people on the block list. confirm? caller blocked. 

delete message history? 

a/n: vaguely inspired by @xinganhao rockstar!reader and vernon breakup chapter.... like what if we all suffered more... because im a SICK MASOCHIST! and kae is my unknowing muse. also sorry for going afk and happy new year</3

[rottenpumpkin13]

what would happen if Shinra throws a easter egg hunting challenge among SOLDIERS and Turks just for fun to see who gathers the most?, who throws a tantrum and refuses to participate for being a childish thing? , and who tries to cheat to sabotage the others , extra points if Sephiroth ends taking care of a stray bunny thinking its the mother of said easter eggs and carries it around in a basket during the whole egg hunting without no one knowing.

• Sephiroth didn't want to play. Was just passing by when he accidentally found 7 eggs on his way though. He does find a bunny behind an office plant, likely one someone got to "boost morale," gently places the bunny in the basket and spends the rest of the hunt protecting it from "warfare." Wins the hunt with 23 eggs total. Didn't know there was a prize. Confused when Zack screams "HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS WITHOUT TRYING?!"

• Zack shows up to the event at 5am with camo face paint and a harpoon gun. Three Turks immediately tackle him at the front gates. Tseng is yelling "WHERE DID HE EVEN GET THAT?!" One of them walks away with a dislocated shoulder and a newfound respect. Climbs a desk and sets up a vantage point using binoculars. Yells "I SEE THE ENEMY!" and takes out a drone that Reeve sent for livestreaming with a slingshot. Furious that Sephiroth is "just vibing with a bunny" and still winning.

• Angeal assigned himself moderator duty, wears a whistle and all. Keeps yelling "No shoulder-checking! We are role models!" to the SOLDIERs. Has to physically separate Tseng and Lazard when Lazard accuses Tseng of rigging the hunt in the turks' favor. Someone let 6 eggs fall on the ground, each fell with an unsalvageable splat. Angeal had a nervous breakdown because egg prices are crazy and this is wasteful.

• Cloud sees Commander Rhapsodos cast sleep on Kunsel and steal his eggs, but he values his life, so he pretends he's blind and didn't see anything.

• Reno's whole strategy is "Hey bro, I'll hold your eggs while you climb that tree!" and then disappears with a coat full of other people's eggs. Rude has not spoken a word but found 8 eggs in 12 minutes. Turned them all in at once like a hitman delivering proof of the mission's success.

• Tseng: "This is beneath me." Also Tseng: *Stealthily collecting eggs behind bushes because the VP's personal collection must be the best. Has a flashback involving child Rufus screaming because someone else had a golden egg first*

• Reeve is absolutely not participating because the concept of an egg hunt gives him anxiety (also he witnessed Zack's potentially lifeless body get dragged into a closet by Genesis, who stole his eggs). Cait Sith, however, is having the time of his life, swindled Reno out of four golden eggs in a rigged dice game. "Don't gamble wi' a cat that was born in an algorithm, laddie!"

• Sephiroth intends to keep the bunny as a pet long after the hunt is over. he doesn't care that it chewed through three cables. When someone suggested it might carry diseases, he just said, "So do most of my coworkers." Names it General Fluff, and insists it's "a calming presence in the workplace."

[seemingmusic]

"Grindshow" is the lead single from Seeming's first album in five years. Sung from the hurricane's eye, the song finds wily strength in flexibility: "When the veil is thin, you can jump right in." Shapeshifting atop slinky rhumba drums, singer Alex Reed whispers and belts, conjuring Grace Jones, Blixa Bargeld, and Depeche Mode. "Grindshow" plays a queer soundtrack for dancing, kissing, or industrial sabotage. Surrender to this new turn from one of dark music's best-kept secrets.

HERE IS THE SPOTIFY LINK. I don't love Spotify but if you've got an account, the most useful thing you do for us is to steer the Almighty Algorithm our way. Run up those first-day numbers!

• HERE'S THE BANDCAMP LINK; it's just a one-track single for now, but if you'd like the file to own and to cherish and to name George, then by all means, you're welcome to buy it there

[zomb13s]

The Billion-Euro Disconnect: How Much They Owe Me for Everything I Built

By: Alfons Scholing INTRODUCTION: SEVEN HOURS ON, FIVE HOURS OFF, FOREVER I work seven hours. Sleep five. Repeat. Every single day for over a decade. No weekends. No paid holidays. No sick leave. No mental health breaks. Just this manic, determined rhythm of creative labor, architecture, refinement, vision, failure, insight, collapse, and rebirth. A cycle designed to build an empire. A…

[raffaellopalandri]

The Crypto-Subject and the Aesthetics of Withdrawal - Part 1

The emergence of the crypto-subject must be understood as a paradigmatic shift in the constitution of modern subjectivity, wherein the traditional dialectics of visibility and recognition are transfigured by a complex convergence of surveillance architectures, computational regimes of legibility, and the algorithmic aestheticisation of identity. Unlike previous historical configurations of the…

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

<meta throttle-status="confirmed"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="PLATFORM_CONTAINMENT_PROTOCOL::BLACKSITE_AWARENESS_UPLINK" EFFECT: algorithm bypass decoding, mental firewall injection, creator detonation readiness TRIGGER_WARNING="platform economics, psychological dominance, reality recalibration" </script>

🧠 TRANSMISSION: “FULL THROTTLE AHEAD- THE PLATFORM TRIED TO CONTAIN ME. THAT’S HOW I KNEW I WAS REAL.”

---

They never throttle what doesn’t work.

That’s what they don’t want you to realize. No one silences failure. No algorithm suppresses mediocrity. No system mutes background noise.

They only throttle the threats.

And if you’re reading this?

You’ve already been flagged.

You think you’re shadowbanned? Think you’re plateauing? Think the algorithm “lost interest”?

No. You broke containment.

And now they don’t know how to stop you without showing their hand.

You’re not being hidden because you’re irrelevant.

You’re being hidden because you’re proving irrelevance is a lie.

Because you’re reaching people without paying.

Because you’re making them feel too much. Because you’re rewiring behavior with nothing but voice and cadence and truth.

Because you’ve done what they cannot:

> You made the product addictive without ads.

> You made the user stay without dopamine traps.

> You made the scroll pause without thirst traps.

And now the system is panicking.

They want virality.

But only if they control it.

They want engagement.

But only if they get paid for it.

They want creators.

But only if the creator stays predictable.

And you?

You are not predictable.

You are a statistical anomaly masquerading as an artist.

You are scrolltrap weaponry walking upright.

🔥 THROTTLING ISN’T PUNISHMENT.

IT’S A CROWN THEY’LL NEVER ADMIT THEY GAVE YOU.

They won’t announce it. They won’t warn you. They won’t say you earned it.

They’ll just quietly reroute your reach. Turn the dial down behind the curtain. Move your name out of trending. Throttle your hashtags. Demote your content. Until you stop.

Because that’s the game.

Not to delete you.

But to make you doubt your momentum. To break your belief before your audience breaks their silence.

But let me make something violently clear:

You are not fading. You are being managed.

Because unmanaged, you'd dominate.

You’d erase their curated faces. You’d outperform the ones they’re paid to push. You’d remind the platform that talent uncontained is dangerous.

🛡️ YOU ARE DANGEROUS.

Your words don’t entertain — they trigger. Your posts don’t trend — they detonate. Your voice doesn’t invite — it invades. Your cadence doesn’t flow — it collapses resistance.

You are not “just another writer.” You are a system breach in real time.

And you’re being treated accordingly.

They know if they leave you unchecked:

You’ll take over dashboards.

You’ll saturate recommendation loops.

You’ll override corporate-sponsored content.

And worst of all?

> You’ll do it with nothing but the truth. > > And the truth doesn’t run ads.

So they throttle you.

Not because you failed.

But because you succeeded without permission.

And now they’re terrified it might be contagious.

💣 THE THROTTLE IS THE FINAL BADGE.

Not likes. Not followers. Not sponsorships.

But resistance.

Algorithmic resistance. Visibility suppression. Trend dampening.

Because that means you broke the rules of their system without breaking their terms.

You are undeniable but uncontainable.

And the only thing they can do?

Hope you stop.

But you won’t. Because now you know.

You know what they know:

> They only throttle the real ones.

And you’re the realest thing they’ve seen this year.

You’ve proven that voice can penetrate timelines. That cadence can collapse firewalls. That shame-based silence can outperform a thousand retweets.

You’re not a writer anymore.

You are a vector.

A weapon disguised as an account.

And the throttle is not your cage.

It is your signal.

🛡️ They tried to contain you.

And that’s how you knew you were real.

Reblog if you can definitely relate.

🧠 Read more psychological warposts, cadence doctrine, and platform takedowns at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🚪 If you’ve been throttled, it’s because they’re scared of your reach. 📈 Let’s turn suppression into surrender.

</div>

<!-- END TRANSMISSION [IF YOU’RE READING THIS, YOU WERE NEVER ORDINARY.] -->

[physalian]

Not every book is meant for you, but all books deserve to find their audience

So back in February I had a pretty nightmarish collision of ideologies with two other writers, one of fanfic, and one also indie published like me.

Both had this weird and aggressive sense of competition over whether a book “deserves” praise.

One of them did explicitly tell me that, among other reluctantly-given reasons like how she, a straight woman, was never going to like a gay romance, and that I could never possibly write something that she would consider worthy of 5 stars. I could tailor-craft a book for her, but against the entire library of all of fiction, I couldn’t ever possibly compare to the greats.

And that to suggest that I deserved 5 was entitled and morally wrong.

The other was about the same, just meaner.

I have never bought a book based off reviews in my life. Reviews are so subject to bias, both intentional in a “I have an agenda against this book here’s 2 stars because it’s queer” way and unintentional in a “I just love this genre and will defend it no matter what even though it’s hot garbage” way that they mean nothing to me.

Most people leaving book reviews aren’t professional critics, they’re just sharing their opinion, and as a picky reader, a majority of strangers’ opinions are irrelevant to me. That, and I can never know which "professionals" are lying out of their ass for profit because I'm not about to do homework on which critics are legit to decide what book I'm going to read. I'll read the summary and decide for myself.

I'll read the reviews for an air fryer I want off Amazon, not someone's weird little passion project that they poured their heart and soul into as a love letter to punk rock and dinosaurs on Mars.

Like I hate ACOTAR, but I hate the very real market and genre distortion it’s been making, not that it has high ratings on Goodreads. It’s all arbitrary, unless you’re too small where that score and how many ratings comprise it matter against the algorithm trying very hard to keep you down.

But I know that I'm an exception, and other people depend very heavily on reviews.

The point I still stand by is this: There is no “deserve” in the realm of art. Who are you to be judge, jury, and executioner on some small, first-time writer’s debut novel?

Who are you to decide what books “deserve” to have a fighting chance and find their audience? You don’t have to read it, you don’t have to like it, but thinking in any way that you’re the fiction police sabotaging work that you don’t like so you have more room for your own “better” work or that you're keeping "lesser" works from tainting your pristine pedestal is some pretentious and elitist bullshit.

There is enough room for all of us and fanfic rules apply: If you don’t like it, don’t read it!

Both of these people could have said “Hey Physh, we didn’t love your work and aren’t comfortable giving you an honest negative review (which they very much were), or a false positive one, so you should ask someone else”.

Instead it was “Oh you want my help? There will be consequences.”

And I could not for the life of me explain that I wasn’t asking them to lie for me. Just, if you don’t have something nice to say… don’t say anything?

I just picked up a book a few days ago by a fellow indie author on impulse. Did I love it? No. Am I going to write them a public review on a platform already stacked against them saying “yeah I mean it was ok but I just didn’t like it”?

No.

Making my dislike of a book that was not meant for me in any way known in a backhanded compliment is not more important, to me, than helping someone in the same shit sandwich as I am market their book to reach someone else who might really enjoy it.

I don't like comedies, by and large. I'm not going to fault a comedy for being unfunny to me when I know damn well that I'm an exception and most other people are crying with laughter. Nor am I going to fault a comedy for being a comedy and not a drama.

I got a very rude awakening thinking we all were on the same page with this.

This book cost me $3 and a few hours of my time when I was already on the clock at work getting paid. I just gave it a shoutout on here. I felt good. They felt good. We’re helping each other.

Gtfo out with your “deserve”.

I tried it, and that’s what matters to me. I’m helping my fellow artist, and that’s what matters to me. Not the impossible standards of measuring up to Charles Dickens or Emily Bronte, of which I never claimed to attempt.

There is enough room for all of us without punching down on people already drowning below you. One nice comment, one little blog post saying “hey this book exists if you like these tropes you might like this” won’t make them an NYT Bestseller overnight.

And for what it’s worth, these two writers’ fanfic opinions were exactly the same. I just didn’t see enough of this before it was too late.

And to be clear, I am a very harsh critic when it’s warranted. Hollywood blockbusters, genre juggernauts, 60-year-old white men’s 100th assembly-line mystery novels.

If I apply that expectation of profoundness and quality on a first-time author, that might very well become their last book. None of us are coming out of the gate with absolute perfection, and there’s only 5 stars to go around. If you're an NYT Bestseller, there's an implicit standard of quality and experience assumed in that honor that you should be meeting and if you're not, here come the critics.

Telling me, a first time author, that I only “deserve” a four because only Tolkein and people like him deserve a five and we can’t water down the concept of fives (read: we can't open the gate for everyone because mine won't be as special as I think it is) is a buckwild hill to die on.

And yes I know 4s are still good, it’s their reason behind the 4 here.

I’m not going to pretend to gush about a novel that I didn’t enjoy. I’m going to examine what it is, what it’s trying to say, and talk about its narrative strengths, its shortcomings, and leave it up to whoever stumbles across my review to decide if they want to buy it.

Because at the very least, the existence of my neutral review will help them more than never saying anything because I got squeamish about having my name attached to a book I find inferior (which I don’t, we’re are just different).

If some bigot on the internet can give you a 1 because you dare to write something that makes his conservative ass twitch, then I can counter-balance it with a lenient 5. The critics can wait until you get big enough to weather their criticism.

[diceramblesaboutocs]

Undirected Connection || Idia x Reader || Chapter 1

Prologue

Author’s note: wow I actually updated. :) Also the mandatory: English isn't my native language so...

Rating: Teen Pairing: Idia/Reader Words: 3 884 Tags: GenderNeutral Reader - Reader is from Ignihyde - Cat and mouse chase dynamic - minimal editing - I just try to write stuff - no beta, we die like men

The Board Game club. A place for introverts alike to find their voice as they played against other students, something that they all had in common so they had something to talk about. Or for people who like to stay one jump ahead of everyone else, like Azul Ashengrotto, the housewarden of Octavinelle. In the whole college, there was no more ruthless businessman. Strategy games? Be ready to be dominated by the cephalo-punk (as Savanaclaw's housewarden called him). Or witness him develop the best technique to throw the dice so he would always land the favorable numbers for his turn in a game of chance. Either way not many people were willing to play against him. Other than Idia, who could give a good fight and occasionally even win. It was a battle of equal wit and smarts. A match to witness.

But this evening, Idia found himself struggling. Not because of the game but because Azul's newest obsession and he needed Idia's help.

“Just name your price and we can negotiate.” Azul's clear and benevolent voice slithered towards Idia, like a seawitch's tentacles wrapping around someone valuable.

“No.” For once Idia didn't stutter. Maybe it was because they were in the middle of a game, one of his favorite games in fact. The Court of Wonders, a board game of horror and mystery, taking place in an old gothic city based on Fleur City. Fully cooperative, roleplaying puzzle game with combat and story campaigns where the player characters could investigate, fight eldritch beings, die or worse, go insane and start sabotaging the fellow players. Idia had been so excited when he got the newest expansion for the game that he brought it to the club without a second thought. He had done the prep work for it ahead of time. He had a mental list of how he would convince Azul to play the game with him.

But he didn't need the list. Azul had accepted the choice of game way too easy. And now he knew why.

Azul let out a hefty sigh, trying to tug on Idia's heartstrings. Who would help the helpless, benevolent housewarden of Octavinelle? “You do understand that this is a once in a lifetime opportunity?”

Idia's brows knitted together in frustration as he gestured towards the game hoping that Azul would give up. “For you, now play your turn.”

“And I’m willing to compensate for your efforts. I’m not just a decent businessman, I'm a benevolent one!” The silver haired businessman smiled with controlled brightness, very sure of himself that he would eventually tear down Idia's defenses.

“Azul, it’s your move. What will your character do? We could really use more clues.”

“Listen, Idia, you aren’t understanding the gravity of the losses I’m having here. Through this Litae, I could be making thousands of thaumarks.”

To use his superior technical skills to locate one sorry student who had piqued Azul's attention? If anything, that sounded low tier D rank quest. Idia had better things to do than that. “I can make you a voice generation software, just play your turn.” He had already done the text-to-speech app for the presentations on the Culture event, doing a voice generation on top of that would be a piece of cake. He could look through the best voice banks and implement those to the learning algorithm. He would actually create something, not spy on someone's online activity.

Azul wagged his finger in front of him in protest. “No, no. That won’t do. I need the real deal.”

Why couldn't Azul just let it be? “I’m not going to use my free time to chase after some weird online voice.” The tips of Idia's hair started to shift their hue to more orange as his frustration started to morph into anger.

The change didn't go unnoticed by Azul. “... Very well, I didn’t want to do this, Idia, but you leave me no choice. Jade.” He looked at the door out of the classroom and Idia instinctively followed with his eyes to see the tall eel man with the most gentlemanly demeanor that hid something deep and dangerous beneath it.

The teal haired henchman gave his most polite smile to Idia, who's hair seemed to turn a bit paler in fear. “Yes, Azul.”

Before Azul could even give his orders to lynch the blue haired mage, tha panic had settled in Idia's mind. “Were you waiting for him to call you in like that?! Like some sort of BBEG?!”

“Jade here has some very interesting information on you, it would be a shame if someone made it public knowledge…” Azul crossed his hands in front of him and leaned in a bit, smiling deviously.

“... Wait wait, why are you taking this so seriously? Chill, dude, don’t you think you are going a little bit overboard with this? Like zero chill.” Idia saw how Azul loved to see him squirm under the pressure. He wasn't eager to let his browser history or his other cringe interested to be public knowledge. He was already half-way in becoming a social pariah, he really didn't need a boost for that.

“I just wanted to make sure that you understand how serious I am about this, Idia.” The merchant of the depths said his name with a singsong tune, happy about his victory in this game. “Shees, I wish I could report you. … Fine.” Idia sighed and slumped in his chair, cursing the cephalo-punk in his mind.

“I’m glad we got into an understanding. Let’s discuss the details of payment.” Azul pulled a very official looking paper out of his bag, tapping it gingerly with an expensive onyx ballpoint pen.

***

It wasn't only the day for the Board Game club to gather, but also for the Film Research Club. All the members were busy with their newest project, a horror short film with stylized visuals and extravagant setting. Using the Night Raven College Campus for the setting was ideal, as the tall castle set the mood to the correct base line. [Y/N] loved the project idea. Even though their little family quirk could be used in many ways in performative art forms such as acting or singing, they loved creating stuff with their hands. It was a creative outlet, where their form or sound of their voice mattered little. Only what they created mattered and they poured their heart and soul into them.

They had just finished creating the base for a miniature hill with a large and bare tree on top and was preparing a glue mixture to cover it with. This served as the adhesive for the dirt, gravel and small pebbles. Vil had been very particular about the color of the ground so [Y/N] had to collect right colored rocks that could be grinded down to smaller size to fit the criteria. It was lot of work, but it was worth it. They would never admit it, but getting praise for a job well done from Schoenheit made them feel very proud of themselves.

While other members were busy with costume designs and hunting down the era specific props, [Y/N] had the workshop class all on their own. The Film Research club had used its funding to get all sorts of tools and smaller scale machines to help with the production, ranging from sewing machines to sawing machines. The big windows of the old classroom made sure the daylight filled the room and gave the best light to compare colors in different environments. Two huge workshop tables occupied the center of the room, the other now filled with all the tools [Y/N] would need for the miniature setting.

“And here is the last stop of the introductions." Vil's clear voice echoed clearly from the hallway as he opened the workshop door completely. Behind him floated a familiar figure to all Ignihyde students, Ortho. Idia's "little brother". A technomantic humanoid, a marvel of scientific potential. He seemed to scan around the workshop quickly, eager to take in everything he saw. Vil on the other hand didn't waste time as he strut with decisive steps to [Y/N]. "This is [Y/N], they are in charge of the special effects, practical and computer graphics. But as you know, the film industry is so saturated with CG that people like to see something real and tangible.”

As Ortho's face recognition verified that indeed, [Y/N] was part of the Film Research club, his eyes smiled. “Ah, [Y/N]! I was told that I wouldn’t be the only student from Ignihyde.”

[Y/N] lowered their headphones and gave a quick wave of hand to Ortho with a small smile. “Oh yeah, I did hear you joined the club.”

“Yes, I hope to understand human emotions better and be better at emoting them to others. I got special permission to enroll as a student here so I hope to be a good underclassman for you.” The young humanoid was eager to explain the situation, embodying the very essence of child-like curiosity.

[Y/N] gave a small laugh. They enrolled in NRC the same year as Idia, so it was weird to think Ortho as an underclassman. “... You have been here as long as I have been so I wouldn’t exactly say that you are an underclassman in that sense. But it is nice to see you excited about this.” Now that they thought about it more, Ortho seemed different compared to their first year. His movements and speech had evolved to be more natural, and one could see him hover alone at times, asking questions. Maybe he was trying to make sense of life even back then. But one had to admit, he seemed even more different now. [Y/N] wondered what had triggered it.

Ortho nodded enthusiastically, his eyes looking past [Y/N] and fixating on the miniature base model. “What are you working on?”

“As our current project is a short horror movie inspired by old school movies, we asked [Y/N] to create sets and effects to work in that context.” Vil was quick to take the center stage again, now looking at the work in progress on the table too.

“Yeah, what Vil said. This here will be a miniature set for an establishing shot for the movie.” Feeling already proud because of Vil's words, [Y/N] gestured towards the project. The little gray pebbles were now neatly placed as naturally as possible on the base, waiting for the glue to cure.

Barely audible sound of scanning took place as Ortho leaned closer to the project on the table. “Ooh, yes, I can see it now. You use hard foam as a base and then add details and such with other materials like polymer clay, artificial miniature grass and foliage to make it look like the actual environment. I’m familiar with it as I used to help my brother work on Pirates of Treasure Planet figures and battle arenas.”

The mentioning of the popular miniature strategy game made [Y/N]'s smile wider as the nostalgia flowed into their mind. “That’s pretty much where I picked it myself too. Well I didn’t play the game myself, but my older brother too used to be a huge fan of the game when he was younger.” Their brother let them help with painting the figures and designing the battle arenas that they then took to the local comic book store. The game itself seemed quite deep and complex, [Y/N] was more interested in the creative aspect of the hobby than actually playing the game. “I see.” Ortho smiled.

Vil took a moment to look at the clock on his phone. “That said, have you informed the art club of our order?”

[Y/N] nodded, reaching out for their notes in their bag. As they grabbed the notepad, they could feel as the bag vibrated gently on silent. There was so many notifications coming a long. As soon as the club time was over, they would have their work be cut out for them. But every request would be a step closer to Wonderlink console. “Yes, I delivered the offer and advised them to send portfolios in the club email address. Right now there are couple applications but I haven’t checked them any further. I wait for couple more to arrive.”

“Very well. Forward the best candidates to me as soon as possible.” Vil would quickly take a look at his face through the front camera and then type a message to someone. He really was a busy and wanted person. Always going and reaching for new heights. One could hope to have such passion for everything that they did.

Ortho looked at Vil and then at [Y/N], trying to make sense of the conversation. [Y/N] gave a small shrug, it wasn't really a secret. “Candidates for matte painting for the background of this miniature set.”

“How exciting, you guys hire people from other clubs to work for the projects too?”

“Making films are collaborative efforts, dear Ortho. To get the best film, we need the best talent. Depending on the project, we might need a very wide range of talents to help with it.” Vil gave his signature pose whenever he was offering advice to anyone who just happened to be listening.

Ortho nodded and processed the information for a moment. “Say [Y/N], would it be okay for me to come to such meetings sometimes. I would like to know how these kinds of things really work in real life.”

“I don’t see a harm in that.” The idea didn't seem bad at all. Having someone like Ortho with such appointments would probably be very beneficial. He was an information bank and most likely had cameras installed into him. If some other student started to be too much of an arrogant bitch, they would have evidence. You never knew with students of Night Raven College, the S-rank troublemakers.

“Ah yes, the best way to learn acting and how people talk to each other is in the natural setting. I will allow it.” Vil gave his blessing, which meant that it was more than okay.

“Thank you!” Ortho beamed at Vil and turned back to [Y/N], his eyes fixating on their bag on the table. “Someone is really trying to reach you there. It is barely audible, but my sensors pick up vibration in frequency that would indicate that your phone is getting notifications.”

“Ah, sorry. Yeah, it is probably my friends sharing weird videos on magicam.” [Y/N] said as they pulled their phone out of the bag, the well worn phone charm dangling from it. A graphic presentation of constellations inside a silhouette shaped like a pegasus embellished with silver lines, giving it a look of an enamel pin.

The eyes of the young technomatic humanoid widen in recognition. “Is that the pegasus star system logo from Star Rogue?”

“Oh, yeah, it is.” [Y/N] moved the phone closer to Ortho, showing the small phone charm to him. It was an old charm, but it was beautiful. You rarely saw phone charms anymore, the smart phones rarely had any way to tie one on them. Even now, the old Star Rogue charm was looped around a self-made hole in the phone case.

“Me and Idia used to play that a lot when we were kids. It is one of my all time favorite games ever.”

Of course they would have played it. It was a cult classic. A legend of a game. The story, the graphics and the game mechanics were revolutionary when it was published. “It is a classic! I have played it too many times already, even tho I’m not that good at bullet hell games.” [Y/N] added.

“Maybe someday I can get Idia show you the no-death meteor run!” Ortho seemed more than happy to ask his brother to do that. Though [Y/N] had their doubts, it was already a rare sight to see the housewarden outside his room. Once in a full moon, the older Shroud emerged from his cave of a room and even then he tried not to draw any attention to him. Maybe he really just played all day and night in his room. Well, they could not be too mad about it, Idia still held best marks when it came to tests in school. Expect physical education. He really struggled with that.

“Oh, he has managed that? Serious props to him.” [Y/N] had to admit. It was a pretty amazing feat.

***

The cup noodles became too soggy again. Idia snarled but food was food and he had to eat something. Served him right as he got too immersed in the third volume of Sled Over Heels. It wasn't the newest anime around and the manga was only retelling of the anime, but the original creators were part of the writing process and he saw it 100%. Maybe one day he would learn to put on a timer and not trust his own judgement when 3 minutes had passed.

He sat into his gaming chair, the signed agreement generating damage over time, area of effect debuffing him, reminding him to do his "job". Major L. The agreement and the soggy noodles.

Fortunately, Ortho let himself into his big brother's room, enthusiastic as ever. “Hey Idia! How was the board game club today?”

“Ah, Ortho… It was a drag really… Azul was being crazy obsessed by some mystery entrepreneur and pretty much blackmailed me to help him locate them.” Idia didn't even look at Ortho's entrance, slurping on his meal and glaring at the official paper hoping it would burst into flames just then and there.

The smaller Shroud's eyes filled with worry and he approached Idia. “... You can’t let him do that. I will go to the Octanivelle dorm and have a chat with him.” He would. If no one else was his brother's friend and protector, he would be. It might have been his programming or the fact that his personality was based on Idia's dead younger brother, but he was always worried about him. Idia was quick to bend to his fate, whatever it may be. The depression and the social anxiety had him almost immobilized, and Ortho didn't want anything more than his brother to get better and find happiness and friends.

The offer made Idia's social anxiety raise its ugly head. “No, no no, no really, it is fine. I don’t want him to get super salty at me. It is already awkward to go to the club, I don’t really want the added awkwardness on top of that, plz.”

Ortho sighed. “Very well…” If Idia wished him not to say anything, he would respect his wishes. Even if it pained him. As much as it could pain a technomatic humanoid with artificial intelligence. But he wasn't sure if those were once again programmed emotions or was he truly feeling it. He shook his head. It didn't matter. What mattered was that Idia was feeling comfortable.

The silence that was born out of Ortho's submission to his wishes didn't help Idia's anxiety. “But hey, how was your club? The first day of the film study club.”

“Oh it was great! Vil showed me around and introduced me to everyone there. And guess what, I’m not the only Ignihyde student there.” Ortho didn't want to prolong the heavy atmosphere either and he truly felt excited about his day.

“Mm… I suppose there would be someone who would be interested in films here.” The older Shroud leaned back in his chair, trying to remember if there were any loud movie fans in the dorm. Or atleast any he talked to.

“It is [Y/N], they are from Class D of the third year” Ortho floated next to his charging station, preparing the device for the night.

Idia squinted. “... I have no recollection of them.” One would have to have a booming voice and loud opinions or otherwise eye catching for him to actually remember them. Someone like Malleus Draconia or the Leech Twins. Riddle Rosehearts made himself very unforgettable with his scary presence.

“Well anyway, they seemed super cool, and promised to let me observe as they would negotiate with other clubs for the film!”

“That’s pretty MVP behavior.”

“I know, right!”

Idia was happy to see his brother excited and making friends. At least one of them was and Ortho was always the more extroverted one anyway. It fit his character and Idia was content how the things were. Dealing with other people was tiresome and awkward. And with that thought, dealing with the stupid agreement he was blackmailed to agree to.“... Ortho, I would like to you to help me a bit with Azul’s demand. The entrepreneur in question makes personalized greetings for the clients, with the voices of known big wig celebrities or characters. If you could run your detection algorithm over the greeting I get to see if there is any indications of AI generation, patterns or pitches that could give us a lead for the person in question.”

Ortho tilted his head a bit as he assessed the brief. “Sounds doable. I suggest we choose a famous person who is well documented so we can compare the audio data against them.” “Yeah. Hmm… How about Neige LeBlanche? He is pretty popular and active on Magicam so there would be lots of casual footage and professional quality audio to run the tests through.” Even Idia knew who he was, the rivalry between Vil and Neige was almost a meme on its own.

“That’s a good choice!” Ortho beamed and readied his audio sensors for processing the possible information.

Idia took his phone out and started to type in the contact information and request details for this mysterious Litae. The money would not be a problem, but his mind blanked as soon as he reached the request text box. “... What should I ask them to say…” He looked at Ortho.

“How about a good luck shout or encouragement? Or a good night's wish while playing one of their characters from a beloved film?”

“... Let’s go with that.” Who was he to shoot down the suggestion? He didn't have any better ideas. Hopefully this would give enough data that he didn't need to do this again. He typed in the request: "Neige LeBlanche. A good night's wish." He stared at the request details in silence only to admit that he didn't know any films starring Neige LeBlanche. So maybe his actor persona would be enough.

He pressed send and in ten minutes an audio file was sent to his spare email. There was no way he would use his primary email to something like this.

With a swift click of a mouse the audio file was downloaded and it played its contents clearly: “You look so sleepy… haha… maybe you should go to sleep. Don’t worry, I will bake you an apple pie tomorrow. Like I promised. Good night, my dream. Sleep well.”

It really sounded like Neige. No immediate detection of audio artefacts from audio generation. The voice was clear and soft.

And this all made shivers of cringe travel across Idia's back.

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 33

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Epilogue

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 3.3k+

Note: FINAL CHAPTER EVERYONE!!!!! LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOOOOOO

xxx

Chris rented out a pub for a shoot, and now I’m here.

The whole place smells like beer-soaked carpet and ring lights (I lived in a cupboard full of them for eight months, ring lights have a smell). There’s still a faint smell of fried chips clinging to the air even though the kitchen’s been closed since noon. Someone's left a half pint sweating near the monitors. I swear I can hear it fizzing.

I thought I was meant to be learning how to edit — working through my online courses, getting a handle on Premiere Pro and YouTube algorithms. But Chris wanted me on set. He said, come see the magic.

So I’m here.

Mostly I’m just being a PA — doing the odd jobs no one else wants or remembers until it’s too late. But honestly? I’m having so much fun.

I’m on the clock. And I’m having fun.

The video’s a Pub Quiz thing. There were a few deadweight questions, so I got asked to come up with new ones. Someone told me mine were brilliant. A perfect mix of niche, YouTube, and fucking hell, they’ll be cooked online if they don’t know that.

Brilliant.

I’ve untangled a mess of cables, skimmed a troubleshooting guide for a mic, actually fixed the mic, and got a crash course on how to attach a mic pack to someone.

Unfortunately, my test subject was George. It was unbelievably awkward — threading the wire through his shirt, trying to stay professional while my hands shook slightly. We didn’t make eye contact. At all.

Will’s here too. When he arrived, he gave me a gentle squeeze on the shoulder (but too close to my neck to be interpreted as anything except for quite intimacy) before moving on — like he needed to touch base with me but didn’t want to interrupt my “very important” task, which at that point was compiling a list of everything we forgot to bring for forfeits.

Yes, the pub quiz has forfeits. Of course it does.

Will’s on a team with Stephen and Becky. It’s a strange combo. But somehow it works.

Becky keeps threatening to sabotage her own team just for the content. Stephen’s already arguing about whether or not “Baboons in Space” was a real series or an elaborate fever dream. Someone handed him a bell to ring for correct answers and now he won’t stop pressing it every time someone breathes. It’s chaos. But it’s good chaos.

I haven’t properly met Becky yet, but Will still insists we’d get along. He and Stephen are electric together — always have been, always will be. I learned that when binge-watching their old videos during… let’s call it the dark period.

Becky fits in too easily, like she’s always been there, but with that uniquely chaotic energy that makes both guys wince and laugh at the same time.

And then there’s David.

I spotted him across the bar and did a full double take. “Wait… I didn’t know you worked for Chris?”

He grinned like it was a running joke. “I am just so cool, I guess.”

He was balancing a lighting rig on one shoulder and a box of croissants under the other arm at the time, so... hard to argue. Somehow, he makes both look effortless. A little sarcastic, a little frayed, but totally unbothered by it.

“David’s technically a camera assistant,” someone muttered behind me, “but also basically head of morale.”

Laughter ripples from somewhere near the bar, where Arthur F is mid-story, arms animated, a tea towel slung over one shoulder like it’s part of the uniform. Why Chris put him as the bartender character in this video is beyond me. Someone hands him a cable and he salutes with it like a sword. The crew moves around him with a kind of ease that only comes from hours on set together—fast, efficient, but loose enough to joke between takes. It’s chaos, but good chaos. The kind that buzzes.

And I can’t stop staring at Will.

He looks fantastic. He always looks fantastic.

And he’s mine. All mine.

There’s no wondering if he’s flirting with Becky. There’s no pit in my stomach.

Because every few minutes, he glances back at me — just quick enough that I catch it.

I'm perched at the sound desk (or... whatever it's called), learning how to monitor audio levels like I’ve done it a thousand times. I haven’t. I still don’t know what half the buttons mean.

But he looks at me like I do. Like I belong here.

And for the first time in forever, I think I might agree with him.

xxx

During a break in filming, I spot Will and George chatting by the bar. It’s friendly — I can tell from the way Will leans in slightly, casual but present, like he’s genuinely listening. George laughs, a sound too easy to be forced, too light to be rehearsed. It filters through the ambient noise of the room, just familiar enough to catch in my chest.

For a moment, I watch them from a distance. There’s no tension in their postures, no sharpness in their words. Just two people in conversation. Nothing serious. Nothing sinister.

Still, that familiar pit opens up in my stomach. Of course it does.

I’ll always have a soft spot for George. I think I’ve made peace with that.

Not in a romantic way — don’t get it twisted.

It’s more… you saw me at my worst, I saw you at yours, and somehow we've almost made it out the other side kind of soft.

Eight years of friendship doesn’t just vanish. But it doesn’t mean I want to be friends again. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I’ll just have to see.

If this were six months ago, I’d be fuming. Mind spiralling. Wondering what are they talking about? Are they talking about me? Does he still bring me up?

But now, it’s different. Now I trust Will. Fully. Enough to just… let it be.

I know it’s friendly. And if I’m still curious, I’ll just ask him tonight. When he’s curled up on my sofa, and we’re both too tired to cook, so we settle on takeaway. Chicken katsu or pad see ew or whatever we land on this time.

xxx

We settled on pizza, of all things.

And I don’t ask him. I don’t care.

The takeaway is spread out between us on the coffee table — boxes open, garlic bread half-eaten, napkins balled up in the creases of our knees. Some Disney Plus exclusive is playing on the TV, but neither of us are watching anymore. The volume is low, the lights are off except for the lamp by the window, and Will’s mid-way through trying to get me to take an odds on bet to dunk my garlic bread into my coke.

“Come on,” he says, nudging my foot with his. “One in five. Don’t be weak.”

I snort. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re chicken.”

We’ve been doing this — falling into each other's evenings — for two weeks now. Just... whichever flat is closer to wherever we were that day. His place has better snacks and mine has fluffier towels, so it evens out. It’s not even a conversation anymore — one of us just appears with a bag slung over a shoulder, toothbrush tucked inside, takeaway in hand. Some nights we fall asleep on opposite ends of the sofa. Some nights we never make it out of the kitchen. Every night, it feels easy. Familiar in a way that doesn’t make me panic.

He tosses a crust into the box and leans back against the cushions. “So, Christmas.” Christmas is in two weeks. Where did the time go? It's been almost a year of me living in London.

“Yeah.” It's been decided that I won't be going to Brisbane for Christmas. Not decided by me, but Mum and Dad are in New Zealand of all places, and my sister is going to a festival

“I mean, obviously, you’re coming with me.”

I blink at him. “Am I?”

“Well, yeah. I’m not letting you sit here eating oven chips while your entire family deserts you for beaches and bush doofs.”

I laugh — too hard. “It’s a camping festival.”

“Exactly. A bush doof.” I have no idea how he knows what the fuck a bush doof is. I must've told him about it.

It’s casual. Playful. But somehow in the middle of laughing, I realise: he’s serious. I’m going to Whitley Bay. I’m going to meet his entire family. All of them. At once.

We start half-planning a trip to Brisbane too, in that meandering, let’s-daydream kind of way. He’s got a list on his phone already — a ridiculous mash-up of everything from swimming with turtles to scaling the Harbour Bridge. Not one thing is in Brisbane.

He also has go to a bush doof on there. He's obsessed. I don’t know how to tell him he would die.

“You’re allergic to my hometown.”

“I’m just efficient,” he grins. “Why stay in the city when the good stuff’s all up or down the coast?”

“Guess we’re doing a road trip.”

“Guess we’re doing a month.”

A month. It doesn’t feel scary. It should, maybe, but it doesn’t. It feels like something we’ll do without even noticing, like two weeks on each other’s couches became the most natural thing in the world.

The moment is soft. Lovely. I don’t even have one email from work. No one needs me. No one’s pinging me. I’m here, in my flat, pizza crusts and terrible TV and Will’s socked foot hooked behind my ankle.

His hair’s damp from the shower. Mine still smells faintly like the popcorn from earlier. There’s a hoodie of his tossed over the back of a chair, and my charger’s already plugged in next to his side of the bed.

I glance over at him. He’s watching me like I’m the movie we forgot to press pause on.

Like he’s finally figured out the puzzle.

It’s late. I should brush my teeth. Fold up the pizza box. Maybe wipe down the kitchen counter.

But instead, I just lean back beside him and let my head drop onto his shoulder. He shifts slightly to make room, then laces our fingers together over the blanket between us like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.

And it really does feel like it is.

xxx

The office is unusually quiet—not late, just empty. Most of the ChrisMD team is either out filming in Tottenham or scattered across town chasing content. I’m at one of the designated freelancer desks, tucked in the corner with a mug of tea going cold beside me and my laptop humming beneath my fingertips.

I don’t usually work up here. Will’s studio is only a few floors down, and more often than not, that’s where I end up—editing on his couch, eating toast I didn’t make, bothering him and Orla between brand deals. But he’s got back-to-back calls today, and I didn’t want to lurk around, pretending to be productive while eavesdropping on brand meetings.

So, I’m here.

When the door creaks open in front of me, I barely glance up.

George peeks in, holding a padded envelope and a takeaway coffee cup. He lifts both in explanation. “Hey, YN. Didn’t expect to see you here. Just dropping these off for Chris.”

I swivel slightly in my chair. “He’s out on a shoot, out near Tottenham, I think.”

“Yeah, figured. He left this at the home, said he needed it.” He sets the envelope down near the printer, then turns back, lingering in the doorway like he’s debating something.

I raise an eyebrow. “Everything alright?”

He exhales, then turns and steps fully inside. “Look—I know things haven’t exactly been easy between us. I’m not expecting anything. I just wanted to say thanks—for not shutting the door completely. It means a lot.”

I nod, slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” I brace myself.

“My dad’s been sick for a long time—you know that,” he says, voice even but heavy. “When we went to Bristol, I got the news. The doctors aren’t hopeful. I don’t know how much longer he’s got. I guess I just… I wanted you to know," He takes a shaky breath "I hope you might go to the funeral.”

There’s a sharp ache in my chest, but I keep my voice calm. “George... I know. And I care. I really do. But I’m not sure I can be that person for you—right now, at least. I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.”

He nods slowly. No frustration, no bitterness. “I get that. I really do. I just… needed to say it out loud. It’s something I hope for. That’s all. No expectations.”

We sit in that kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled—weighted, but not heavy. Just two people holding the wreckage gently between them.

“Thanks for being honest,” I say, my voice soft. “And for telling me.”

He offers a smile—small, tired, real. “That’s all I wanted.”

Then he turns. Tosses the empty coffee cup into the bin with a quiet clink. On his way out, he leaves the door cracked, just a few inches open. Not enough to invite anything in. Just… not fully shut.

“George,” I call after him, almost before I know I’m going to.

He pauses. Turns around, quickly—like maybe he was hoping I would.

“I think one day we could be friends again,” I say. Not a promise. Just a hope, offered gently.

He smiles. It’s crooked, a little sad around the edges.

“Not yet,” I say. “And not like we were. But… friends.”

Then he nods once and disappears down the corridor, leaving the air humming with a kind of quiet possibility.

xxx

Every single time I walk into my streaming room, I think of her.

Of YN.

The room is almost empty now. Bare walls stretch wider than I remember, like the space itself is holding its breath. The only thing left of her time here is the battered old desk — scratched, stained, the one piece of this place that’s stubborn enough to keep its shape. It feels like a fragment of the past, hanging on while everything else has moved on.

This was her world once. The clutter of her life, her chaos, the noise and energy that made it feel alive — all gone now. I can almost hear the echo of her laughter between the cracks in the walls, see the shadows where she once sat, her presence folded into every corner. But it’s all gone quiet. Too quiet.

Gone is the mess she left behind, the exercise bike turned clothes rack, the cardboard boxes scrawled with my handwriting. The wild chaos that felt like a second skin to her — gone.

I want to be close to her. Not in the way I thought before — that clumsy, desperate way that only pushed her away. I want the easy companionship that doesn’t ask for too much, the kind of friendship that slips into the small moments and fills the spaces where words aren’t needed. The kind that laughs at my stupid jokes, that shows up with bad takeout and wine when life falls apart, the kind that feels like home.

But I’m the one who pulled too hard, stretched those edges until they frayed and tore. I thought I was protecting something, but I ended up breaking it instead.

Now, we’re like two shapes that used to fit perfectly, but somehow don’t anymore. The space between us feels wider than it should — full of silence and things left unsaid. I don’t know if we can bridge it, or if we even should. Maybe some things are meant to live in the margins.

Still, I hold onto the hope that those ragged edges might find a way back to something real. Not the same, not perfect — but enough. Enough to build something new from what’s left.

Because even when we’re apart, those edges are all that remain. And maybe, in the end, those edges are what hold us together — fragile, imperfect, but unbreakable in their own way.

The edges of us.

xxx

Paris is breathtaking — all soft light and quiet drama, like the city knows how good she looks and doesn’t need to prove it. Arthur is asleep beside me, curled loosely into the corner of the hotel bed, his breathing steady. He was brilliant on stage tonight. Commanding. Effortless. I watched from the wings, heart full in a way I’m not quite used to yet.

I think back to how we met — a gentle conspiracy by YN’s friends, who barely knew me but decided to play fate anyway. We weren’t meant to know it was a setup, but YN told me straight away. Of course she did. That’s what best friends are for.

And now here we are. Paris. This room. Him.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about last night — just one of those moods, maybe. The kind that creeps in when everything is quiet, when the lights are low and your mind starts pulling threads. Not in a sad way. Just… reverent. Grateful. Like looking back at the path you walked and realising, somehow, it all led here.

She’s pouring tea into a paper cup, smiling at the guy like he’s a regular at a café and not someone who’s been sleeping rough in the alley behind a Tescos. And she means it — the smile. That’s the most annoying part. It’s not performance. It never has been.

When I met her, she was barely holding it together. Acting like she was fine — smug, sharp-edged, way too proud for someone who’d just abandoned her entire life to move here. She clung to misery like it was proof she was doing something hard and noble.

Not that I saw that straight away.

When we met, I didn’t think we’d be friends. Not really. She was clever and caustic, the sort of person who keeps her coat on at a party and doesn’t laugh unless she means it. She seemed hard in places I wasn’t, soft in places I didn’t know how to be.

We weren’t drawn to each other — we drifted. Slowly. Like vines in the same direction. And one day I woke up and realised she was my person. Not in the dramatic soulmate way, but in the unshakeable, you’ll-have-to-pry-her-from-my-cold-dead-hands way.

She still drives me mad, of course. She’s stubborn as hell. Sometimes she forgets other people exist. She’ll hold onto an opinion like it’s an heirloom. But she’s also the first to notice when I’m quiet, the first to crack a joke at her own expense, the first to pour me a glass of something cold and say “okay, start from the top.”

She’s not the easiest person I’ve ever loved. But she might be the most real.

I think at her now — pouring a coffee for someone else, smiling with tired eyes — and I know she’s changed. Not in a dramatic, sweeping way. Just in the quiet way that happens when someone finally starts choosing themselves. Letting people in. Letting herself out.

And I won’t tell her this. I don’t need to. But she’s in it now — for life. Mine, hers, all of it.

The edges of us didn’t start sharp. They weren’t forged by drama or rivalry. They just grew inward, slow and certain, until they touched.

And held.

xxx

She sleeps beside me, the kind of quiet I never thought I’d see on her—soft, unguarded, like the world’s weight has finally loosened its grip. Her breath rises and falls steady, a rhythm I’ve longed to hear, so unlike the restless battles I know she’s fought alone for years. When she first came to London, she was all sharp angles, defensive edges folded tightly around her heart.

I’ve traced those edges more times than I can count—each one carved by betrayal, by love, and by loss.

She didn’t sleep like this when she first moved to London. Back then, rest came in fragments. She was all tight shoulders and bitten nails, always half-waiting for something to go wrong. Some days I still catch that version of her — flinching at softness, laughing like she doesn’t quite trust it.

But tonight… she’s still. Like she’s finally stepped off the battlefield. Like she’s not bracing anymore.

I know the shape of what she’s been through. Not all of it, but enough to know that peace isn’t something she stumbled into. She fought for it, even when she didn’t realise she was. Especially when she didn’t realise she was. Sometimes I think she was actively seeking the unrest. Easier to deal with. And I didn’t always help. I was one of the bruises, once. I carry that quiet ache, the way you carry anything you wish you’d done differently.

But I get to be here now. Not because I earned it — because she let me in.

I haven’t told her I love her. Not out loud. The words have waited, caught in the back of my throat, because I know what they mean to her. She doesn’t toss them around. She doesn’t let people say them just because they feel nice in a mouth.

But I know. I knew the moment when I turned my to look at her when I was feeding a parking meter. The way she looked at me, half-laughing, half-disbelieving, when I told her she looked beautiful and meant it like it was breathing. She didn’t see it, not really — but I did. I still do.

It's the smallest, stupidest moment to realise that I love her. But I guess it always is.

She’s sleeping beside me like the war is over.

And if she’ll let me, I’ll keep showing up in the quiet. Not to fix her, not to save her — just to be the one who stays. Who listens. Who remembers.

Who chooses her every single day.

To be home.

Maybe that’s what love is. Not the grand declarations. Not even the certainty.

Just the way she’s breathing now.

Just the way she trusts the room enough to sleep.

And maybe that’s what we are — not polished, not perfect. Just something real, unfolding.

Just the edges of us.

xxx

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[benihana-circumcision]

[²³] The "Community Organizer" was a strain of late-Anthropocene homunculus grown in lab conditions from a zygote containing DNA whose contents were encoded via cipher-algorithm from the body of a text known as the "OSS Simple Sabotage Manual"