#here's a behemoth

[drippingmoon]

A Year of Writing -- 2022

Welcome, welcome.

We’ve gone through another year now.

And I intend on tracing back my steps month by month. Feel free to tag along! Take a seat. Take a sip. Take a cat. And let’s cherish the entirety of 2022 together while it’s still here. And I do hope the good outweighs the bad for us all.

This is a feel-good, be-proud fiesta, so if you wanna hear a fellow writer cherishing their discoveries and writing journey, buckle up and I hope some  — if not all  — of these feelings pass on to you as well<3

First off, a million thanks to maguayans​ for hosting the event again!<3 She had a gorgeous idea for this year’s theme too, though I couldn’t make the most out of it personally. So in the first part we’ll tackle two of her proposed themes  — then I’ll be talking about my two highlights for the year.

Word Count

Aquiver, Aglow  — 217k

Aberration of Sunlight — 140k

I think I’ve learnt an important lesson this year, guys. Word count used to stress me out so much, I had to deactivate it. But even then, when I crossed that 10k mark, and no matter how justified it was... I made me depressed. Then I started working on Aberration. I said, well, this time I’ll take it easy, it really won’t matter how long it is. It’s not that I’d work less on it, or that it was less important to me than ‘quiv. But I just wanted to feel good, you know? To actually just enjoy it, instead of feeling guilty all the time. After that... I just gave up on my publishing expectations. Oh, I’ll edit both WIPs to the best of my ability, over and over again as always, but... if they stand proudest at 150k, I won’t force it further. Even if it means I won’t publish them because that won’t be good enough, yeah?

I’m not pretending they will be flawless, or that every salvaged scene will seem worth it at first glance. But it will be all I want to tell. Better than any thoughts of getting published... I’d rather just work on the two things I love best, in the only way I know.

YouTube Wrapped

Total: 13k minutes

Top artists: Borislav Slavov, HAEVN, BrunuhVille, Tom Odell, Aviators

Top song: Another Love by Tom Odell

Top tracks: Minefields by Faouzia and John Legends, Baldur’s Gate 3 OSTS: Down by the River, The Power and Wash My Pain Away by Borislav Slavov

My music personality: The Vibe Diver (you lead the charge in finding unexpected faves and stay loyal to what you love; Deep Cuts, Loyal, Chill)

And that was it for the first part! My top genres aren’t anything but Fantasy (and lately Sci-fi!) so I skipped those. Now on to the year, and how exactly it’s looked like:

January - June

Oh, these were hell lol. To say that uni as a whole — and especially the last semester — was absolute hell for me, is more than a bit of an understatement. But whatever, it’s done and over with, and I’m never returning to those days, HOO-RAY. But... this also fell in line with my going on a hiatus. I was mentally in a very bad headspace, and it just so aligned that for the first time in my life tumblr silence really got to me... and it wasn’t pretty. So I left. At one point, I guess... I didn’t feel so welcome on writeblr anymore. Not as a writer, at least. I still don’t think I’ve fully come back from that hiatus, and maybe never will. I'm basically still here for my friends, who deserve better.

No writing here; except for a notes draft I began during my two breaks. They dealt with Mezusa and Yles mainly (more about it in the ‘quiv section), and honestly? I needed them really back bad then, I’m not exactly surprised that even now, months later, my head is all full of “Catch me in your inwings?”

July

Ah. Ah. This is where the real fun begins. This is where I started taking back control of my life, and it was glorious. I began draft 4 at the very end of July, a few days after my bday, and ah.

This was when, very slowly, I started realizing I could possibly keep writing and rewriting ‘quiv all my life, and still fall in love with it every time, again. Over and over and over. Which is a pretty dangerous thought considering I do want it a completed story one day, but until then, the freedom. I have no words for how much this story means to me. But this year in particular, it’s reminded me that I am a writer. From the bottom of my heart, I do love writing, and it makes me happy.

Basically, starting from July, the remaining months turned 2022 into my very best writing year.

Draft 4 ran from August till September. There were a lot of little changes and whatnot, but I want to particularly talk about the biggest two, and my plans for the future. (which is looking particularly bright!!)

A little bit about my drafting process first. I’m a pantser through and through — I see an outline? No, I don’t, otherwise it gets my panties in a twist, I go mad, the writing goes stale, and everything gets driven straight into a tree. So I don’t do outlines, ever. So when I say I write a new draft, I rewrite the entire thing from finish to end, no skipping, no leaving anything for later, we’re doing it like we have to defend our thesis and we’ve forgotten all our notes. Very few, if any, scenes will repeat, unless they’re central events. Basically retellings of the same story lol. What’s this madness for, you ask? At the end of the drafting process (aka the mass rewrites until the plot feels natural and tight under my fingers and my characters guide me seamlessly because I’ve got them right, so not having an outline is vital because they do everything), all those drafts will come and fight in a giant reading session arena where I pick which draft did what best, and edit from there. 

This is where ‘quiv is now. 

Yles and Mezusa. Yles is far from being new, but I did her best and I did her justice here. That’s thanks to one character with an amusing evolution throughout all drafts: Mezusa. She started as a nameless blob of an angel character mentioned only once in draft 1 — as the tuba angel who got kicked off the choir (skylarks had made nests in her tuba). All good and fine. Then, at some point between drafts — without my knowing — she met up with Yles, and planned the biggest plot hijack I’ve ever experienced. And gave herself a name. And a plot. And a conclusion. I’m still mad about that (and incredibly proud shh).

So, who’s Mezusa now? An angel living in solitude in a cloud forest full of skylarks, who sings a song to Anne one night and asks her to come take her light. She’s a runaway from Heaven, and most angels know that she went mad, and that’s why she fled. She’s also got talons on her fingers (she couldn’t decide if birds got talons on their hands or feet and nobody provided a satisfactory answer), and a thickly smoky voice that, coupled with her word choice, sends a shiver down everyone’s spine. She’s also dying, and is very well aware of it. There’s corruption visible on her flesh, decaying her body by the day.

But this is not her story. She plays pied piper to Yles’s.

Yles’s chapter goes like this: she was blinded, thousands of years ago, during one of her visitations. Now she wishes to weave herself a new pair of eyes from the souls of their descendants, in a city that towers like a ghost over her life. It basically starts with Yles crashing through the gates all but wreathed in flames. But the thing is... she’s kept postponing the day of vengeance. Up until Anne tosses the shard of light Yles’s way, who can’t get into the starfields (angels haven’t been able to find their way there, since the Turning), so she can’t anchor Mezusa there (though she doesn’t know whose shard it is). And that’s when Yles begins to change. That’s also where Mezusa comes in. She’s forced to see why she’s hesitated so much, all while walking down the old roads her feet still know in that city made of metal, to the Citadel of Endurance.

They meet... and things change. Not that fast; Mezusa’s pretty mad at first because her shard told her Yles was about to die, cue her entrance. They fight a lot. Yles gets hurt a lot. And Mezusa... Mezusa offers her her taloned hand and gets her through the city, the memories, the pain. And she tries to teach her a lesson, because lessons are all she has to give now that she’s dying: when they’re not happy, when they’ve strayed from what they wished for desperately, their bodies listen to them. And they slowly start breaking down. Because nobody wants to suffer, and not eternally. And the body listens much more closely than they realize. So what does Yles actually seek in the Citadel?

(Yeah, that spoilers lmaooo)

In short, Mezusa starts to mean a lot to Yles. She begs her to return to Heaven, and they’ll try, together, to enter the starfields if Anne has abandoned them. She falls in love with Mezusa over the course of the chapters...

And Mezusa is dying. Now it’s starting to bother her a little. She isn’t hidden under the flocks of her skylarks, where it’s all warmth. She stays with Yles, who locks eyes with her, and tells her her dream as an angel has always been the same as Mezusa’s. And that she’s deeply thankful.

(she also refuses to let Mezusa give in to her death)

So what does Mezusa do? She gives a weak smile, says cheekily — but there’s fear in her eyes: “Catch me in your inwings?”

Aka: I think now I can find my way into the starfields if I have you. I don't want to leave you alone

I am not okay.

(One of her eyes is a hive-eye she can’t see through, half of her face looks like rotted honeycombs. She gave her shard of light to Anne so she could find her way to the stars after she died. It’s angel belief that, if they die away from Heaven, they’ll grope eternally in solitude and darkness, and they most fear the loneliness. Afterlife for angels is blind. They’ve always known what afterlife looks for them. It’s beautiful, but also cold.)

In case you were wondering how bonkers I was over these two, they made me write 13k in a single friggin' day. But that's not even the impressive part. So I started that notes draft earlier in the year, yeah? Yeah. It mostly had a scene or two sketched out. At most. And they changed completely. Meaning, I wrote 13k of spontaneous plot with a clear beginning and end, and tbh it was one of the most coherent things I've ever written.

I was possessed y'all wtf

Anne and Tyrone. Yep, this was to be expected; I can’t go through a wrap-up without losing my head over these two. The reason why ‘quiv even exists. I can’t call them parent-child, or even friends, and definitely not lovers. Dunno, I just put all my love into them, and it’s a thing without name. And you know what’s my very favourite part about rewriting? Some things, like the final arc, won’t really change, even with my system. Those scenes can’t be any other. But they can be better, and I’m always extraordinarily tickled pink to see how the build-up leads to a world of other feels. And the build-up between the final arc and the pre-arc really did leave me in tears this year<3333

Anyway, this is a spoilers minefield, so I’ll just leave you with the mental image of: Anne pulling Tyrone on a bed of feathers of her wing wrapped under him. His head rests on her leg, and she holds a hand to his forehead, wishing him sweet dreams while she’s telling the events as they’d happened in Imera’s time, and that he shouldn’t take them to heart. Not him.

What’s to come? Basically the frankendraft, and slowly, very slowly, the very last of edits. I still need to rework the kinks in Imera’s and Malchior’s bits (and bear in mind that the Yles and Mezusa bits are technically a draft 1), but at least it’s just two things this time, oh gods. With Malchior I’m gonna try a riskier thing... as in, he won’t be old friends with Anne anymore. I hope the payoff will be worth it, but hey, I’ve got all my other drafts to rescue me^^

So slowly, veeeery slowly, ‘quiv is coming to an end. Idk how to feel about it right now, other than overwhelmed lmao;( I am not ready at all

9 p.m. sharp after getting home, the closed door, a mug of hot cocoa with whipped cream to the fairy lights on my tables, and tap-tap-tap till 11 or sometimes even 12. That's what my life looked like for two months, and I honest-to-god can’t wait to go back to that.

I’m extremely happy to introduce my newest darling, the pride and joy of this writing year of mine. I didn’t expect to love another WIP after ‘quiv, and certainly not so soon, but here we are, and this WIP means everything to me, the other side of the coin.<3

Huge cheers to all the Halo: CE, Halo 2, Halo 3, Halo 3: ODST OSTs and Grace by Lewis Capaldi for basically carrying me through them two months, and I highly recommend checking the OSTs if you’re craving great quality sci-fi songs and don’t know them; for those of you that do, you’re welcome for the nostalgia. Also huge shout-out to my nightfriend, for being the main catalyst why this year got turned topsy-turvy into the best<3 love you so much! I’m so happy to have had the chance to know you, both as a writer and a person. You’re incredible to me<3

What’s it about? (and forgive the blurb quality)

The universe has always been haunted by a story: a Beast of the Deep Night, a remnant of a black hole, the one being people can't steal from, as they say. It roams the Deep Night, and any astronaut who values their life knows to pay tribute in their heart, and to mind their actions. It's the Beast's realm. And they call the Beast the lambent guardian, taking back from humanity everything they take from the universe. 

A foolish man, A. Holloway, goes into rosy space in search of immortality. Between the Beast and the war, it doesn't seem likely that he'll find it. Soon a new recruit joins the ship, and things take a strange turn: she's an oddball, that one. Laughing, but distressed, the crew starts betting if she's the Beast in disguise, come aboard their ship for judgement. 

She smiles and never denies anything. 

But that universe doesn't look the same now. Hundreds, if not thousands of years after Holloway, the world is ending. The Beast is rampaging, ships sinking in the night, and now it turns a planet into fire and brimstone. Humanity's had to give up on its dream of freedom, and what remains are cities of rust. 

Those who have nothing to live for go between planets, to ferry supplies, while they still can. 

Police Superintendent Madigan sometimes receives distress calls. There's no sending any help, ever; Command says, a ship sighted by the Beast is a ship that is never returning home. 

Command is right. The world is dying, and they better not offer it more sacrifices. All those who go know the risk. All those who remain... better find a new meaning and hope they'll be left for last. One day, Madigan receives another distress call. He picks it up, without knowing that the boy on the other end didn't expect anyone to help. He merely wished to hear another human voice. But Madigan's fallen into a deep state of apathy. Cities rusted from within, sinking in flames. If it's ending, it doesn't matter what he does anymore. So Madigan steals a ship, and decides to give his one shot to humanity.

Soon, they'll be two back-to-back against the Beast, carrying all of hope on their shoulders. 

[You know what’s fun? I’m a very baby sci-fi fan. It’s been, what, six months since I’ve read two series I’ve really enjoyed, and that made me stop a little. Because it seemed so wrong. I adored to bits Aliens, Halo, Gears of War, but usually... it's not my genre, and I found pieces written so clinically, I just didn't have anything to connect to. And I was never big on robots; they seem to me to mirror the way people still regard animals, but with more prestige, because they’re humanoids, you see? So it’s just not my world. Or wasn’t. I did a little more digging and... I think it’s the space horror that’s shaped my earliest years of my life. I’m definitely one of those people who need the Very Dark to appreciate the light stuff truly, and Aberration helped me explore that in spades.

(And, yeah, I’m aware Halo isn’t exactly horror. But the drop-dead gorgeous atmosphere of ODST does the trick for me; that mixture of loneliness and uncertainty that make you feel so small in the universe, which I absolutely wanted to pay a tribute to. But that failed in like... chapter 1 lmao;) only the jazz is kept (and I’m gonna hang to it with my teeth!) but even that is warped into a glitched, disturbed thing that resembles the Beast more.)]

This was my NaNo project, y’all! Aberration won Nano on November 21 at 55k, and became a completed first draft... exactly one month later?? On December 21. Even when I came home tired to the bone, it was the thing I most looked forward to; I always sat down and at least did par, and you know? It always cheered me up. It was such a healthy experience, so much that, I didn’t skip on any single day on those two months.

Aberration itself became an idea at the beginning of 2021, when I was listening to an Ori OST remake, and my head went instantly, if space had any single sound, this would be it. The Beast came very soon after. 

Then it was my 1k story for my admission, and eventually it turned into the outline for the foolish man (Holloway’s) part of story. Everything in his parts was there, in that 1k original, and that’s when I knew I wanted it to be a book.

Meaning, the rest of it, the entirety of Madigan’s story which is the core of Aberration, came to me as some sort of mystical trance the very day before NaNo. Some details in Holloway’s too. I completely revamped the WIP, as, at that time, something felt missing, and finally it clicked for me. I wanted it to become something much darker, rich in a way like those three series felt to me, aaaand this also means that the light-hearted story about a Beast joining a ship and cherishing them got thrown out of the window lol:') 

Instead, we got my pride and joy:< and since it was the day before NaNo, my brain went, heyyyy, what if...?? And I went, heyyy to you too, if I manage to come up with an intro by tonight, then we’ll do it.

And the rest is history^^

Who's Madigan? He's the easiest boss to boss around, a pushover like a doormat's never been, and that's until he starts really caring about something. And if you look deeper, you'll see that's exactly how he wants others to perceive him. So they won't ever be afraid to approach him because of his status. At his core, Madigan loves people, and he loves them deeply. His job is his life’s calling. He feels the happiest when he’s protecting others. He sure as hell would mind losing his life... but rather than losing his loved ones, he'd rather risk his own. People are too precious to him. Even so, he's mostly alone. Oh, yes, people respect him and his close colleagues smile fondly his way, his mantle is his everything. But at the end of the day, there's nobody waiting for him. And what's even worse, he doesn't even realize this, not until very late. And when he does, he doesn't think it's right for him to be that close to someone. They have others in their life already, and he only complicates stuff.

Also!! The structure is way different from ‘quiv, and we’ve got titled chapters which I’m awfully proud of, so we’ll be going through them for the final leg of this journey<3 and, and! You know what’s the best part of it all? I know exactly what goes on in each of them, by heart. *flails hands* I love them so much!!

Cracked Visor, Scorpion Grass  — Act 1

Okay, this one is a huge mess, but I already know what I want it to become. And it did its job more than well launching me into the Aberration atmosphere, crisp with loneliness and desolation, and the main event of Madigan finding the broken helmet in a field of purple forget-me-nots, which makes him feel connected to humanity as a whole. It makes him decide to answer that distress call. He hears himself there.

Into the Blinking Red

This is where I got kicked out of my own story and plans again, and in the best way possible. Originally, Spica (or Hahn’s boy, until the 40k story marker lmao) was supposed to be just some mangled body Madigan finds on the ship at the end of that distress call, launching us straight into the horror.

Instead, he’s our one-armed best little soldier who... how do I even describe it? He refuses from the very beginning to ever leave Madigan behind, even with the Beast’s teeth snapping at their backs. Then they’re having each other’s back, bringing the other from the brink of death, worrying over their bed if they’re ever going to recover from their wounds. Then they’ve only got each other on a dark ship in cold, dead space, but they’re always trying to give the other hope, even if they don’t have it. Then they’re talking about space, humanity’s long dream of being free and instead caging itself away from the Beast and how much Spica’s mission means to them all, then little, very little by little... Spica recognizes Madigan as his hero, and Madigan realizes Spica’s become his loved one. And it’s too late to take it back, and the boy means everything to him 

Aberration of Light

Ah, yes. The Holloway chapters, which are the ones in italics. What went wrong, you ask? Well, what in the world, except that I had an outline, like an idiot, and no lesson learnt:') :') :') from the beginning this made me feel like I was slamming my head into a wall, and everything bad that I have to completely rewrite stems from the goddamn outline

(otherwise, fun Beast mythology oh yeahhhh)

Nightfall’s Reflection

Enter Lieutenant Hahn himself, the dad, who rides in furiously, and the first thing he does is to unhinge his jaw and gave rise to a howl from the depths of his angry little soul: to demote Madigan, specifically:') but it’s all good, he’s a good dad actually, just thinks his Superintendent is a wet little sock and loves screaming at him. He’s also so loyal to the man he’d die for him. He’s also not pleased that the Beast’s bitten off one of his son’s arms.

Who Lays These Tombs in Ice

Ah, yes. One of the two Luitgart chapters, the magnate of ice. A planet that’s had half of its sunlit face scarred by the Beast, and is in no hurry to forget this. This was also when I pulled an all-nighter because I got possessed, for the second time this year it seems, by the new plot ideas I spontaneously got for the Luitgart arc. And boy. Boy. I’ve got to tell you. This is where the story takes a very dark turn into true horror that also extends a bit beyond the Beast itself and it gets to the point of no return, because, soon, our crew will be stranded on an icy planet around which the Beast’s looped itself:')

(In short, this is, perhaps, the most punchy arc in perhaps the entire book, because you do not expect it)

As for Luitgart... it deserves a little love. As does Hahn, who’ll be my new objective come next draft. Now, Luitgart. It doesn’t spin on its axis. Meaning, one face is always sunlit, and that’s where humans lived before the Beast struck. Its dark half is full of unforgiving ice. But the ruined landscape also has a big impact on its gravity, and that’s where things get a lot of fun, and with horizontal ice rain:<

We also get Madigan digging graves in the ice for frozen corpses, in spite of his broken ribs, because he can’t stop, not now, and do I love that man<3

Lemon-Dotted Dice — Act 2

So yeah, Acts 1 and 2 for Holloway are going to be rewritten completely, with the outline (thank god) thrown out of the window. Great news is, their Act 3 slammed me in the face with the exact solution, via a couple of plot twists I was not expecting and wtf they did they build themselves??

Bad news is, this makes the current summary moot lmao. But it’s what draft 1 is, so it had to stay. Great news is, I’m hyper thrilled for the new version<3

Remnant

This was where the plot started deviating from the outline, and it showed<3

Corpse Snow

Aka the second and final part of the Luitgart chapters. A whole lot of things go down in this 20k behemoth, and mostly? I don’t think anything will change. Not much at all. It feels strange to return to a WIP with plot, but strange in a good way, and everything in Corpse Snow somehow magically came out as I wanted to tell it. Or re-reading will tell? Anyway I can’t connect two braincells about this particular act without wanting to heart and cry vomit

You know what the sad thing is? It could’ve been longer. It should’ve been longer, Hahn included, but I got deathly afraid of that 20k at one point, and decided to cut some stuff out. I’m thinking of adding them back in draft 2, but I’ll sleep on it. I need to sleep on it, or else I risk losing some really good stuff.

And this is also the chapter when Madigan wakes up and sees clearly, wide-eyed, oh, Spica’s his loved one

[also gonna throw this out into the world before it can ever become a thing. There’s nothing romantic between them; Madigan’s exactly 43 as per one of his random rants, and Spica is in his early twenties. They’re got the most familial relationship out there and that’s it]

Wine in the Hanging Lights

</3

What Goes Around... — Act 3

Sadly this is where I’ll have to learn to shut up kindly, because the heavy spoilers begin. So I’ll just spoil you with emoji lmaooo:<

❤❤💞💘💖💗⛔❗⁉️💀👾❗➖🚫

Outreach

THIS. THIS ONE. HOLY FUCK. The plot twist it threw right into my face woke me up from a 8h zombie state of post-proofreading work, and I was pretty much swearing out loud the entire night. All praise Outreach, it solved all my outline issues<3333

Days in Darkness

Now, on the other hand, I was highkey looking forward to this chapter the most out of all. The gorgon (aka the ship Madigan stole, ahem, borrowed) is getting character development here as well, and it’s a beast:<

(It seems the smallest Act, yeah? Yeah, it was the longest)

Echo Terminal — Act 4

We little people on a loop system... heading for the end of the universe... heading for certain doom... lalalala nice background music... oh, someone loses  a leg. Oh, someone dies again. A ghostly explosion around the gorgon... oh, I see the Beast’s fangs.

Where Have You Gone?

This does not mean what you think it does, I guarantee you. Also where we part with Holloway’s story, and why it matters for Madigan’s. How they connect.

Solgesis

One of the two log chapters, the other being Echo Terminal. They’re much shorter, but very... to the point. The plot twist from Outreach? Gets built and expanded here. And here goes in all my revamp from the day before NaNo.

Beads of Orichalcum

Nothing to see here, just a tonnuva righteous fury, parallelism like it’s nobody’s business, Madigan being highkey a badass finally, and we’re very very near to the end. Though it doesn’t feel so. Not at all. It’s back to the bleak atmosphere of the beginning, but now there’s a change: they have each other now. And there’s no separating them.

The End of the Deep Night

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

...on the other hand, in case you were wondering how possessed I was about this chapter and really, WIP, hear me out: I actually dreamt of those two and that became the very last scene of the book. Which, whoops, spoilers? They’ve got each other. Till the end. But that’s all I’m saying lalala...

Whew! Must’ve felt like another year. In reading, though, because for me it passed in an instant hahahaha. Or it would’ve, if tumblr hadn’t screwed me over and thrown me out of my drafts thus deleting everything I’d written on Aberration...

All that remains are a lot of heartfelt thanks! If you’ve made it this far and accompanied me to the bottom of the post, I’m whipping up a mug of the most delicious cocoa with whipped cream you’ve ever had, you more than deserve it and I love you<3

And HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

I hope to see more of you and your incredible writing. And I hope you also feel like writing is a part of you and... fuck drafts, fuck perfectionism, fuck everything lol. This is what makes us happy. For a visible reason. And each and every one of you can and does shine through your writing, and the love or feeling you pour inside. I believe in you, and there’s nothing you can’t do ❤🥂

[hinamie]

new limited edition firefighter spacesuit hazmat itfs just dropped

[nomazee]

enough to make me cry

blade is your only roommate, your only friend, and your only way home from this terrible party you found yourself in.

blade x gn reader — 3.3k — college & roommates au!, very americanized college experiences, frat parties, mentions of drinking & vomiting, could be read as platonic but there are definitely romantic undertones, feelings of inadequacy/being out of place, hurt/comfort, social anxiety, blade is probably ooc i'm gonna be so honest, mild kafka & reader friendship, erggg im probably missing something

notes: no i have to be so honest blade is probably completely out of character i have not played a single side quest with him in it but i just think he has reluctant roommate-to-best friend potential and i wanted to pour that into a fic,,, this is mostly unintelligible but i did proofread! love you all

—°+..｡*ﾟ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡.—

A warm hand rests on your shoulder, and the first thing that you think is Blade’s hands are supposed to be cold.

It’s really pathetic. You’re somewhere in a stupid frat house, the thrumming of music around you. There’s the flashing colors and sounds of Mario Kart on the TV, the smell of puke (probably yours) and corona lite, and a hand on your shoulders that you’ve discerned is not your roommate, Blade’s. 

Looking to the side, you follow the hand (painted, manicured nails, definitely still not Blade’s), and it leads up to an arm up to a shoulder up to a face, and—oh. 

“You’re—” you pause, getting your words in order before you puke them up, “you’re Blade’s pretty lady friend?” It’s supposed to come out as a statement, but leans more to a question. She looks down, a bit of a teasing grin on her face, but her eyes are a little soft so you trust her. 

“Is that what he calls me?” she jokes.

“No, I’m— I came up with that.” If you had any dignity left in you, you’d be embarrassed to admit that to her. Unfortunately, you’re pretty sure that Kafka (the pretty lady friend in question) just held your hair back and wiped your face as you puked into a frat-house toilet, flushing your dignity away with your dinner. Your eyes burn with tears and mortification, and you pray that only Kafka saw your embarrassing mishaps.

“I called him to pick you up,” she tells you, already looking away from you and scanning the room as if looking for something, or someone. “I would take you home myself, but I’ve got some things to take care of. And I’m assuming you didn't bring your keys with you?” 

A quick pat-down of your pockets confirms that, yes, you somehow managed to leave your keys at home, the one personal necessity that you were supposed to bring besides your phone. Which, thankfully, you do at least have.

“Umm, the…” you mutter, tongue tangling uselessly as you try to find a way out of here without facing the impending doom of Blade’s aggravated scolding and his I told you so’s. 

A week ago, you went to him with an invite to this frat party and begged him to come with you, saying something like You don’t go out much, this is your chance! He’d adamantly refused, calling it a bad idea and rolling his eyes whenever you brought it up. But you were stubborn, and you wanted to have a fun college experience, so you forced him to drive you to the party with the promise of paying for his next gas payment and getting your own ride back home at the end of the night. 

“I can go,” you finally tell Kafka, mind stringing along memories and thoughts and alarm bells of get your ass home before you have to sit in an awful car ride with Blade, “It’s, like, a fifteen minute walk, don’t call him.” 

“It’s a little too late for that, kid,” Kafka drawls, amusement in her words. She’s smiling down at you, and you’re reminded of how small you feel. “He’s already on the way.” 

“No!” you protest, a little too loudly, but not loud enough to be heard over the thumping of music and bodies and voices. “It’s— Kafka, please, just tell him to turn around, I really don’t want him to deal with me today.” 

If you knew her even less, you’d misinterpret the twitch in her expression as concern—but you’re not too dumb, so you read it as amusement. “Trust me, he’s not going to have a problem with that. You’ll be fine.” 

Whatever that means. Kafka’s too cryptic for your liking, but you won’t complain. She wiped up your vomit from the dirty bathroom tiles and stayed with you to make sure you didn't get trampled, and she didn't complain about any of that. In a week, when you have enough strength to face her again, you’ll treat her to a good, expensive, flaky pastry. She seems like the kind of person who would love those. 

Her phone buzzes with a text notification, and she clicks her tongue, standing up and pulling you with her. Her hand is still warm, seeping through the sleeve of your shirt as she takes you by the forearm, gentle but guiding. Your stomach churns at the thought of seeing Blade, the thought of him seeing you like this. Freshly-puked-out with a nasty stomachache all because of a party that he told you not to go to. 

You hold back your protests as Kafka leads you through the still-crowded frat house. What time is it? Has nobody gotten bored yet, seriously? At least you didn't kill the mood by running to the bathroom and weeping into the toilet. It seems like nobody noticed, except for Kafka, and you don’t know if that should make you feel comforted or just more upset. 

The cool air of the night hits you as you step through the front door, eyes tracking your feet as you walk down the concrete steps. You see the silhouette of Blade’s ugly blue car in your peripheral vision, but you don’t want to look up in fear of seeing the disappointment on his face so soon. He’s going to rip you a new one, and then call you a slob and kick you out of the apartment and say I can’t have a party fiend living with me even though this was your first party ever, honest. 

You barely register that you’ve reached the passenger side of Blade’s car, only coming back to awareness when Kafka opens the door for you and starts nudging you into the seat. A really pathetic part of you wants to grab onto her arm and cry hard enough that she just relents and lets you walk home, but you’re already half into the passenger seat, looking everywhere but Blade. 

“Take care of them, won’t you, Bladie?” Kafka commands lightly, her hand leaving your arm as you get situated and buckled up in the car. Blade lets out a little huff in response and your stomach sinks. He’s already annoyed. 

The car ride to your apartment is only five minutes at this time of night. You just have to survive five minutes in silence and pray that he doesn’t tear into you and scold you like a disappointed parent. A glance at the clock on the car’s console confirms that it’s half past midnight. What the fuck. What were you even doing at the party for that long, besides vomiting and crying? 

The car rumbles, exhaust sputtering a little bit as Blade pulls out from the side of the street and drives slowly, carefully, as if not to rattle you, and you really just want him to speed up and throttle the car around so you feel more guilty about waking him up in the middle of the night to come pick you up. Blade goes to bed at eleven, the latest. You can’t imagine why Kafka thought it would be a good idea to call him, of all people, but then you remember that you kind of don’t have any other friends on campus. Your chest tightens at the thought. 

Blade makes some kind of sniffling noise, his way of trying to initiate some kind of conversation. There’s not even any music playing, because he always drives in dead silence because he’s abnormal, and on any other day you’d tease him about it like you always do. You see him turn his head to you in the corner of your eye, but you refuse to acknowledge him. You wish he’d just start scolding you, yelling at you or something. 

Tears prickle behind your eyes, painfully so, but your hands tighten around each other in your lap as you will yourself to not cry like a baby in front of your roommate. He lets out another sigh, but it doesn’t sound angry, just tired, and somehow that makes you feel worse. 

“What were you guys even drinking?” is his question of voice, and it’s the one question you didn't want him to ask, and you can’t help it when the tears spill over and you bring your hand up to wipe them away frantically, hiccuping a little bit as your gut churns. 

“What—” Blade stutters, and he never stutters, and you see him whip his head around to look at you, crying into your hands over a simple question, and you just want to leave the car and walk home like you told Kafka you would do. He pulls over to the side of some residential street. There’s a dog barking in a yard and wind chimes clinking together, and you think of your handmade bottle cap wind chime hung in the balcony of yours and Blade’s apartment, and it just makes you cry more. 

The car comes to a full stop. Blade puts it in park and turns completely to you. You spare a quick glance at him through the gaps between your fingers, and there’s something like worry on his face, which you’ve never seen before. His face is pinched, lips parted as if wanting to say something, but he can’t. He’s waiting for you. 

“I didn't drink anything, Blade,” you sob, feeling miserable at the state of yourself, at how you went to a frat party with nobody you knew and just walked around like a lost child, too scared to drink or talk to anyone, too anxious to say a word. “Not even a shot, or a sip, nothing from the fridge. It was so stupid, you were right, okay? It was a stupid idea, and I shouldn’t have gone.” Your breath catches in your throat, and the car is dead quiet as Blade lets your words sink in. 

You try not to make so much noise when you cry, but you’re sniveling and wiping your face and wishing that he would just stop looking at you like that. You can still see the ruby-red of his eyes even when you can’t bear to look up at him, and it makes you so viscerally upset. 

Blade is beautiful, really, and it makes you so upset that he looks better than you right now despite him being dragged right out of bed by Kafka’s phone call with a request to pick you up just minutes ago. You, who spent hours selecting an outfit, just to feel inadequate and wholly ugly the minute you walked through the door. It felt like you were back in middle school, spending hours with your parents picking out an outfit to a school dance, looking through ties and pants and shoes, just to show up and feel both overdressed and underdressed, feel like a fool, feel like you just can’t look the way everyone else does. Like something is always a little wrong. 

“Kafka said that you got sick. You didn't drink anything? You’re sure?” 

“No,”  you confirm pitifully, wanting him to just drop the topic and drive the rest of the way home and never talk about this again. “I was just anxious, and I puked like an idiot. Kafka helped me, she was the only one that I knew at the party. I don’t know. I don’t remember anymore. I was just anxious.” 

He says your name, not unkindly, but with a prying tone that just makes a fresh wave of tears stream down your face in rivulets. “Why would you go if you didn't know anyone?” 

“I don't know!” you shout, heated with embarrassment. You’re acting like a child, throwing a tantrum and crying and shouting in Blade’s car. The seatbelt is too tight on you. You fiddle with it, pulling it from the juncture of your neck and shoulder and loosening it, scratching your bitten nails against the scratchy cloth and looking out of the car window so that you can avoid Blade’s awful, terrible, intrusive gaze. 

“I just wanted to be normal, or something. I don’t know anybody from any of my classes. I don’t talk to anyone from my major. And then I got the invite for the party somehow and I just thought it would be fun. I don’t know, Blade, I know I should’ve listened to you, I’m sorry.” 

“Stop,” he says firmly, fully turned to you now, as if he wants you to look back at him, to listen to whatever he’s going to say, and that’s the one thing you don’t want to do. You hate that he’s being kind. You wish he’d be sarcastic and mean and cruel, bite into you and feed off your self-pity. But he’s being nice, nice in the same way that he’s nice when he buys the right brand of milk for you (because the others make you sick, and the taste is different), or when he drives you places in his car when it’s raining so that you don’t have to take the buses everywhere, or when he comes home with your ridiculous coffee order that costs a hellacious amount of money with all of your substitutions and additions and flavorings. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he says resolutely, leaving no room for argument, “Just— I didn't know you were feeling like that. I would’ve gone with you if you told me you needed someone. I assumed you were going with a friend.” 

You don’t respond with I don’t have any friends, because you’re pretty sure that’s clear enough by now, and you don’t want to confirm what’s already been confirmed a million times over just from the way you act. The way you cling to yours and Blade’s apartment, the way you never spend a second longer than you need to in any of your classes, the way that sometimes, when Blade goes out for class or work, you sit on the couch in silence with your laptop out, doing your work for the week and checking the clock and taking naps so that you don’t have to feel so alone for so long. 

“You didn't want to go,” you say instead, “I wasn’t going to make you just because I’m— I don’t know.” 

“I would’ve gone for you,” he tells you, really tells you, with a force in his words, like he wants to drive the point into you with a stake, driven right through your heart. “I would do a lot of things if you asked. You just need to ask.” 

You don’t— you really don’t want to think about what that means. What he means. You rip your eyes away from the car window and turn to face him. He’s not too close. You almost wish he could be closer, but you would suffocate under the pressure in your stomach and behind your eyes. 

He shouldn’t say things like that, things like You just need to ask, because you’d ask for a lot if given the chance. You’d ask for him to come to parties with you, stay by your side, let you put a hand on his shoulder and guide him around another disgusting frat house as if you know what you’re doing. You’d ask him to sleep in the same bed as you some nights, just a foot away from each other, backs turned to each other but still close enough that you can feel the unnatural coldness that radiates off of Blade. 

You’d ask him to introduce you to Kafka and that other girl they hang out with, to say something stupid and funny like This is my abhorrent roommate, be nice to them, and that way you’d have more contacts in your phone that aren't just Blade and your parents and two old high school friends who you haven’t spoken to in a year. You’d ask him to be a lot more than just a plus-one to a party full of people you’ve never met. 

“I just want to go home,” you breathe out, a guilty confession burning your gums and leaving a sour taste in your mouth. “I’m sorry.” 

“Stop saying sorry,” he asserts for the second time tonight, making your lungs squeeze as you puff out a tired exhale. Blade turns back in his seat, taking the car out of park and heading back onto the road—driving slowly, yet again, avoiding cracks and potholes in the road. “You need to eat something. You’ll wake up with a hellish headache if you go to bed dehydrated.” 

“I don’t think that’s true.” 

“I said it, so it’s true,” he says petulantly, turning the car down into a road that’s definitely not in the direction of your apartment building. To your hidden delight, the glowing sign of a twenty-four-seven ice cream store comes into view, and you sit up just a little bit. Blade slows the car as he turns into the drive-thru, glancing at you with an eyebrow half-raised. 

“What do you want? I’ll order for you.” 

“I don’t have my wallet,” you admit, just a little bit embarrassed. “I didn't even bring my keys with me. Do you think they take Apple Pay?” 

A breathy laugh escapes him, and you catch sight of a dimple pressed into his cheek, and you want to press your thumb into it and look at his smile, just for a little longer. “Don’t be dumb. I’m paying,” he tells you, the same way he has every time he pays for your cafe drink, or when he comes home from work with your favorite, and says You’re broke enough without having to pay for these drinks, don’t pay me back in that snippy way he shows his care. 

You ask for a medium vanilla milkshake, with sprinkles, and he gets you a large instead, which you’re more than grateful for. He refuses to let you look at the receipt for the total cost, and hands you the milkshake with a comical severity that you often see in him. The sweet drink washes away any bitter taste left in your mouth, and you feel a little better, a little nicer in your haphazard party outfit and under Blade’s fleeting gaze. 

A deep sigh escapes you, one of relief, when the car finally parks at your apartment building. Blade puts a cold hand between your shoulder blades, unobtrusive and leading, and it’s a comforting contrast from the heat lingering on your skin from the party and the closed car. It feels right, more in-place than Kafka’s warm hands were when she wiped your face and kept you steady, though she was just as gentle. 

Blade all but tosses you onto the couch, claiming that it’s much too late for a shower and he’d rather not deal with you collapsing from exhaustion in the tub. You relent easily, the exhaustion of the night hitting you and soaking into your limbs. 

“I’ll let you sleep on the couch,” he says, and it’s a good and kind thing, because he knows that sometimes you hate your bedroom because it’s just too empty, and the constant sound filtering into the living room puts you at ease. He never lets you sleep on the couch, because it’s bad for your back, and he jokes about you developing adult onset scoliosis with the awful way you sleep. Letting you do it, just this once, is another one of his small mercies. 

The TV is on, humming at a low volume, and your legs are thrown across Blade’s lap. You’re shocked that he’s willing to fall asleep with you like this, but he’s kind, sarcastic and biting but kind all the same, as much as he loathes to admit it. It’s not too lonely, you decide, hearing the bottle cap wind chimes on your balcony clink together in dissonant harmonies. 

(There’s a missing text from a new contact on your phone when you wake up, coming from pretty lady friend, extending an invite to brunch in two days, and you kick your legs on the couch in giddy excitement, thinking about how you’ll rope Blade into coming with you, too.)

—°+..｡*ﾟ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡.—

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[aroaceleovaldez]

what do you mean by fandom infrastructure?

Oh goody I get to rant about this. Definitely gonna need a read more for this one. There's gonna be a lot of general fandom thoughts here so I'll put a big title for when I get to the actual list and pjo-specific stuff for if anybody wants to skip. Okay, my anthropological fandom thoughts:

"Fandom infrastructure" isn't official terminology by any means, but as someone who's been in a wide variety of fandoms for like 15+ years and in varying stages of participating within said fandoms, I generally use it to describe the sort of environment created by a fandom that supports and sustains the ecosystem within it (and may also extend to what kinds of attitudes are fostered within the community). This obviously looks different for every fandom (and different per platform), but I think it's really valuable to break down what systems exist in different fan spaces and how those impact the community that utilizes it, and take lessons from different spaces about what those systems do and how they're effective or not.

General forms of fandom infrastructures have shifted over time - a lot of more recent formats, at least in western fandom, tend to be very reliant on source material and you rarely see a lot of sort of classic archetypes of "old fandom" like concepts such as "big name fans" (I partially blame social media platform drifts for this - I'll touch back on that later*). A fandom with more consistent infrastructure over time (plus just a general favorite fandom case study of mine) and just a general good example of fandom infrastructure is the Furry fandom. It's a bit of an outlier to begin with as Furry fandom doesn't have an actual source material, which means it's an entirely self-perpetuating fandom, and as a result you get some really interesting community structure! (I highly recommend the documentary The Fandom for a dive into the history of the Furry fandom and even some adjacent fandoms!) One of the number one things I always like to note with the Furry fandom particularly compared to other fandoms is it's a very easy fandom to join/integrate yourself into and become a part of the community - it's one of the few fandoms that has generally agreed upon written etiquette/guidelines for behavior in the community that is very easy to find (early 2020s MCYT fandom had a little bit of this as well, but most guides were specific to individual MCYTs rather than the community as a whole and difficult to track down) and a ton of guides explaining what the community is and ways you can begin exploring it. Not to mention the absolute plethora of resources available in the community for just about anything you could think of, and tons of community-dedicated spaces where people can get involved in various ways. The furries are a very well-organized fandom in general! They're also an older and very well-established fandom, so there is much to learn from them.

I like to consider fandoms that have good infrastructure to be fandoms where the fandom is self-reliant or self-perpetuating (not fully dependent to a source material - so the fandom doesn't experience total dry spells when there's no new official media.) and one that's easy to join and integrate into.

Tangent: I have this whole personal concept about "entry-level fandoms" particularly when it comes to the cosplay community. A lot of those fandoms tend to be the ones labeled as "toxic" but when you break it down it's actually that the fandom is just very easily accessible and for a lot of folks that is their first fandom and they haven't learned general fandom etiquette yet. For cosplay, entry level fandoms tend to be relatively mainstream or otherwise easy to access the source material for and then also easy to cosplay while also offering ample room to grow (doubly easily accessible while also not limiting) - usually that the main cast of characters have very casual every-day outfits that can be easily made with a closet cosplay (cosplaying using clothes from your closet or otherwise "normal" clothes) (low barrier to entry) plus more elaborate and evolved outfits for when new fans get comfortable enough to begin exploring further (niches to grow into). Also bonus points if people are able to use their natural hair at all because that makes it even easier. Another aspect that tends to be helpful is how much one actually needs to get into the source material to begin interacting with the community - if you can get the general gist/premise of the franchise pretty quickly and not have to actually engage with the entirety of the source material, that's way more likely to be an entry-level fandom (like, One Piece for example is not likely to be an entry-level fandom, lol). Homestuck is (or more was) an easily accessible webcomic, and despite it's length for the majority of it's run it was actively updating so there was no expectation to be completely caught up, plus it was extremely common to just fully skip over entire segments. Cosplay progression: human characters in basic outfits > trolls > god tiers/etc. My Hero Academia is a mainstream readily accessible manga and anime, particularly to western audiences, and the general premise throughout the series remains relatively close to the pitch from the beginning, alongside not shifting core characters too much. Cosplay progression: civilian outfits > hero costumes and more complex characters. Percy Jackson actually very much fits the bill for this as well - its a VERY popular book franchise to the point where most people have probably had to read it for school at some point, but also it's generally not expected you'll read past Blood of Olympus or any of the side series, if you even read past the first series (and you won't be super lost if you even don't read far past the first book). Cosplay progression: camp t-shirts > adding armor, props, or maybe trying to make goat legs or etc. A more recent and very interesting newcomer to the entry-level fandoms scene is Genshin Impact because it somewhat breaks the format - it's still easily accessible (free to play game) but the character outfits are all incredibly complex. But as cosplay becomes more mainstream and just in general as manufacturing techniques improve, it's suddenly become very easy and affordable to just buy a decent looking cosplay, which is very appealing particularly for a fandom like Genshin. You can have a very nice and complex looking first cosplay with little effort, similar to the effectiveness of closet cosplays in the other examples. As varying techniques improve, the barrier to entry becomes lower in more communities, and there are more opportunities for a wider variety of entry-level fandoms. Okay tangent over -

There's a lot of ways fandoms can be self-perpetuating, but some of the most self-perpetuating fandoms I see are ones that either have a lot of room for original characters, concepts, and similar (see: TTRPG fandoms) and/or fandoms that are heavily divorced from the source material (often due to the source material being widely deemed "meh at best" but having compelling base concepts) (see: Miraculous Ladybug) which is where you often see a lot of AUs - Warrior Cats fandom is a good example of both! I have not kept up with Warrior Cats in ages, but I'm still in the fandom. I have no idea what book they're on. If Warriors stopped publishing books tomorrow I genuinely don't think the fandom would even notice. They've been doing their own thing for ages. There's a ton of room for creating your own characters, storylines, and etc within the worldbuilding of the franchise where it never stops being identifiable as Warrior Cats, which means the fandom can basically do their own thing eternally without ever cutting off newcomers to the community.

The majority of this stems just from being able to not rely on the source material to drive the fandom. If the community inspires itself, then it's able to continue to sustain itself without outside reliance. But to do so indefinitely it will eventually need new fans. And this brings me to the whole "easy to join/integrate into the community thing" -

*It's later - Tumblr used to be a huge fandom hub in general, but the content bans around 2018 led to a giant migration of communities to other platforms. That 2016-2018 era is when we see a shift in fandom in general, with fandom attitudes shifting from old-era concepts like ship-and-let-ship, YKINMKATO/Kinktomato, use of "squick," etc (in general a major loss of old fandom linguistics and terminology - nobody even says OTP anymore!). There's a couple of reasons for this sort of multi-fandom cultural drift, but in general it seemed to widely be the combo of a new generation of younger fans entering their first fandoms all at once while simultaneously being cut off from learning established pan-fandom culture. Newer fans never learn about the old community, how it functioned, or how to upkeep it, and now the fandom is fully reliant on the source material and fizzles out almost completely in the absence of new official media. (Also I think somewhat the lack of BNFs/Big Name Fans can also contribute to this, as they are often the people new fans will look up to and emulate the behavior of when learning how to interact with a fandom - this can be good or bad, depending on the BNF! - alongside being able to learn about the community's history through them, since they're almost always older and well-established members of the community. In the absence of BNFs, the community often turns more towards the source material/creators and it can get Bad™.)

Tumblr as a platform, due to being a blogging and sharing platform, is inherently structured for long-form discussion, long-form text, documentation, and sharing concepts and ideas in nuanced ways. Also preservation - there's no time limit for when posts disappear, and there's no algorithms restricting you to only the newest posts. Tumblr's features even make it really easy to go back and find old posts, even despite the semi-broken search features. Tumblr creates environments where these types of communities absolutely blossom. There's a reason why it was the go-to platform for fandom stuff. Instagram is image-focused, actively discourages text, has a mediocre search, and no proper means of sharing except awkward reposting most of the time. Tiktok is even worse, being short-form video-centric (so even more difficult to repost in absence of sharing features) but otherwise similar (and even less text-friendly and more difficult to search, especially for older posts). Twitter has strict text and image limitations, heavily limited sharing options, and any attempts at threads get messy extremely quickly, so nuance is dead there. Reddit has long form text capabilities but no real sharing features and next to zero longevity. Facebook and Discord are locked behind requiring an account to even view it (instagram as well, to a point). And Youtube is right out (generally it acts as supplementary to other social media). Theoretically you could try to use Ao3 for that, but it's an archive, not a discussion board or social media - at best you'd probably just be going back and forth like scientific journalists which will not be easy for most people to follow. As far as mainstream western social media goes, Tumblr is the best place for "classic fandom" so-to-speak. There's a reason a lot of very established fandoms have built their own dedicated spaces - forums, art sites, etc (usually in combination) - the more splintered your community is, the less of a community it is. It's very difficult to build a community when you never know where the majority of your community is going to be at any given point! In most cases you'll still have the source material, but how is a new fan supposed to know if everybody's on twitter or instagram or tiktok at any given time? That uncertainty immediately cuts off new fans. And you need new fans to perpetuate a fandom (or in general, new people to perpetuate a community). Not every community is capable of having dedicated hosted forum boards and such (though GOD i wish,,,, i miss forum boards,,,, forum boards are awesome,,). Maybe there's a Discord, but discords are difficult to find, easily overwhelming if large, and often intimidating for new folks to join. Not to mention difficult to moderate and if they're busy then it's basically guaranteed most people are just going to get drowned out.

ALL THIS TO SAY: For a true fandom community to exist, essentially, it needs to a.) not be entirely reliant on the source material (instead being driven by activity within the community), and b.) have a cycle of new fans that can come into the community and take up the mantle of upkeeping that infrastructure and continuing the activity within the community, usually with low barrier to entry. This is where that fandom infrastructure becomes important, because that's exactly what supports and encourages that activity in the first place.

To begin with, you must have a community acceptance for deviating from the canon/source material. This is normal and fine and okay. This is what fandom is known for. This is exactly why we have the terms "fanon" (concepts largely agreed upon by the fandom but not officially canon) and "headcanon" (the canon that exists in your head/is personal to you) and AU (alternate universe)! You have to help foster this - you don't have to actively engage with every canon deviation you see, but respect when it is other people's prerogative to deviate from canon and don't shut them down just inherently for "daring to disrespect the sacred canon" or whatever. Remember the ancient fandom proverbs: don't like-don't read, YKINMKATO/Kinktomato ("Your kink is not my kink and that's okay"), ship-and-let-ship, etc. Cringe culture is dead, engage in some whimsy, and remember that ultimately you always are the one to curate your own online experience. Etc etc.

The other major thing is you need to foster spaces where new fans can easily enter and begin engaging with the community. These spaces are extremely important in fandom communities because it's what allows fans who are completely new to fandom to comfortably begin partaking in fandom at a level appropriate for them and without pressure. It's in these spaces that those whose who wish to can begin fostering skills that then leads them to engage with the fandom in larger and more complex ways, growing into different niches within the community and thus allowing the fandom to continue. (I have a whole little essay about this topic [here] which is extremely relevant to my major points here.)

"Alright so where's the PJO-specific stuff and actual examples?"

I'm glad you asked, theoretical reader. So, to answer the beginning question - what is some fandom infrastructure I've seen in other communities (and/or Riordanverse fandom, back when we had that kind of stuff)? These are generally types of blog or other niches that prompt activity, discussion, and other forms of interaction within the community. I have comprised many examples though forgive me if my organization is messy because these are somewhat difficult to categorize concisely: (Also if you do know of examples in the riordanverse fandom of any of my examples, like specific blogs or etc, feel free to comment them!)

- General community hubs and community spaces. I have these as two slightly different but adjacent categories since I think these things generally fall into one of two categories - spaces meant for general chatting and interacting with other fans (community spaces) and spaces more meant to find specific topics (hubs).

Things like forums, discord servers, group chats, etc - these exist in the PJO community but are far and few between and difficult to find. If you run one I highly recommend putting a link in your tumblr sidebar (enable custom theme > edit theme > new page [bottom of sidebar on the left] > there should be a little dropdown menu where it says "standard layout" - select "link" and plug in a discord invite set to never expire. there ya go). A couple I know of include my own (one for general riordanverse and one for my askblog), the Titan Army discord, these two, Riordanverse artists server, Nicercy (Percico) events, Jasico challenges, and Above The Clouds (also jasico). There used to be a big general PJO server but it's mostly inactive now (I affectionately refer to it as functionally a knitting circle these days, cause that's most of what's discussed there now, lol). There also used to be a well-known TOA-specific one and a general Riordanverse cosplay discord but both had problems and I'm not sure either still exist. I've heard there may also be a Percabeth server floating around somewhere? But I've never seen it.

"Hubs" is what I label things like blogs surrounding specific designated topics, usually consolidating stuff like general fanworks, specific fanfiction, fanworks of specific characters/groupings/ships, etc. I believe there might be one or two general riordanverse fanart blogs floating around. I'm not sure about blogs for specific fanfiction. A lot of ship-specific blogs went inactive by like 2017 but a couple are still alive like @solangelo. (I'll get into some other examples in a similar vein to this later*) We don't have a designated blog for keeping tabs on whenever there's a Riordanverse fanzine or similar project but some fandoms do (I would love this btw and i am almost tempted to do it myself) - an old pan-fandom one was fanzinewatch. I run a blog dedicated just to reblogging fanart (and occasionally other fanwork) of Hazel and Nico - @deathsibs. I don't know of any individual character-specific blogs off the top of my head unfortunately. Etc etc.

In general the purpose of these things is to help connect the community and make it easier to find and promote things or meet people. These are good places to ask questions, particularly directions or recommendations. That brings me to another one-

- Ask/Tag games and memes. Back in ye olde tumblr days there used to be TONS of fandom-specific inbox and tag games, or people would do milestone promos or etc and do these massive blog recommendations or literally just list everyone they follow or similar. This was a really useful way for people to find more blogs for specific topics and engage with each other in general. Here's an old one I found as an example. My friend has a nice tag with a bunch of old ask memes as well, and Hermitcraft-ask-games is a great example of a blog categorizing fandom-specific ones (Hermitcraft/adjacent MCYT in this case). Tag games can refer to both posts where you respond to the prompt in the tags while reblogging or a game where you tag other people - the latter has mostly fallen out of favor cause it can get very spammy and posts can get very long with it. Less spammy versions tend to be something more akin to an ask game or a follow forever, where you are responding to a specific question or prompt by tagging blogs that fit that, usually as a recommendation. It's a little nicer and more favored because then you're promo'ing other folks and usually it's not a long chain of reblogs, plus the posts tend to have dedicated formats so they aren't super messy.

- In another similar vein, Art games/memes. PJO fandom doesn't have a lot of these! These are your "Draw 6 Characters," "Character color wheel," etc prompts. The fandom I see this the most in is MCYT fandom, particularly Hermitcraft/Trafficblr! There's a ton of little variant prompts I see all the time there (not just for fanart! also fanfic and etc!) - Characters in your style, Fanon species swap, color palette swap, etc etc. (I am totally going to try and make one of these for riordanverse, give me a bit, lol)

- Prompt weeks/months. Also similar - prompt weeks/months/etc are pretty self-explanatory. They're events that give you a set of prompts to create/post fanwork themed to over that time period. PJO fandom used to have plenty of these, though I only see a couple floating around these days. I know Jasico Week/Jasico Challenges and Solangelo Week are still alive, and TA week happened recently. Fun fact, in some smaller/largely inactive fandoms I've actually seen prompt weeks DM active people in the community to tell them the prompt week is happening which I actually really like. In circumstances like that where a fandom is so small, scattered and inactive, it's a good means to get the word out.

- Headcanon/ship/"Imagines" blogs *It's later (again)! Headcanon blogs used to be EXTREMELY common back in ye olde days of fandom. Some of the most popular iterations tended to be ship-specific headcanon blogs. PJO fandom had A TON of these (and many are still up! They just haven't posted since like 2017 at the lastest. Quite the trip down memory lane though). They were generally formatted by people submitting their headcanons/"imagines" anonymously, which would then be formatted into an image to match the blog's general format (sometimes themed to specific characters or subjects, depending on the submission itself) and posted. A good example from PJO fandom I stumbled across the other day while looking at old askblogs is Percicoheadcanons. Absolute classic format right there. Also bonus time capsule points - the most recent post is from before Blood of Olympus was published. That's just particularly amusing to me given the ship in question here.

- Shortform Headcanons / Short Memes & Shitposts Helyeahmangocheese reminded me of this one in my previous post - shortform headcanons are essentially any headcanon thrown out into the world in a short format. So you're "headcanon that [x]" or whatever with no elaboration. Just quick little snappy things off the top of your head that people can pick up and run with. Sometimes there would be blogs dedicated to these, with people submitting them in blog formats like the above, and then shortform headcanons to be posted in that format. Short memes & shitposts are the exact same type of thing - just short little silly textposts and similar cracking jokes that the fandom can take and run with. Both of these are more important to the fandom than you'd think - a.) they have a very low barrier to entry, which means they're a great way for new fans to begin engaging with the larger community. b.) they circulate new ideas for other fans to build off of, creating collaborative concepts. These collaborations help build the community with giving opportunities for people to chat/inspire each other's work and can create iconic fandom moments or community references/in-jokes. And old one from PJO fandom that floated around was somebody threw out the concept of Will Solace's weapon being a lasso/whip (because cowboys/he's Texan/etc) made of light, which then got illustrated and elaborated on by many other fans such as Cherryandsisters and was very popular fanon for a time.

- Confessions Blogs These ones can be decisive in fandoms, depending on how they're run. Confession blogs in general are blogs where people anonymously submit fandom thoughts, opinions, etc (formatted similarly to HC/imagines blogs like above). There's also usually a decent amount of funny confessions like initial misunderstandings or confusion about things. Most well-run ones of these will have rules against negativity towards other fans and similar. When done properly these blogs can be a nice way for the community to have discussions about topics that they may be afraid to broach publicly, and easily can generate community in-jokes.

- Positivity blogs / Fandom voting Somewhat opposite to (at least, more negative) confession blogs, fandom positivity blogs are a very sweet way to spread compliments around the community. Sometimes they're anonymous, sometimes not. Generally though the format is people can submit compliments or kind notes to other people in the community and it'll get posted tagging the individual in question. Trafficblrpositivityproject is an MCYT example of this concept. Fandom Voting is a little bit more odd and varies a lot between communities. An old one PJO fandom used to do was PJO Prom, where people could nominate blogs for different categories, they would either accept or deny their nominations, and then folks would vote for their top favorite blogs of each category and winners would be announced (though the event also included more than just that - like blogs asking each other to prom and etc). In other fandoms I've also seen elections where various members of the community would jokingly campaign for election (including choosing other members of their campaign), people would vote for a winner, and then do it all over again. Fandom elections tend to be a lot more chaotic and silly, versus stuff like fandom prom voting is more geared towards just appreciation towards members of the community.

- Fandom Events / Community Projects Related to PJO Prom, (and prompt weeks/months) general fandom proms or valentine's events used to be pretty popular, especially amongst RP and askblogs. These weren't always strictly organized, but they generally involved asking other blogs to prom/to be valentines and then people would draw cute prom/holiday art or similar to celebrate. Some blogs would send out valentines to multiple blogs just as a nice cute lil treat in a similar vein to how some blogs still do trick-or-treating events. Trick-or-treating events have been a thing for awhile, generally following that same structure, but it's become significantly more popular in general now that tumblr has image embeds possible in asks rather than having to submit a post. Other fandom events can include fandom elections like mentioned before, or any number of things really, but the majority of regular ones will include gift/fanwork exchanges in some form. Secret Santa projects are very common (and PJO did have them! There isn't one singular PJO Secret Santa blog since it seems different folks did different years so I can't link it, but I participated in 2016 iirc. It looks like the most recent one was in 2021 - pjosecretsanta2021). I did find Rrversesummerbang as a recently active one as well. Zines and similarly collaborative projects are also common - PJO fandom does occasionally have zines but they aren't very frequent and generally don't get a ton of traction (which is very sad cause zines are very fun - most of it seems to be just the fandom doesn't have good ways of getting word out about events through the community). We've also had a couple of coloring book projects! I participated in the 2016 one and there was another in 2022. Some other fandom and pan-fandom examples of similar stuff is Mcytrecursive (Gift exchange for fic-of-fic, in this case MCYT-specific), Fic in a box, Mcytblraufest (AU fest), general holiday exchanges, etc. (A lot of my examples are MCYT cause man that fandom is active). There are a lot of pan-fandom ones of these, but usually involvement of specific fandoms is entirely dependent on sign-ups and it can be difficult to know or guarantee any specific communities participating. Fandom-specific ones are generally more well-known in their own communities for obvious reasons. In other projects, Riordanverse fandom even once had a Multi-Animator Project! These are more common in fandoms like Warrior Cats that are very artist and animator-centric, but the fact that we have at least one major one at all is pretty cool! Collaborate games in similar veins to big events/projects like this (see stuff like the art meme/games) can also be great ways to get the community active and engaged. Voting/poll stuff like character or ship brackets can be really interesting too and depending on how it goes down can become an EXTREMELY major event in the community (see: MCYT Tumblr Sexyman bracket). Very fun times.

- Incorrect Quotes / Text Post Memes / Chat Posts Rolling back to headcanon/imagines blogs, incorrect quotes for specific ships/character groupings used to be extremely common. And not even just dedicated blogs, but incorrect quotes/chat posts were pretty much the number one thing the average fan who didn't create fanart/fanfic/etc would post. I was actually quite surprised to see that Incorrectpercicoquotes is still alive. They post more than just incorrect quote/chat posts (not uncommon for blogs of those nature, especially back in the day), but still it feels like seeing a thought-to-be-extinct-species in the wild eating a bag of chips. Anyways, like shortform headcanons and memes/shitposts (of which these are somewhat a subcategory of), these are another low barrier to entry type of fandom engagement, which means they're great for new members of the community.

- Askblogs MY FAVORITE TOPIC. I have a list of PJO askblogs on my sidebar actually cause I'm very passionate about them and askblogs in general. For what an askblog is, my blog @askblog-index goes over that and also I answered some questions about askblogs recently, which you can find in my askblogs tag (also I'm always open to answering questions about askblogs please ask me about askblogs I love them so much). There's so many different varieties too - text, illustrated, cosplay, voice acting, combination, etc etc etc. Askblogs are a really fun means for collaborative storytelling in the community, especially with how much they tend to generate headcanons or put characters in silly little scenarios. Cherryandsister's Will Solace askblog is practically personally responsible for a solid 50% of all Will fanon. Photokinesis!Will was entirely popularized there. They're also a really great place for people in the community to build up their skills - yknow those jokes about "the best way to improve your art is to become obsessed with something and draw it one billion times?" yeah askblogs are that. My art improved so much by starting an askblog because it pushes you to draw things you might avoid normally or wouldn't expect to draw - or if it's not an art askblog, is just plain good practice for writing or voice acting or whatever. It's a regular outlet where you can build up your skills with not a lot of pressure but also outside encouragement and concepts to build off of. Character or fandom-specific daily art blogs and similar request art blogs are similarly also very useful to building up skills (and can be applied to other artforms like fic writing!) (Request blogs are not the same as askblogs though please dont send random art requests to askblogs just gotta put that disclaimer). I also personally consider them extremely vital to fandom ecosystems, though often overlooked - remember those old "ask the seven" posts that would be the terribly colored text in random fonts on a white or poorly-chosen-color background that'd just be random stuff and it'd get reposted absolutely everywhere? For a lot of people that's both some of the first stuff in a fandom that they might make, and also some of the first stuff people used to see in fandoms in general. With my whole silly theory of fandom ecological niches, those types of posts are your base of the pyramid, because it's where most fans are going to start out. It gives them a low-stakes place to begin engaging with the community and figure themselves out and begin exploring the characters and media on a deeper level. That's what fandom is all about! It's what separates fandom from just the general audience of any particular thing. Those types of posts were popular because they're just easy to make! All you need is mspaint, if even! They get across their concepts quickly and easily in an easily sharable format - that's exactly why they got reposted absolutely everywhere! The concept of those posts (and general character chat posts/incorrect quotes) still exist in other spaces in fandom communities, but in different formats - usually tiktoks, being spoken and acted out loud. The problem with that format though is it can't go anywhere - even in shortform video format there's no way to easily condense it down (and also they have a higher barrier to entry, as the format at it's simplest usually requires some aspect of showing your face/using your voice. This means you inherently have to sacrifice some amount of privacy to engage with the format, which isnt friendly to new/younger fans). Meanwhile these ask-the-seven posts are one jpeg that gets across the entire concept. And we've evolved! We have better technology! We can pick better colors and fonts and add image descriptions! We can bring the format back!

- Cosplay This one is pretty self-explanatory - just. Cosplays are a type of fanwork too! PJO cosplay used to be pretty common on tumblr actually! Particularly there used to be a decent number of cosplay askblogs (which are just askblogs where instead of responding to questions with text or a drawing, asks are answered with either a gif or image of the mun/mod in cosplay reacting in-character). Cosplay is cool! And in PJO fandom it's particularly easy!

- Roleplaying Spaces PJO fandom does have a pretty active tumblr RP scene as far as I've been able to tell, which is good! Also you can find people who want to RP pjo just about anywhere. It's just somewhat of a matter of giving them a space to do so. I talked about how to get into roleplaying recently on my blog as well. RP is also one of the forms of fandom infrastructure in this list that transfers well to other social media platforms, in large part due to social media RP making it a whole lot easier. The fandom is mostly just severely lacking in hubs to locate RPs and help people find ways to begin engaging with them.

- Public AUs / OCs Public AUs/OCs are a bit of a weird one to describe - they're basically any AU/OC that the creators (if there is a singular known creator of it) have given total free reign to people with. More often it's an AU that doesn't have a particular known creator but the fandom likes to run around with and do a lot with. In PJO fandom, the ye olde fandom OC was Peter Johnson, a son of Demeter. The AU generally was about how Peter Johnson was a new camper and Mr. D's favorite camper, and just generally a sweet lil guy while Mr. D proceeds to torment Percy because of the name jokes. A series of public AUs that's completely unique to PJO is Godswap aus - there's no one singular set godswap au, but the two most common swaps tended to be Demeter!Percy (in part due to Peter Johnson) and Aphrodite!Nico (admittedly this one was like 90% gay stereotypes/homophobic tropes and there's a reason why the fandom kind of dropped it. It was absolutely the most popular godswap for a time though, and some of the concepts from it have bled into general Nico fanon for better or worse). General pirate aus have also always been very popular in the fandom - there were some old ones back in the day, including local BNF (Big Name Fan) Saberghatz having at least one, maybe like two or three, including a cosplay. Pirate!Nico in particular was very popular. There was actually a slight resurgence of PJO pirate AUs on pjo cosplay tiktok in like 2020 or so I wanna say. Truly we came full-circle there. There's also just general popular AUs that fandoms like to run with. For awhile PJO fandom had a HTTYD au they really loved. The current fandom favorite AU seems to be Velinxi's Young Gods/Hades Game AU.

- Fangames This one might sound odd because Riordanverse fandom doesn't really have this, but fangames can be REALLY fun and cool. Fangames also often spark mini-fandoms in themselves and are just really awesome in general. There's a lot of different varieties of vastly varying complexities, but a lot of it is pretty much just "I made a game, it's about [fandom], here ya go." Some good examples from other communities off the top of my head are games like ClanGen or Untold Tales for Warrior Cats, or Featherbent from the Homestuck fandom which was a visual novel / AU fanfic. Btw, visual novels are actually not all that difficult to create. If you're interested in trying to make one I highly recommend checking out Ren'Py - it's basically a program to make visual novels with.

- Other project types / General Collaboration Related to community events, particularly Multi-Animator Projects (MAPs), AMVs/PMVs/Lyricstucks ("animated music videos" and "picture music videos" - lyricstucks are the same as the latter but usually in a scrolling tumblr post format with the song linked at the beginning rather than video format) are very cool and can be both individual or collaborative projects (in Riordanverse fandom most are probably very familiar with Viria's old lyricstucks - Nothing Left To Say and How Far We've Come). Some folks do dubs of fancomics (also used to be a thing in PJO fandom, particularly back when the PjoVoices group was active and the brief stint in the fandom when we had some Voice Acting askblogs) which can be a nice way to collaborate and engage with other fans in different mediums. "Aesthetics"/Moodboards (usually an arrangement of either 2x3 [former] or 3x3 [latter] grids of images) and the more recent "webweaves" also are a great low barrier to entry type of fanwork that has a lot of variety and versatility (just make sure to credit art/photos used) - especially if you make moodboards/webweaves inspired by people's AUs/fics/etc!

- Gifset Makers / Editors In Riordanverse fandom we don't see this often, because we're primarily a book fandom, but back in the days of the movies and more recently now with the show, editors and gifset makers are a very cool niche of fanwork creators. Gifset makers is pretty self-explanatory - they're people who make gifs. Editors can range from people who make edits of clips or put together clips of images or a whole bunch of very different things. Very wide range there. Edits (with credit to the original artists) can be a really fun alternative to AMVs/PMVs/etc if you don't draw but you have a concept (CREDIT THE ARTISTS - trust me, having your art used in an edit can feel super cool but ONLY IF IT'S CREDITED. IF IT'S NOT CREDITED IT'S NOT FUN. if you ask and credit people will probably be happy about it!). Edit blogs can also be very fun and are often a big hit in fandoms - "Where is [x]" and "[character] in places" are classics. Again just remember to credit artists appropriately and ask permission to use their work.

- Fanwork Promotion Blogs/Hubs PJO fandom does have a couple of these still floating around I think! I don't know them off the top of my head but I swear i've seen them recently. Regardless - these are any sorts of blogs that promote other fanworks. Maybe it's dedicated to just general fanart, general fanfic, stuff of a specific AU or concept. Going back to previous bullet points, character or ship-specific blogs are a form of these. They can range from elaborate and complex with how they promote or spotlight and recommend works, to just literally being random reblogs of stuff of a specific topic. These can actually also be a really nice if you're looking for a simple way to get more involved in the community, because chances are if you're on tumblr you know how to reblog things and that's about all it takes. These hubs can be really nice ways for more fans in the community to get spotlighted/recognition and become more well-known, and it also helps fans looking for specific types of fanwork. (The only caveat with these is if you are going to make a generalized hub blog, you have to actually make it generalized. You can't just exclude the things you personally don't like just because you don't like them - if you don't want to deal with that, make a more specialized hub blog for your more focused interests instead.) (Also personally I'd recommend if you're making one of these types of blogs that you're an adult, cause these blogs can require fandom tag-spelunking that may not be appropriate for all ages - ESPECIALLY if you run a fanfic hub.)

- General Resources This can look like a lot of things, particularly depending on what the fandom is about, but in general a lot of fandoms will have dedicated places to finding different types of information, and often important fandom terminology and sometimes fandom history. Fan Wikis may cover some of this, but not always (and depending on how the wiki(s) are run in a particular community, may not even have reliable information to begin with. I'm looking at you Riordanverse wiki). In furry fandom for example there's a ton of resources for how to get started in the community, commonly accepted community guidelines and general etiquette, fandom history and terminology, resources to find fursuit makers or other artists, various tutorials, etc etc etc. PJO fandom does not really have this! Like i mentioned in previous bullet points, while we have some hub/promotion or character/ship-specific blogs, they're relatively far and few between and commonly inactive, not to mention usually very specific in what niche they're focused on. The wiki only covers the source material (and is questionable quality at best most of the time) with there being next to no resources in the community in general for stuff like fandom history or terminology or etc. Did you know PJO fandom used to be part of the Superwholock of book fandoms (it was PJO, HP, Hunger Games, and Divergent. there was a whole symbol for it)? Did you know we used to have our own fandom lingo? Members of the fandom were usually called demigods or half-bloods, people would put their cabins in their bios (people would make little banners or other decorations to put on your blog themes to show your cabins or pjo stuff in general!), and we'd say stuff like "Spread this like greek fire" and "Amazhang" and etc. Those are actual things people said unironically very frequently. You're probably most likely to be familiar with "Persassy." We don't necessarily need to bring all of those things back, but point is we did use to have a community identity and sort of genuine subculture! And we lost that! There are so many community jokes and similar that most people have forgotten or at best kind of know of but don't remember the origins or contexts for. In other communities they have documentation for this kind of stuff - you should see some of the documentation that MCYT fandom does, particularly if the MCYT in question is a popular streamer or the SMP is primarily streamed content. Holy cow it's thorough. Resources and documentation are what help keep fandoms alive, because they give a means for new members of the community to learn the history of the community, learn established rules and etiquette, and just generally find their way around where they otherwise might be lost. It's really invaluable but often overlooked.

Okay, i think that's all the ones i can think of. This post has taken me over a full day of working on it, lol. Anyways i'm very passionate about fandom history and PJO fandom history/community in general so this was very fun for me to go on a deep-dive about. Also now i'm really tempted to put a lot of my old fandom knowledge and unnecessarily complicated lists/documentation to good use and try to help build up some of these bullet point concepts for riordanverse fandom myself because dammit somebody's gotta do it. But that's all i've got for now! As always feel free to ask me to elaborate on anything, or if you just wanna hear me babble on more about general fandom structures (i have another ramble about different types of fandoms relating to what fanworks they tend to exhibit the most!)/pjo fandom history/askblogs/RP community/whatever, I am always more than happy to talk!

[chayannesegg]

honestly I think it’s kinda interesting how phil’s relationships with wilbur, tallulah, chayanne & tubbo are all reflecting back into his view of sunny tbh. like he has such complex delicate interwoven dynamics with all of them and it all gets thrown onto sunny, this poor kid who he loves in theory, but in practice is a stranger to him. 

like wilbur left tallulah in phil’s care and didn’t come back. even now way after he was initially supposed to, wilbur hasn’t returned (that one day aside). and phil, who had already taken on a big commitment watching tallulah, has been left permanently with two eggs in his sole care. and even though he loves tallulah and wil, and won’t want them out of his life, this is a stress for him. it’s a big undertaking for anyone, to care for two kids alone, but especially since tallulah required a lot of changes in his life.

for better or worse, in many ways phil sees chayanne as an extension of himself. they’re similar in a lot of ways, and often on the same page, and it means phil often struggles to catch up when chayanne’s emotions aren’t on the same page as him. we’ve seen this week, phil having such a hard time understanding the depth and breadth of chayanne’s grief. when he catches on, he usually does a good job empathising and talking it through, but when he doesn’t, he really doesn’t and it can be hard to watch. 

the same is NOT true for tallulah. he has, through hard work and practice, learnt how to identify her emotions. he had to. she needed it. she would have been miserable otherwise. she desperately needed asked for the emotional care and birthdays and consideration that chayanne would never ask for. and he’s good at it—tracking her moods, knowing what upsets her & what she cares about in a way that doesn’t come as naturally with chayanne (or sunny or tubbo or anyone else really expect maybe wilbur). but that took A LOT of time and effort, months of work, and I do think he’s a bit wary of the idea of having to do that again, even when it comes to people he loves like chayanne (or god forbid tubbo).

now tubbo is not wil. tubbo is not phil's son. but he’s still not dissimilar to wil in phil’s mind. whatever the backstory is, phil introduces tubbo to tallulah as an old friend of him and wil’s. he makes tubbo his kids’ godfather. he calls tubbo his boy. he looks out for him. but past those first few weeks, their relationship doesn’t progress. they mean a lot to each other bc of their pasts, but they don’t put any work into upkeeping their relationship and phil in particular doesn’t reflect at all on what how that changes their dynamic. and it does change it—this is clear in purgatory, with phil having zero trust in tubbo to protect chayanne and tallulah, and after, with tubbo endlessly poking at phil’s sore spots trying to illicit a reaction he’ll never receive. 

it's also clear in the way phil has no understanding of what’s going on with tubbo. if he’s struggling to grasp chay’s emotions, he’s not even touching what’s going on in tubbo’s head. tubbo’s death makes no sense to him. it’s sudden. it’s random. it’s illogical. it’s stupid. he wasn’t joking about having two lives? he still took a death bet with richas? he’s not come back? he can’t come back? he’s left phil with distraught kids for no reason with no warning. he doesn’t see the erratic suicidal behaviour, the unending depression, the desperation to be loved. he doesn’t want to see it. he doesn’t want something to be wrong with tubbo, but he also doesn’t even know how to see what’s wrong. he’s annoyed he’s having to deal with it and he desperately desperately wants to believe this is all happening for no reason.

bc at the forefront of phil’s mind is still his love for tubbo. of course, phil would drop everything to help tubbo (if he could recognize something was wrong). of course, he would care for sunny as his own. of course, he would make the same sacrifices he’s made for wil. and he assumes he’ll have to. he thought that sunny would now be under his care. that he’d have to figure out the logistics of a third egg to care for. with wilbur, phil was the only person who could ever have taken care of tallulah. the only person he trusted, the only person who knew tallulah enough. now this isn’t true for tubbo. it’s a genuinely illogical assumption for phil to make: three eggs would be a genuine burden on him; they've never spoken about it; there’s a long list of people who would tubbo expects for sunny before; and he doesn’t even know sunny well enough to name these people for her as comfort.

but still in the moment, alone with tubbo’s eggs and dealing with everything he left behind, phil can only think that the exact same thing that happened before will happen: he alone will be left to care for another scared hurt kid of someone he loves.

and here we come to sunny. a kid whose dad he loves. a kid whose dad he doesn’t understand. a kid whose dad is suddenly gone like his son is gone. a kid who would need him like his daughter needs him. a kid who his son needs to protect. a kid he cares for. a kid he can’t afford to care for, a kid he wasn’t expecting to care for, a kid he doesn’t know how to care for, a kid he would care for if he needed to, a kid he doesn’t know why he’s been left to care for. a kid who is somehow a reflection of all these people he loves but not someone he knows at all.

idk i think this tension comes out in the a lot of the comments phil makes of and to sunny. he doesn't know them well enough to distinguish them from his relationships with other people. and as long as no one challenges him on that, we'll continue to hear these misplaced comments from him, that come across so insensitively, even as he tries his best to genuinely help them and their dad.

[yeyinde]

NEON MEDUSA | cyberpunk au

Captain John Price x Reader

"Make the smart choice, love." He doesn't give you anything else. The line goes dead with a click. Silence. Unbearable. Stifling. It permeates the air around you, buzzing like static. A disturbance in the airwaves. A rustle in the stagnant life you've been sloughing through for the last three years. A moment later, your phone chimes. A map appears. Some remote bar on the outskirts of the city—the only place Makarov's influence doesn't reach.  Make the smart choice. It's your freedom or your head.

》 WARNINGS: THIS SERIES WILL BE 18+ | no smut; allusions to political corruption, moral ambiguity; standard Cyberpunk rules apply; body modification; technological supremacy; the existential crisis of questioning your humanity

》 WC: 11,1k

》 NOTES: Remember when I said I probably wasn't going to do a chaptered fic? Yeah, me too

SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT

PART I | STATIC IN THE AIRWAVES

He sits in the crowded bar with nothing to keep him company but a half-empty glass of scotch and a burning cigar. 

He alternates between the two. A swallow of his drink. A sip of water. A drag of his cigar. 

(Routine. Always in threes. Always with that same pinched look on his face, partially hidden in the shadows, concealed beneath a beanie, and shaded in smoke.)

The ochre tip flares to life when he draws it close to his lips, taking a harsh drag of nicotine. The flash of light, brief and evanescent, illuminates his face in short bursts of orange in a room bathed in indigo save for the stage, where his gaze stays, fixed, almost unwaveringly, on the dancers as they display the greatest feat of technological advancement to date: nanobots. 

Their chromatic skin shifts into various hues to accommodate each request made by the patrons, their bodies morphing into something new with each token taken from the hungry-eyed viewers. 

Despite the keenness in his sharp eyes, he makes no purchases of his own—seemingly content to just watch the hedonistic spectacle unfolding before him.

It is not uncommon for people to come here and just observe, happy enough to watch whatever the rest of the people—voyeurs—order, but there's something about him that stands out. 

(Or maybe it's just you. 

He piques your interest in a way most people just don't. Not here. Not in the gold-dusted cesspool of opulent depravity.)

And there isn't anything noteworthy about him. Nothing that stands out against everyone else. 

He was easily swallowed by the curated tenebrous that leaked into the tight space of the auditorium—an artificial sense of seclusion and privacy in shades of shadowed indigo that means little when you can see everything from your perch in the observation deck. He isn't flashy in any sense—his broad shoulders are covered in a raw topaz corduroy jacket with tuffs of seashell white plumage around the collar and button lines, and he wears a simple pair of black trousers, and leather boots. A charcoal beanie sits low on his brow. 

He's big. Bigger than most of the men in the room—both in width and height. He'd tower over them, and his broad shoulders and thick bulk would swallow them whole. 

Your vantage point—a hidden nook in the upper deck known only as the observatory: a domed room completely opaque from the outside looking in with high, arching golden bars dividing each rectangular window making it look a little too much like a cage for you to ever find comfort behind its glass walls—gives you the perfect view of everything in the club. The circular, egg-shaped room with its glass floors and walls has an interface built in to spy on the patrons below. 

It's a place where you spend most of your nights when you weren't wandering the alcoves in the underbelly in search of trinkets to sell, or money to make to somehow chip away at the insurmountable debt you owe the owner of the club for saving you, a price you'll never begin to pay back at your current rate.

You come here to watch the spectacle at one of the most exclusive clubs in the city. 

(And—

Take notes.)

The bar is a hidden gem of the red light district, a place only known by reputation and hushed whispers in the derelict underground. 

On its surface, it looks like any other staple of depravity that the sprawling steel metropolis tries to pretend doesn't exist when foreign diplomats venture close to the technological epicentre of human advancement. Another grim, ramshackle bar in a desolate sea of many. Dingy wax paper covers the floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the passersby a tantalising view of a dancing silhouette beckoning them forward with mechanical fingers, and a bright red grin. 

It's only when they try to enter the establishment does the stark differences between every other brothel masquerading as a bar come to light. 

A bouncer stands in the enclosed foyer covered in piss-stained cardboard, and a cracked comm with loose wires sparking on the wall. It reeks of stale cigarettes and mildew. For added effect, the shadow of a bug skitters into the fist-shaped hole in the wall. 

"Password?" He barks, his hand curling, pointedly, over the handle of his gyrojet. A threat. 

It deters most people simply wandering by in search of sin. 

Except for the ones with an invitation. The password. That prized piece of information gets them access to a club funded by the Inner Circle. 

Most of the clubs in this district are known for their loose morals and shady rules, but none are as infamous as the White Horse, who dabbles in more than just pleasures of the flesh. A place where shady deals are conducted in secrecy in the opulent booths overlooking the stage. Where the madams, and misters overseeing the dancers turn a blind eye to illegal requests that are made. 

A den of sin and filth wrapped in decadence. A place where anything goes so long as you have the money, the power, the status. Where nothing is barred, and the beds on the upper level are never empty. 

More money passes through here on a bad day than those living in squalor near the district will ever see in their extended lifespans. 

Men spend impetuosity to drag the dancers away, the nanos shifting into something new, something garish, to their deviant delights. 

And men like him are a dime a dozen. You can find one anywhere in the red light district, sipping on alcohol, and feasting on the libertine victuals offered for the taking. Nothing about him is particularly noteworthy. Another concealed face in the louche mouth of debauchery. 

And yet—

He stands out. 

The only vice he partakes in is a cigar and drink. He doesn't let his eyes linger on the soft curves of the dancers, or the bared flesh they offer up. He watches with a detached, almost clinical disinterest.

Maybe, then, it isn't so much of what he is, but rather what he isn't. 

There is a wryness to him, a soft derision in his steel gaze that seems out of place in a seedy bar filled to the brim with licentiousness. Most men come to quench their lustful appetite on the display of grandeur in front of them, making demands with a press of their finger to shape the dancers in front of them to whatever matches their hunger. 

None of them has ever looked so disgusted. 

He tries to hide it, face folding into something passive, nonchalant, when he thinks people are staring, or when the barkeep makes his way over to pour him another shot, but it breaks sometimes. Beneath the rim of his odd bucket hat, startling blue eyes morph into contempt at the men around him. Even with the rim pulled down low over his brow, covering the colombina mask concealing the upper portion of his face, you catch the anger frothing in cerulean. 

It's an odd look considering where he is, and the prestige, the importance (both financial and influential) that he must carry just to be let inside, and yet—

Scorn. Derision. Disgust. 

None of it is directed at the dancers gyrating on the flashing stage, putting on a grand performance of a technological prowess yet to be made available to the general public. Their willingness to contort their artificial bodies into various forms—men, women, genderless beings, animalistic features, elongated limbs, and a whole host of pabulum effigies—just for the paying patrons' lustful amusement incites none of the blunt disdain he directs at the men and women around him. 

It's not the performers, then, but the audience.

Some come here with their status placed upon their head like a crown, chin refusing to dip down an inch lest the artificial diadem slip from their clinging fingers. They wear their aristocracy like a perfume, letting it permeate in the air surrounding them for all to inhale, to notice. They like to pretend they aren't enticed by the display available to them and are often mockingly cruel to the dancers, and the workers catering to their paying whims. It's a game to them. Coming here is a sport. A fulfilment of a quota. 

An invitation alone is worth more than the going price of most cities, and the opportunity to maybe rub elbows with the financier of the establishment is enough to make greed spin in their eyes. 

As cruel as they are to the staff, and as much as they like to lift their noses high in contempt, it's a farce. They're posturing. 

The intrigue in their green eyes doesn't mask their peacocking. 

His, you find, is genuine. 

But why?

It's there that he makes his fatal mistake. 

A man, a regular from Verdansk, grabs a passing dancer a little too hard, jostling their shoulder until metal grinds together in a piercing whine that goes wholly ignored in the pulsing bass, and jeers from the crowd. 

He pulls them down, a lustrous smirk creeping across his face, and whispers something in their ear before jerking his chin toward the upper deck where the rooms are. 

The exchange, his rough treatment of them, goes largely unnoticed—or rather, ignored—by the crowd. It's hardly a spectacle—not worthy of their attention like the display on the stage. 

But he catches it. 

Amongst the vile sycophants and their greedy stares, he stands out in stark contrast when his eyes narrow in anger, knuckles whitening around the glass. 

You've only heard of his type in passing. The kind that thinks they're sticking up for something greater than themselves. 

A hero. A martyr. A saviour. 

Muted whispers in shadows. Promises they'll never be able to keep burrowed into filament; sweet words laced with that detestable thing that rots your insides, and leaves you sick with apathy when it extinguishes. Jaded and wrong and—

His type poisons you with hope, and leaves it to crumble in the hollowed amphitheatre of your aching, mutilated chest when they realise it's futile and do the one thing they're best at: running. 

For the greater good, of course. 

The battered remains of love in shambles mean little to them when they place the world on their shoulders to absolve themselves of their sins. The weight of it crushes pity and sorrow and contrition and failure into a ground powder that they can sneeze away with—

I had no choice. 

Heroes, you find, are usually just a pantomime of their internal ugliness. They lash out at what they name injustice but sometimes slip up and use their given name when calling everything wrong with the world, with them, into question. 

It's a good thing that they usually avoid places like this. 

One where the people who fight for good, for humanity—the ones who wave and blink and grin on the holographic advertisements on each major street corner, or wander around with their translucent skin and faux smiles as they shell out promises (and products) of a better tomorrow—let their faces twist in horrific depravity under the strobe lights and cover of darkness. Politicians. People in power. 

It's enough to snuff out any sense of optimism. 

This is a place where hope comes to die with a single press of a greasy finger against a holographic screen. 

A man like him has no reason to tuck himself into the corner, eyes misting over in anger and contemptuous spite at the patrons who feed the rapid descent of mortality. 

The sight of him gnarls a sense of unease in your chest. A burgeoning bloom of that poisonous seed they warned you to stay away from. The one that strikes like a cobra and burns like a molten rock against your skin. That leaves you a raw, gaping wound festering in the cesspool they make sanguine promises to pull you out of. 

They never do. 

They make grand claims about being given a prophecy of martyrdom, and how they must devote themselves, wholly, to a cause that never comes to fruition like it does in the aeons-old fairytale of a bygone era when romance meant something. 

Your fingers curl over the golden bars of the gilded cage you've been left in, and you wonder through the raw ache in your chest as it splits open, another wound among many, who he's trying to save here. 

Then, grimly, you wonder how long it'll take for him to give up like the rest. 

Intrigue gnaws at you until the needling pinch of curiosity becomes too much to bear. 

(Curiosity, and something you'd rather not think about—)

It's easy to slip away from your perch unnoticed. No one bothers with you much outside of bringing you to sporadic liaisons with the man who acts as a silent owner of the bar—among many, many other things—and you use that sense of anonymity to wander down to the ground floor, and toward the man sitting in the corner. 

The difference between them and him is made more apparent when you move closer. 

A cybernetic thumb and forefinger knead the skin over the bridge of his nose, eyes pinched shut in a passage of pain that flickers over his face. With him too preoccupied with his headache, he doesn't notice you sidle up, and you take the opportunity to study him with an eager gaze. 

He's handsome. 

Muted neon blue cuts through the skin of his cheeks, running over his cheekbones, and dipping down toward the corner of his mouth. A flash of metal on his temple peaks beneath the rim of his beanie, catching in the shadowed glow of the pink and purple strobe lights flashing through the dim room. The circular curve and the soft metallic give the impression of the beginnings of a cranial implant. One that costs a hefty price to upkeep, but gives the wearer unlimited access to information fed directly to their non-dominant eye. 

It's something only issued to the military. To the police force. 

But the shape of it is archaic, old. Something of a crest—a familial design unique to the big families, to the clubs, that run the city, or parts of it. Gangsters. Mercenaries. Merchants. Scholars. Politicians. 

Nepotism, undoubtedly, shaped the enhancement, but the design is foreign to you. You think of the common ones—the local police force and security, Shadow Company; the innovative engineers of the Inner Circle; the Shepherd family and their long, and bloody, history of politicians, leaders—but none fit the intricate weavings snaking down his temple. 

Another peculiarity to add to the growing list. 

The limited light in the darkened auditorium colour him a chiaroscuro of light of blue and grainy black, and the way he keeps his palm positioned over his face as he rubs the tension from his brow leaves the rest of his face hidden from your prying gaze. A shame, you think, and make the mistake of moving closer. 

Beneath a metal knuckle, his eye cracks open. 

"I'm not interested."

The timbre of his voice is rough—a masculine rasp that's abrasive, and thick with something heavy in the back of his throat. It makes you shiver. You blame it on the noviceness of your incipient intrigue. 

"Oh?" You mock, and offer back a shrug you hope is more blasè than perturbed. "That's kinda surprising in a place like this." 

"I'm not here for that—" his words cut off with a sharp huff, voice tapering off as he digs his thumb into the divot between his brow until the skin is indented from the metal.

The way he says the word is full of an exhaustive sort of contempt: the kind that says he's tired. Of this, of the anger coursing through his veins. 

A hero on the verge of cracking apart at the seams.. 

(It didn't take him long.)

He's a picture of bone-weariness when he bows his head over the table, elbows knocking against the surface with a harsh thud that makes you wince. He doesn't seem to notice it—or maybe he's so far gone, that anything that isn't bitter disappointment or the white-hot sting of rejection feels almost good to him. A break in the routine. A physical hurt in place of the emotional turmoil saviours like him must face. 

If, of course, he even is one. 

You question your original assessment of him when his wrist bends, and his long, thick fingers wrap around the rim of the glass. 

A hero. Maybe you were wrong. 

He looks like the same tired men who spend their waking hours working a job they hate, one that grinds against their skin until a hole forms and the wound begins to rot. Miserable. They reek of bitterness and discontentment. And when they're not being burnt out against the heel of a profession that doesn't even know they exist, much less care about the droop in their shoulders, the callouses, the ennui and megrim towards life, they combat the existential despair by saturating their organs in liquid formaldehyde to stop the slow, methodical rot of that pesky little thing called hope. Happiness. 

You wonder if he came here for something different to numb the self-inflicted loneliness, or if all that anger he directs at the men is just a reflection of his desires that disgust him so much. 

It's the crushing sense of disappointment that maybe you were wrong and, worse yet, maybe he was right. 

(In this life, there are only idiotic hopefuls and those smart enough to know better.) 

Still. 

Still. 

He's different in a way you're not used to. A man with rough edges and sour words; blunt and bludgeoning. 

Interesting. 

You wonder what makes him tick. What ugliness he's hiding, and what secrets he's running from. 

His neck is thick, muscles tensing when he tosses his head back, and swallows down the last of his drink. 

(You wonder what it would feel like to sink your teeth into his jugular—)

"I don't need another drink, either," he says, voice thick from the burn of alcohol, and little more than a growl. 

You offer another shrug—one that he doesn't see when he bows his head again, palms scoring down his face. 

"Again," you murmur, a fleeting tease. "Still not offering."

His thumb presses into his temple, index finger sliding over his forehead until it rests in his webspace. He inhales deeply in palpable exasperation, broad chest expanding and pulling the charcoal shirt taut across his shoulders. 

"Then what the hell—" 

His lids crack open, eyes sliding to the side as he stares at you, properly, for the first time since you wandered over. 

The surprise in his gaze as he takes you in makes your heart jump, slamming harshly against its bone prison. His eyes—a deep, almost unending blue—are pretty. Piercing. 

He swallows again, hand pulling away from his brow slowly—dazed, almost, as if he'd been expecting one of the dancers on stage instead of—

Well. You. 

Human. Wholly. 

It usually catches people off-guard to see someone so bare, so void of any visible enhancements or upgrades. 

On the surface, anyway. The debt you wracked up from the man says something must have been done. That one day, you'll dig too deep into your tissue and find wires and cylindrical tubes instead of veins. A circuit board instead of a heart. An artificial stem instead of a brain. 

More android than human. 

Your teeth sink into the soft flesh around the corner of your mouth, and you brace yourself for it—for the—

"I didn't realise I talkin' to a bloody bot."

It doesn't prickle against your skin—one that bleeds red, and bruises in flaxen when you dig your fingers in hard enough. It doesn't. 

"I'm not." 

He blinks at you once, mystified, but then something in his gaze sharpens. A keen awareness, a spatial depth, that seems out of place on a mere man. You think of the holographic images of grizzly bears mid-hunt, stalking their prey through the thick furze, and then of the curiosity that dips from beady, ink-black eyes when they find something that disturbs their territory. An unknown thing—neither predator nor prey. 

He turns in the seat, shifting until his body is facing you. His elbow rests on the table, hand dropping down again to hold onto the rim of his glass. The other drops to the back headrest of the seat. 

He doesn't move over or offer you a spot to sit. A pointed gesture, you're sure. A sign of your disturbance. An unwelcome visitor. 

You ignore it in favour of drinking in the display of his body, loose and lax in the seat with his knees spread, and the toes of his boots akimbo. His muscles flex under the tight, grey shirt, moving with each shuffle of his hips to get comfortable. 

He's bigger than you thought. Threateningly so. 

"That right?" He says the words slowly, and draws them out in that coarse voice of his. 

His index finger taps a strange rhythm on the rim of the glass as he considers the weight of what you divulged, and your eyes are quickly drawn to his human hand—thick, scarred fingers; knuckles scabbed and cracked—and to his nails. They're short, and jagged. Grizzled. They're dirty, too. A fine line of dirt sits under the gnawed hyponychium, bitten down to the plate. 

"Fancy that—a purist."

His words make you snort, and you tear your gaze away from his filthy nails—dirty hands—and shake your head in refusal. Dismay. Exasperation. Some amalgamation of them all. 

He isn't the first to assume that of you, and you know he won't be the last. 

Your physical appearance is startling to some who quickly think you're an android with your untainted skin, void of any visible enhancements like the ones cutting through his cheeks, etched into his temple, his chin. The entirety of his left hand. 

Some consider the relationship between humans and technology to be almost symbiotic. After all, artificial intelligence, modern human evolution, and cybernetics wouldn't exist without the fundamental human imagination, nor their human hands to construct life into these grand things. 

It usually falls into two categories—technological subservience: those who believe AI, androids, robots, cyborgs, and nanobots were created by humans and therefore, belonged to humans; and technological coexistence: the merger between us and them until the lines blur, and it becomes one and the same. 

(Or, more extreme: technological dominance—zealots who believe that god exists in the mainframe of AI, and worship them like deities.)

On the opposite scale lies the purists. Those who believe that the relationship is not symbiotic, but parasitic. A curse. 

"Hardly—" The defensiveness in your tone makes you wince, and you soften the edge of your words when his forehead creases, adding: "It's all internal." 

"Internal, huh," his eyes dip, rolling down the length of your body as if confirming your claims. The weight of his gaze makes your skin burn, blistering under the intensity of his bold stare. "That's unusual, ain't it?" 

"Not where I'm from."

"And where is that, hmm?" 

The way his voice tapers off into a growl makes you shiver. Feverish. 

Dangerous. This man is dangerous. 

"I—" You swallow down the thick pool of anxiety that swells in the back of your throat. You're not afraid of him, but there's this overwhelming sense of intimidation that bleeds from the furrow of his brow, the unrelenting stare he fixes on you—almost as if you're being interrogated. Unease makes your stomach churn. 

Maybe this was a mistake—

His eyebrows lift in a silent display of impatience. 

It's not something you speak about openly—or at all, really—but the words brim on your tongue, as if pulled there by the magnetic draw of the man sitting in front of you, fingers tapping against the rim of the empty glass while the other reaches over his chest, torso twisting as he blindly pats around for the cigar burning away in the ashtray. 

"I don't know," you murmur, letting the words puncture your chest when they slip past the seam of your lips. "Don't remember much of it." 

He considers your words with a slight tilt of his head. Thick, metallic fingers draw the burning cigar to his full mouth, partially hidden behind the wry curls around his lips and chin. He settles in his seat again, eyes lidded, heavy. 

"That so?" 

The end burns orange when he draws in a mouthful of tobacco-saturated smoke, eyes creasing slightly as the endorphins bloom under the deluge of nicotine coursing through him. 

The sight of him, thick thighs spread over the polymer seat of the booth, elbow resting on the table with his wrist bent, fingers still on the rim of the glass, cigar in his other hand, makes something warm fill your chest. 

Trepidation, you hope. 

You offer a shaky shrug in response, and nothing more. 

He hums. "Unusual, innit? Not rememberin'." 

The entire history of your life is a black hole until three years ago when you woke up in a luxury hospital room with an unplayable debt on your head and a body that has never really felt like your own. 

(A man, maker, who called himself your saviour, and ensured you'd never really be free.)

You echo the words he said to you all those years ago when you asked who you were, where you came from, and why you didn't know—

"It must not be worth knowing."

It's a murmured echo not meant to be taken seriously. There's no deeper meaning behind the regurgitated words that ring out in your head; a quick response to those questions that rear late at night when you can't sleep, and your mind wants to torture you further. 

It doesn't matter. 

And really, it doesn't. You can't remember it, and in the three years you've been living, reacclimating to the idea of recall and recollection, no one has ever tried to find you. 

There's no memo being sent out to the great beyond with your name or face attached to it. No one but him has claimed to know you. To care. 

Whatever happened in that life is gone. Empty. A black void of nothing, not even embers or a crackling voice. It's a hole where your sense of belonging goes to rot. 

It does not matter. Not anymore. 

But the way he flinches at your words—a barely concealed jerk of his limbs, half-aborted when he realises he's doing it—makes you think, for the first time in three years, that it might. 

It's swallowed down by a flash of teeth peaking through his amber beard. A rictus grin greets your words. 

"That so?" 

All you can do is nod. 

"Doesn't help convince me you ain't a bot." 

"I'm not." 

His brow ticks up. "Do bots know their bots? Androids can be made to think, created with sentience, but they aren't. It's only when they hurt, do they realise—they were never human at all."

Your chest tightens. He didn't just strike a nerve, he bludgeoned into it. 

"I am," you argue, but the words are less sure, firm, than you want them to be. They tumble out, shaky and filled with the fears that have been twisting inside your head since you blinked into existence, and read accounts of androids doing the same. "I bleed. I hurt. I feel. I think. I—"

He bites on the end of his cigar before drawing both hands up in front of him, palms open and facing you. 

"Easy, there." He mutters, voice low and muffed around the stem of the cigar, and—

Soothing. 

"I'm only teasin' you. If you say you're human, you're human. That's all that matters, mm?"

You shudder. "I am, I—"

"What's your name?" 

You echo the name given to you when you woke up in a daze and were told to meet the man who saved your life. The one he greeted you with when he welcomed you into his luxury office of cut mahogany and reinforced carbon. 

When it slips out, the pinch between his brow deepens. 

"That's your name? Or is that just what they call you?"

"It's—" you flounder for a moment. "It's my name."

"You don't sound too sure."

"Can I be sure of anything?" You volley back, venom leaking into the words. 

"You haven't gone lookin'?"

"For what?" 

Where would you even start?

"You know…" he begins, shifting in his seat once more. There is a tension in his brow. An even curl to his lips, teeth still bared. "I try to find people like you. Bring them home. To justice—or whatever that might be. A lot of 'em claim to not remember, to not know what they did, or why they ran. You tellin' me somethin' similar, love?"

"I'm not missing." 

His eyes are filmed with a facsimile of something placid. Even. But there is a current beneath the surface. A raging torrent of unsettled water churning up the seabed. It'll drag you to the bottom, and press you flat against the rocks as it roars above you. 

You might be able to crack your eyes open under the swell, fingers digging into the murky sediment below your supine body, and vaguely make out of the rippling surface. A taunting mirage just within reach but the tumultuous waves would crush your fingers for even trying to grasp for it. 

You shiver. 

"You sure about that, love?" 

Love. Love. The words stick against some part of your head, clinging to the fibrils and ringing across gyri until every synapse rattles with the heavy tenor splitting you apart. 

"—Do you know me?"

The look surfaces. 

"No." You seldom feel hopeful that anyone does anymore. Maybe on a distant planet, in a distant city, someone is still looking for you. "But I am lookin' for someone." 

"Looking—" your brow furrows together as you eye him warily. Concern etches into your chest. Knotting tight like a spooled ball. "Looking for who?"

He shrugs. 

He shifts in his seat, brings his hand away from the glass, reaches into the sherpa-covered folds of his jacket, and pulls out a small device. He proffers it to you, the design is reminiscent of a netphone, but—

Out of date. 

You stifle a grin as you take it from him, but it's barely hidden, and he huffs when he catches sight of it. A soft chuff of mirth spilling from between full lips. 

"Watch it," he mutters. 

Your eyes run along the length of the thin phone—dark chrome, chipped in some places along the sleek, curved edges, but the screen is intact—and you marvel at the oddity presented to you. It's not like the netphones made by Four Horseman Corp., but the design is almost a replica. 

The man reaches up, and presses his cybernetic finger against a small, concave placeholder near what must be the mouth of the device, and the screen flickers to life. 

A man stares back at you. His hair is blond with the sides shaved, and the top long. Handsome, you think, with his full lips, and long nose. The light dusting of his beard around his cheeks and moustache—just as blond as his hair. He looks like the models that pose on the holographic glass of the boutiques downtown. 

"Who is he?" 

"Alex Keller. He's been missing for six days."

Six days. 

Something ugly rots inside of you. 

"And you think he's been here?" 

"Last place he was."

"Couldn't be," you murmur, shaking your head. "I'm here almost every night, and I've never seen him before."

"Might not 'ave noticed him, bein' so distracted 'an all."

"Distracted?"

Your lift your chin, confusion etched into your furrowing brow. 

When he catches your eye, he jerks his head toward the stage. "You work here, don't you?"

"Work—"

It never really occurred to you that he'd think you were a dancer. A working bot. An android. Pleasure Androids—a disgusting attempt at cheekiness from the makers; the slogan on the advertisement makes pledges and promises about the state of the art pleasure-bots designed to suit your needs, upgraded now with nanobots that change their shape, their anatomy, in the blink of an eye. 

You exhale through your nose. It isn't the first time you've been mistaken as such, and maybe if you were, the debt would have some small indent in it by now, but—

"No, I'm not allowed." You murmur, shrugging. "I know the owner so I just come here sometimes to hang out. People watch." A wry smile twists at the corner of your lips. "You see all manner of things in a place like this. Kinda entertaining if it wasn't so—"

Disgusting. 

"You know the owner?"

His words are careful. Concise. 

"Do you?"

He shouldn't. He is many things, but stupid isn't one of them. 

The man says nothing, and gives away little more than a slight incline of his shoulders. Neither agreement nor refusal. His prevarication worries you. 

"Hey, who did you say you were again?"

He brings the cigar to his lips, eyes never wavering from yours, and draws in a mouthful of chemical fumes. It was that intense stare that drew you to him, but now that the weight of it is on you, you find yourself feeling like little more than a bug under a microscope. 

His chest rumbles when he shifts, twin funnels of smoke flaring from his nostrils. It disperses into wisps, and quickly scatters when it meets the fur lining his jacket.

"I didn't," he mumbles, voice pinched in a low, airy growl tinged with smoke. More evocation. 

"Well," you add, brows notching up in a pointed gesture for him to continue. 

He doesn't, opting instead to bring the cigar back to his mouth. Ashes drop, landing in his umber beard. 

He's messing with you. Drawing your discomfort out. 

"Who are you?" 

The demand comes out less forcefully than you intended, words trembling with your surmounting unease. 

It would be all too in character for him to send someone to spy on you, to catch you unawares, and to feed the hungry with his secrets. 

"Doesn't matter." 

Your glare does little to away him. "I'm leaving—"

"I'm just lookin' for my friend."

"Like I said, he couldn't be here. I've been here every night this month. I would have seen him." Seeing the gnarled expression that slips over his brow, a broken anger tinged with equal parts frustration and, most breakingly of all, desperation, you add, if only to soften the blow: "I can ask around, maybe. See if the workers know anything." 

"I've been," he rasps, words still bleeding with his frustration. "They don't know anything." 

You huff, shaking your head. "Asking those kinda questions here is what makes people go missing in the first place. Is that what your friend did? Come poking around and—"

Balming one wound just to prick at it later. Your words, the bitter sting, get you a flash of teeth, bared canines in sharp indignation. 

The man leans forward, eyes pelagic and fixed, unflinching, on you. It makes you squirm. Heat blooms under your cheeks. The rush of it makes you dizzy.

"And what makes you special, then?" 

You shrug, and hope the tremble in your limbs goes unnoticed. "I get a free pass." 

"Why?" 

"It helps to know people."

"Like the owner."

"Yes," you murmur, voice laced with your hesitation. "Like him." 

"Him, hmm?" His eyes narrow. "And his name wouldn't happen to be Vladimir Makarov, would it?" 

"How—?" Then, hastily, you add: "No. The tech mogul? No. Why—why would—"

"Save it." He reaches into his breast pocket and draws out a sleek, black card. Cupping it in the palm of his hand, fingers curled over the edge, thumb braced against the side, he tilts the screen. Immediately, the black filmed surface under his thumb shivers, flickering into a shape. A logo. 

The emblem makes your eyes widen. "Military police?" 

He hums. When his thumb pulls away from the surface, it changes back to a blank, black rectangle. Void of any meaning. Any substance. 

Your breath quickens when he slides it back into his pocket. 

"Why are you—"

"Makarov's been naughty, hasn't he? The future Zakhaev promised is a bright one, isn't it? Better eyesight. Better sense of smell. New, indestructible limbs—" He rolls the knuckles of his cybernetic hand at you, appendages moving instantly. "Stop ageing. Stop getting sick. Everything that could kill us is no longer an issue, hmm? For a price, of course." 

"Nothing in life is free—" the words are ripped from Imran's advertisement ages ago. Nothing in life is free, but sometimes a better tomorrow is worth the price of today. 

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Just get a loan through the Four Horseman, hmm? Pay them back a paltry sum every month. Worry about the payment later—upgrade yourself now." 

The new slogan. You try not to shiver under his abrasive, scorching stare. 

"But," he continues, shrugging. "When you can't pay, is he the one who sends his henchmen after them? The ultranationalists. The ones that take back his tech through force and sell the parts on the black market. And—" his eyes harden. "The cycle repeats. People die, debts go unpaid, and yet—mysteriously enough, he grows richer. Now, why is that, mm? How can that be possible?"

"Makarov isn't connected to the Ultranationalists. He's—"

"A businessman? A pseudo-politician? A philanthropist just tryin' to make the world a better place, hmm?" He leans forward, eyes cutting into jagged ashlar. "Then why is the Horseman funding them?"

"He isn't. It must be some kind of mistake—"

"You say that like you know him. Know him personally." 

"I don't—"

"Don't lie to me, love. Won't do you any good." He leans back, hand falling to the side of his glass. He taps out a strange rhythm with his index finger—the old tune of some forgotten song. Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap. "I heard about you."

His words are a strangled pressure around your throat. Heard about you. Impossible. No one has. No one ever does. You're as invisible as Makarov wants, followed around by his henchmen at a sizable distance. They never bother interacting with you. Never speak unless they have to. 

You're a flea hiding in the soft coat of a millionaire. Unneeded. Unwanted. A burden. 

Your circle mostly consists of people who frequent the underground. The black market where you can find almost anything for a price—even the age-old books about fairytales and fantastical adventures. Information, too, if you know what you ask for. 

Your face has never shown up on a missing person bulletin. No one has ever asked about you. 

(No one cares, no one knows—

—six days. 

Three years. 

It doesn't matter—)

In your crushing silence, the man's eyes narrow. There is no flash of victory in his gaze, but you scent the arousal of a predator stalking its weakened prey nevertheless. 

"Heard 'bout your debt, too—" he tuts, a rasping coo that sounds how you imagine the bristled tongue of a big cat would feel shredding your skin. "He's the one who saved you, ain't he?"

It becomes too much. The pressure bubbles over. 

All your meagre years of existence have taught you to quell the surge of fight or flight, to push it down and stand firm, stoic, amid the array of nefarious people who happened to cross your lonely path in the catacombs where they barter over lives, and makes deals with the devil for any number of precious commodities—even people. A person with a debt, you found, is worth significantly less than someone without. A truism you've heard hissed into your ears when you turned their offer of freedom down. 

Handing the leash from one hand to another is hardly autonomous. 

You know from these experiences that any sense of weakness or fear is blood in the water. A struggling fish on the verge of being eaten by the predators lured in by its futile struggle to stay alive. 

In its effort to survive, it inadvertently signs its death warrant. 

If you don't look like you belong, then you don't. A simple fact you've picked up from years of weaving in and out of Makarov's towering shadow. 

It's easy to forge some sense of delusive confidence in the face of those people, the ones who clutch at your arms hard enough to leave an ache in your bones, but something about his composure, his gall, to approach you like this makes that carefully constructed mask crumble into broken pieces at your trembling feet. 

His eyes, you think. They're not the flat, empty gaze of a predator sparking to life when a piece of meat is dangled in front of it, but something deadlier. 

The assured placidity of a man who can play the long game; a hunter who is used to stalking his prey over long distances. 

The look in his eyes says he can wait this out for as long as it takes. 

Fight or flight. You've crushed the concept down to basal parts: a silly whim that will just get you killed. Fight and you'll be forced to contend with people who've been doing this a lot longer than you have. Flee and you'll never be allowed back inside. 

You've never had any choice but to ride the high of adrenaline and paranoia out until they got bored with your vacant stoicism. 

(Or—when in doubt—use your trump card of touch me again and do you have any idea what Makarov will do to you?)

Somehow, you know neither option will work on him.

And it itches under your skin. Hackles raising. Heart pulsing. Blood rushing with the heady cocktail of adrenaline. 

You turn, ready to flee, but his hand lashes out through the shadows, catching your forearm in a tight grip. 

"Look, love," he murmurs, words low, guttural, like he's speaking to a cornered animal. "This is bigger than you. Than me. Do you want that debt gone? To be free of 'im? Well, here's your chance."

A test. The information he knows is too much for any regular officer—even a military one.

"Makarov isn't like that."

There's a flash of something—disappointment, maybe; disgust—but it's gone in an instant. Hidden behind layers and layers of distance. 

"Maybe not. But several of his companies showed up on someone's ledger. We know this person wasn't a partner in the Horseman. He wasn't one of the four. But he was collecting money from Makarov."

"It's probably through his charity fund." 

"Don't you wanna know why your saviour is funnelling money to corrupt officials? Or why do people who can't pay for upgrades end up dead on the street? Stripped down like a piece of meat and sold for profit. Doesn't any of this concern you?"

"Makarov would never do that—he'd never stain his public image."

"He isn't the man you think he is. None of them are."

"Maybe you're not the man I thought you were. Maybe coming over here was a mistake." 

An impasse. Uncrossable. 

He's a rat, you think. A plant from Makarov to test your resolve. Your will. 

The glare on your face hardens. Yuri must have told him your type. Must have let it slip the kind of man that seems to catch your interest. Broad shoulders, thick thighs. A tapered waist. Gruff, chiselled men with dirty hands, stained from hard work. Honest, good men. 

Men who belong in fairy tales. Blacksmiths and forgers. Miners. Ironworkers. The kind who wants nothing in life but simplicity, a warm bed, and a hearty meal. Ones who stand up to injustices but would never, ever call themselves a hero. 

A rough gentlemen that wouldn't even consider themselves as such. 

Stupid. How stupid. 

He was always too good to be true. You should have known better. 

When the silence stretches on, pulled taut like a rubber band, he huffs. Shattering the icy tension with another roll of his massive shoulder. 

"Here," he reaches into the folds of his jacket once more, and retrieves a new card. A chip. "If you ever change your mind, gimme a call."

Makarov is a smart man. 

"I won't." 

But he's raised you to be smarter. 

Makarov is many things—a money-hungry monster included—but above all of that, he's a businessman with a reputation. 

He's only one-fourth of a massive tech conglomerate that puts public relations and corporate profits over everything else—even personal gain. None of the heads makes any decisions without express permission from everyone who eats at the table. Doing otherwise would get you killed. 

Have you ever heard the story of a hydra? That's what we are. Four horsemen. The heads might change but there will always be four. 

To do something like this would put him at direct odds of everything the Horsemen, the Inner Circle, set forth to do. Risking it all to sell his own repossessed parts at a lower profit margin on the black market is absurd. Crazy. 

He'll make more money on the interest each debt accumulates than he would having it paid off in full, or even wiped. It's an unspoken underline all the Horsemen profit from. Their own personal gain. 

You can't see him losing that over a meagre payout in the black market. 

And as a regular peruser of the market, you would have noticed him, or someone in his circle, down there. 

(You know everyone down there.)

It's impossible. 

And yet—

The run-in with the man rattles you still. 

You're quick to deduce that he isn't a plant by Makarov. He'd never let one of his talk about him like that or accuse him of the kind of things that would bring the Horsemen together in a way that could only end with Makarov on trial. 

It being Makarov is a gamble he'd never take. 

But him not being on Makarov's payroll is equally risky. It's not exactly a secret that the Inner Circle runs around with shady groups—Ultranationalists., and Konni rogues being some of them—but nothing has ever been confirmed, and the Ultranationalists have never been loyal to anyone except their agenda. 

People who tend to ask questions about the Horsemen are either added to the payroll or, if that doesn't work, silenced. 

Military. They don't usually get involved in corporate affairs. 

But you suppose a missing friend is enough to spur anyone on. 

You should forget him. Should push him from your mind, and pretend he was just a figment of your imagination. Something that crawled from the foetid cesspit where hope rots, and stood in front of you offering sanctuary with hands that leaked pestilence down on the grungy floor of the club that bred and reared depravity. 

What he was offering couldn't exist in the same space as that place. 

But he knew you. Knew about your debt. The one thing you wanted more than anything else offered up in a chrome-plated palm. And—despite everything you've tried to erase it—the only group who'd have the ability to do so approaches you. 

It's odd. This whole situation seems strange. 

Offering up information on Makarov to the military in exchange for freedom. You know it isn't him. It can't be. The risks outweigh any potential money Makarov would make doing this. His life for a paltry sum when a single person's debt on their upgrades singlehandedly paid for several of his his penthouses in Al Mazrah. 

Seems too good to be true, and you were taught to be wary of the hand that feeds you.

Logically, you know you should toss the chip away, and never deal with this again. Or, better yet, to hand it over to Makarov to deal with and bargain for a chunk to come from your debt. 

If you were selfish, you would. 

No. 

If you weren't selfish, you would. But you are, so you don't. You don't because he didn't promise a chunk, he promised all. All of it. Gone. Erased. Voided. The balance on your head would be zero. Nothing. You'd be free of Makarov—a man who saved you only to imprison you in a gilded cage. 

A man who is more enigma than you could ever begin to unravel. 

Why he keeps you around on a short leash, content to let you weave in and out of his many assets as you please, only having to meet with him every few months in what feels like glorified check-ins to confirm you're still desperately seeking a way to sever the ties that are reinforced with steel. 

The man is strange, but Makarov and his murky intentions for you are even more so. 

It makes those needling questions rear again. Ones that can't help but wonder if Makarov keeps you around because you happen to be his greatest achievement: manufactured sentience. 

After all, even the most sentient androids in the world know, fundamentally, that they are not humans. There is a categorical difference, and the idea of false humanity was deemed too cruel to bestow upon someone—android, cyborg, or otherwise—and so, telling you outright that your insides are an immaculately designed machine is not only illegal, but it's also the one thing he'll do anything to avoid—

"—a PR nightmare," he spits, words soaked in the same venom that leaks from his narrowed glare. You watch the implosion from your perch near the floor-to-ceiling window in his penthouse, eyes gazing impassively out at the technicolour city sprawling below. His voice carries through the room. "A fucking—"

Disaster. 

In a stroke of unfortunate luck, someone in the local police department made a report on a man left for dead in the gritty downtown streets of the city—affectionately named Killhouse—after being stripped of all his implants with near-surgical precision. 

No one ever reports on these specific cases because of how often they happen, and where. It's no secret the police keep a wide distance around the area that moonlights as a broken redlight district and the entrance to the black market. It's almost wholly under the thumb of the constantly warring Vanguards—the Hellhounds and the Tyrants are almost always in some type of civil dispute—and a very not-so-secret secret is that they pay the police to turn the other way. 

This, then, is quite a deviation in how things are normally done. 

His debt to Four Horseman Corp is made known to the world—an insurmountable number that never seems to decrease due to the exorbitant interest piled high. 

It brings about uncomfortable questions, and the greedy outlets sink their claws into the morsel offered like starving rats scavenging for scraps. They plaster it everywhere until a discussion starts. 

Why is interest so high? 

The discourse surrounding the oligarchy on technology is not a new one by any means, but for the first time in a very long time, it doesn't feel like it's going to get swept away anytime soon. The launch of their new nanotechnology is halted until it dies down. Until the media circus has quieted enough not to let sales of a new product tank.

PR nightmare, indeed. 

The timing is suspicious, but the cop who made the report is new enough that it doesn't raise too many eyebrows. Human error. A simple mistake.

You think back to the man, fingers idly running over the groove of the chip you told yourself you'd toss out nine times already, and wonder if it's connected. 

Makarov's call wasn't too impromptu considering he regularly likes to check in, but he sent Anatoly instead of Yuri and something about the brutal man leering at you sets your teeth on edge. 

His usual meetings mainly just consist of him lauding your neverending debt over your head, and reminding you he doesn't accept dirty money. And, of course, to gather names. 

Your appearances at the White Horse are less about contemplating the depravity of the upper echelon, and assembling a list of men and women who visit, and what they purchase. 

Makarov's greatest achievement—and his biggest spy. 

"You hear anything?" 

In the darkened glass, his reflection lifts his head from where it was bowed over a netpad, angry eyes skimming through the abundance of articles, and fixes themselves on you. Narrowing. 

"Hear what?"

"What else?" He huffs. Wrong answer. "Anything about this when you were at the club."

You haven't been back since that night, offering excuses to your watchman, and glorified chauffeur as to why you couldn't go. 

"No," you say and hate the way your mind immediately flashes back to that man. "Nothing really." 

He stands up from his chair—throne, really—and lays his palms flat on the surface of his chrome-plated desk. It sparks to life under his fingertips, LED lights flaring through the wires embedded into the grain. A holographic menu in net blue pops up in front of him. 

The glass inverts the image, but you could make out the familiar cage anywhere. 

"You left your post for a while. Borodin said you slipped away from him." 

It's not outright accusatory yet, but you catch the paper-thin wisps of suspicion in his tone all the same. 

It doesn't surprise you when he follows it up with, "so, where'd you go?"

"I saw someone," you shrug. "Wanted to get a better look."

"Who was it?"

"I don't know." It's not a lie. Not the whole truth, either, and you think he senses that. 

"It wouldn't happen to be a police officer, would it? This stupid shit—," he lifts his hand, sweeping it across the articles drifting by in the side of the screen before laying it over his brow. "—could end me. And the timing, too."

Words bubble in your throat. You don't know what compels you to speak them aloud—maybe the needle of humour weaving through the conflicting tangle of everything gnarling inside of your chest—but they tumble from your lips without any regard to who, exactly, you're speaking to. 

"Maybe once you're gone, I won't have to worry about my debt anymore."

The hand rubbing his forehead stills. 

You tense, teeth sinking into your tongue until you taste blood. Stupid. 

"Is that what you think, kitten?" Slowly, he lifts his head, hand sliding down until it covers his jaw. His eyes are burning. "You don't owe a debt to me—you owe a debt to the Inner Circle. Not the Horsemen, not Zakhaev. But to us."

You turn from the window with a sharp jerk, eyes widening. Despair sinks its claws into your jugular. 

"You're an asset. An investment. The technology used to save your life is unprecedented. Do you think we'll just let you go? Do you know how long it'll take to pay your debt off, kitten? Five hundred and thirty-six years—and you're barely paying off the interest as it is." 

Makarov often has his lackeys do the intimation for him—Anatoly in particular—while he hides behind the mask of a charismatic innovator just looking to improve the world. It's rare he ever raises his voice, or his hand.

This, the picture of anger perched behind his chrome throne, is the closest to something true to his real self than you'd ever seen before. Anger. Bitterness. Contempt.

He moves slowly around the desk, and you feel every second of it like a blunt stab to your chest. Trepidation, fear. 

You've become so complacent with what Makarov pretends to be that you forget who he really was.

When he finally reaches you, the storm cloud in his gaze clears into something like sadistic victory. Vindication. 

He leans down, his chin brushing over your cheek. 

"You better hope nothing happens to me. I'm the only reason you're not being made to work for us as well. You like your freedom, yes? Then I suggest you pray I stay alive, kitten." 

You stare at the image on the screen, and try not to let yourself weep at the sight of it so bluntly looming before you. 

A debt owed to the Inner Circle. 

A contact promising payment in addition to employment to them. The handler of the current account is Vladimir Makarov. 

Maybe it's naïvety, ignorance, but you've always assumed the loan was only to Makarov. He was the first person you saw when you woke up—the first real one, anyway—and something about him seemed almost too big for the small room you were housed in. Too surreal. Everything felt new and strange and familiar and old and comforting and—

And then he said: 

You know how this works, don't you? 

You didn't. Or maybe, once upon a time, you did, but everything inside of your head was scraped clean with a scaple until the walls were barren and empty. Void of any substance.

Who you were was a black hole. A vaccum. 

Makarov was the one who filled the vacant space with purpose. With meaning. 

And you hated him for it. 

Made to pretend to be whatever he decided fit his needs; a puppet for his amusement. 

He owned you. 

Made you whole again. 

In that, you just assumed that he was the one who footed the exorbitant bill to resuscitate you from whatever hell you clawed out of, narrowly avoiding the gnashing maw of death. It made sense. 

And in many ways, you just assumed that he would die. 

A corrupt CEO. They're rampant here. Heads roll all the time, and you were content with waiting it out until someone put the barrel of a gun to his forehead and told him his tyranny was up. Freedom drenched in the blood of your financier. 

Fitting, isn't it?

You were pulled from the blood-soaked cobblestone, and given a second breath of life by his hands. 

Born in blood. 

(Born in blood. Died in blood. Born in blood. Freed.)

You slip the chip into your phone, breath held in your throat as the calling card loads. 

It's archaic. No one uses these chips anymore except old people, and the government. Untraceable. It's good for a single contact number only. The sight of it makes you huff—a shaky bloom of mirth in your chest. 

It feels out of place. You trample it down, hiding it behind a mask of indifference, nonchalance. The same veneer Makarov glues to his own. 

(Something you'd rather not think about.)

The screen idles for a moment. No answer. A sham call. A fakeout. A—

He doesn't appear on the screen. It's blank. In the black surface, your sallow face stares back. Traitor. 

"I was wonderin' when you'd call."

"You expected me to?" 

"If you were smart, you would have."

"If I was actually smart, I wouldn't be calling you at all." 

"Mm, I'm glad you did," he murmurs, voice tinny and thin through the speaker. "A debt that big won't just go away…"

It stings. You swallow it down. "Yeah. Guess you got that right." 

"What's wrong?" 

"Aw, do you care? That's sweet." 

"I've been called many things, love. Sweet ain't one of them." He shifts. You hear the clink of his metal fingers tapping over the ancient phone in his hand. A surly old man with an old chip. You stifle a laugh. It's ridiculous. You're ridiculous. This whole thing is—

"—Important that we find the link between the missing parts and Makarov. It might lead us to Alex, and—"

"Huh?" You blink. "I never said I'd—"

"Go see what you can dig up for me. I need something—a paper trail. I can't get into the black market, but you can."

"How do you know what?" 

"Know a bit about you, love."

"How?" 

"You ain't the only one with friends in high places." Another shift. The grind of metal against metal. "Now, are you in? Or are you gonna try and pay this debt off on your own, hmm? How long will that take you? Few hundred years?"

"Makarov will kill me if I do this—"

"And how many people will be killed if you don't?"

You don't answer. Can't. That responsibility shouldn't be on your head. 

He sighs. A rough huff of static through the line.

"If you want that debt gone, meet me at the location m'gonna send you. You called for a reason. Makarov can't touch you if you owe him nothing. Their ship is sinkin', love. You gonna go down with them? Be a prisoner your whole life? Or are you gonna be smart an' abandon ship while you still have the chance, because once I leave that place, m'not gonna answer again. You'll be on your own."

"I'll think about it."

"Make the smart choice, love."

He doesn't give you anything else. The line goes dead with a click. Silence. Unbearable. Stifling. It permeates in the air around you, buzzing like static. A disturbance in the airwaves. A rustle in the stagnant life you've been sloughing through for the last three years. 

A moment later, your phone chimes. A map appears. Some remote bar on the outskirts of the city—the only place Makarov's influence doesn't reach. 

Make the smart choice. It's your freedom or your head. 

[alectoperdita]

What you can't bury

Part 18 of Lure

Rated: E Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters Pairing: Jounouchi Katsuya/Kaiba Seto Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Tags: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Organized Crime, Internal Conflict, Power Imbalance, Power Dynamics, Blood and Torture, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Sex as Coping Mechanism, Unhealthy Relationships, Trauma Bonding, Codependency, Porn with Feelings, Porn With Plot, Explicit Sexual Content, Degradation, Masochism, Impact Play, Asshole Spanking, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Breeding Kink, Sex Toys, Rough Sex, Painful Sex, Mild Painplay, Punishment, Cock & Ball Torture, Mild Breathplay, Come Feeding, Praise Kink, Under-negotiated Kink, Somnophilia, Sexting, Dick Pics, Semi-Public Sex, Workplace Sex, Light Bondage, Nipple Play, Nipple Clamps, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sounding, Misogyny, Public Blow Jobs, Choking, Ass to Mouth, Urethral Play

As discontent swells amongst the Aoryu-kai's ranks, those wishing to seize power for themselves emerge. They threaten everything—Kaiba's leadership position, the tiny sliver of peace Jounouchi's managed to carve out for himself, and whatever tenuous bond exists between the two of them. Will saving Kaiba's hide save Jounouchi too? Or is this finally his chance to escape from under the kumicho's thumb?

Read Chapter 7 on AO3 Series Masterlist

---

You must take what you want, Gozaburo lectured repeatedly. It had been one of his earliest lessons. No one will give anything to you.

It all belonged rightfully to Seto, the presumptive heir. The Aoryu-kai, the power, the house, the cars, the kowtowing sycophants—it was his by blood price.

The tanto sank into flesh like it was butter. Gozaburo jerked beneath him. His eyes flew open as his mouth rounded, but only a wet gurgle escaped. Slowly, Seto drew the blade out, letting the man feel every centimeter of the steel leaving his body along with his lifeblood.

Seto, Gozaburo mouthed silently, his eyes glistening like the moon sunken in the pit of a sake cup. His feeble hands, fat from complacency, scrambled across Seto’s shoulders. They lacked even the strength to ruffle his yukata.

Lurching forward, he struck again, plunging the tip straight into the gut and slicing sideways.

A fountain spilled from the twitching body, soaking into his yukata. It burned hot and slick between his inner thighs, bathed, no, baptized for his ascension.

Seto hacked.

Stabbed.

Sliced.

He ignored his screaming muscles and the white-hot sensation in his chest and took.

[fraternum-momentum]

Wanna milk a bull boy Kylar by squeezing his breeder balls and teaching him how to do it on command

you had me the moment you said bull boy kylar [uncensored here !]

[localcryptic]

WIP wednesday (and it’s actually a wednesday this time woo!) tagged by @westealtoys !

i got a ton of random ripley sketches/doodles/projects going on, so here’s a collection of ripley WIPs. WIPleys, if you will (feat. two doodles of @b33tlejules 's teo lol)

i inflict wip wednesday upon @b33tlejules @typhros @autumnfangirler and @aurriearts :3 and anybody else who wishes to participate! i wish to see all that you create

[ge]

tangchung fic recs plz…. orz

anything for yewwww :hearthands:... some of these recs r copy and pasted from a previous rec but the last few r new..

can we at least hold your hands by sunshot .. very cute gen fic and also my fave rotmhs fic of all time, unfinished but can be read as a standalone

to all the days we were together (to all the days we were apart) by klixxy .. my FAVE rotmhs author atm, angsty gen fic w implied tangchung

sometimes love is enough (missing you is an avalanche) by klixxy .. ANOTHER KLIXXY FIC.. more angst but w tangchung as the focus

and if i start to grieve (forgive me) by klixxy .. more klixxy more angst.. this one really tugged on my heart strings.. unfinished but ongoing

about the confusion of time by lena013 .. fluffy cute tangchung fic

at the heart of it by asphalticmemories .. chung myung identity reveal fic!!!! unfinished but ongoing

the sword of mount hua by missmaesama .. obligatory ‘characters watch the show’ type reaction fic, its so good and so silly its my fave of all the reaction fics atm.. unfinished but ongoing

--

shade of verdigris by asphalticmemories .. gen fic w implied tangchung

hold me by wistfully_x .. tangchung

what comes after by snail .. tangchung GIFT FIC FOR MEEEE SO SWEET

i'm glad i share a universe with you (there's no reality i'd rather choose) by wistfully_x .. ANOTHER TANGCHUNG GIFT FIC 4 ME LOOVE LOVE LOVE

the only exception by wistfully_x .. tangchung

it's not a ghost story (it's a love story) by rainny_days .. one sided tangchung

let me be with you once again by nononon27 .. tangchung.. unfinished but ongoing

[ongreenergrasses]

the sun persists in rising

Annie has a life now. She has a family, she has a son. But five years after the war ends, they tell her Finnick’s alive, and Annie knows she’s supposed to be happy. They’re supposed to be happy.

Annie knows that. But it isn’t that simple.

[nartml]

naruto antis: naruto fighting to gain the respect of the same village that was the source of his pain is annoyingly bootlicking behaviour, this level of desperation is beyond me

(as sasuke stans, one of our biggest talking points is "it's actually not valid to hate on a character for reacting to their trauma in a way that displeases you")

[hcdragonwrites]

Apple Blossoms (@journey-to-the-au What if AU fic)

A cute Haarini and Wukong fic that I’ve been dying to push out. God I love this pairing so much. Please ENJOY!

“How long do you think it will take?” Bajie, third disciple, was leaned against the monastery wall a frown furrowing his snout. The pig had just wanted Wukong settle their Master into an alcove in the room, set away from any windows or doorways. Of course Trip had asked Wukong to go begging for fruits- even though the monastery had given them a hearty course of noodles and steamed buns from the kitchens. Wukong had obliged his master, bowing low before seeking out her and asking her if she wanted anything.

“What do you mean?” Wujing was tending to some clothing, working a needle through the ripped and broken stitching along the edge of the fabric. The river demon didn’t seem to have a care in the world as the Stone Monkey leapt from the window and out into the afternoon light beyond.

“Come on Wujing!” Bajie stated exasperated. “ You can’t be blind to what’s going on…” he motioned with his hands to the open window where their brother had gone out and the silver form of Haarini who brought over the scrolls Tripitaka had requested from the monastery archives.

Wujing looked up from his stitching when Bajie have him a kick in his leg and blinked. It took him a moment between looking out the latticed window and to the silver simian beside their master to piece together what was bothering Bajie so much.

“Oh you mean between Wukong and Miss Haarini?” Wujing asked. He didn’t quite see the point his brother was trying to make.

“Yes. The ape is practically head over heels for her and he doesn’t have a clue!” Bajie fumed. He watched Haarini help lay out stones to hold the old and crumbling scroll open, setting a small red candle nearby so Tripitaka could read the fading letters with little strain. Bajie liked to think he was an expert on love and courtship. He had experience - albeit mostly rejections but he would never admit they were failures, just wrong girl wrong time scenarios- and had an eye to see that when Wukong looked at Haarini he had all the tenderness in the world.

“I think the young Miss is also in love with him.” Wujing commented softly. He was almost done fixing the hole in his spare trousers. Bajie whirled off the wall and gripped the river demons shoulders and gave such a violent shake as to send the needle flying out of his hand.

“So you see it too?!” Bajie ground his teeth. If he was a fire demon, steam would have been coming from between his teeth. “Why doesn’t Wukong come out with it and just say it?! It’s infuriating.”

“Infuriating that he’s clueless ?” Wujing bent down to feel for his needle, staying calm even though some of the stitching from his hard work had come undone. “Or is infuriating because Bajie is jealous that our brother has someone interested in him?”

The sly taunt pricked the pig just as Wujing found his needle again- only to loose it as his brother grabbed his shoulders and shook again.

“Wujing! I had a wife remember.” Bajie huffed. “ If anyone knows romance it would be me!”

“Keeping your wife locked up while your in-laws called you a monster?” Wujing pushed his brother off him and caught his needle up again.

“I plowed their fields! I harvested their crops! They should be thankful for such a good Son-in-law!” Crowed the ex marshal. Haarini peaked around at them from her place beside Tripitaka. They were making such a noise about marriage and the pat exploits of Bajie she couldn’t help but listen in.

“Tell that to your ex wife.” Haarini heard that and immediately turned back to the scriptures Tripitaka was gently explaining. Whatever the two brothers were talking about- she wanted nothing to do with.

“Why doesn’t he just say it?!” Bajie reiterated, setting himself back down and against the wall.

“Say what?” Wujing was already engrossed in his work again, having forgotten what point his brother was trying to get to.

“That he loves her Brother! That he is doting on her like a moon eyed dawn after its mother!” It was adorable to see the very cheeky and very sly monkey stumble over his own feet in the presence of a girl. It would give Bajie satisfaction- if it didn’t confound him that this monkey had gained the amour and fluttering lashes of a lady!! “He practically tangled tails with her at every moment!”

“Maybe Wukong doesn’t really understand why he loves her… or what he may be feeling.” Wujing observed.

“What do you mean Wujing? Are you hinting that … Wukong may Never have … felt love before?” The thought seemed so sudden, so alien to Bajies mind that he recoiled from it. Bajie had loved almost since the moment he could conceptualized the thought. There were a lot of pretty women in the courts of Heaven and across the cosmos. I mean… they were women! Pretty dainty things with lips and curves and they all smelled wonderful! To think Wukong had never felt love.. never trysted with another …

“He’s felt love.” Wujing amended. With a pull and tug, the thread came free of its binding in a nice stitch. The hole was mended. “I just don’t think he’s ever had a crush.”

Wukong traipsed through the grove of apple trees, smiling softly to himself. His basket was full of fruit from seven different mountaintops now. He had oranges, cherries, plums, peaches, strawberries, mangos and apples. An assortment of fruits he had to beg and somersault across ranges and deserts for, to hop and skip rivers and oceans just to get across.

Wukong wouldn’t range so far for several reasons. One was his master had a terrible stroke of misfortune that always plagued him to no end whenever the monkey was gone. One would think after so many kidnappings and snatchings, trickings and plyings with sly words, that his other brothers would become more observant right ? Wrong! Wujing could be depended upon, bless him. But Bajie? Sometimes Wukong wanted to peel those pig ears off his head and wipe that grin from his snout in frustration.

When it came down to seeing glamour Wukong was the best. No demon could hide from his discerning eye. His Master knew this- and still would be swayed my Bajies words to disbelieve the Sage.

Bajie had talked his Master into saving demonic women who could pluck the very souls from bodies. The pig had made arguments against Wukongs cautions when it came to a platter of fruits that smelled too sweet or tea that looked just a bit to colorful. And the third disciple ? He had a terrible and scary habit of falling asleep at any and all hours. Ba Longma, their second brother and disciple, had had to wake the pig on more occasions then not.

So the rest of Wukongs reasons? They solely fell on Bajies shoulders. The blame for Wukongs paranoia was at the pigs feet. However that had changed when she came to join them.

Haarini.

She was a flash of silver white fur that had taken him by surprise, knife held to his throat and her teeth flashing. “Who are you?” Had been hissed from a face full of violence and fear.

I am someone completely confused and surprised. Had been Wukongs first thoughts.

Wukong had knives, polestars, maces, bats, clubs, swords, halbergs, quarterstaves, fans, morningstars, greatswords, axes, arrows, tekko, butterfly swords, falchions, rapiers, katana, Dadao and all things sharp or meant for killing pointed at him along the journey. The people wielding them had been mortal and demon alike.

However none of them had been monkey. It was like … looking into the past. She resembled nothing of his people, nothing of his mountain. She wasnt him, had never been him.

Yet the fear… the tremble… Haarini had been in a state when she came to the group. It had taken communicating and gentle coaxing by all to get her to ease. And when she did ? She promptly fell to sleep like a stone being dropped in water. Wukong felt a smidge of something within him beginning to grow white hot. An ember of a feeling he had not been aware of missing.

He had been king of Flower Fruit Mountain longe before he had been imprisoned beneath the Five Phases mountain. Though he hadn’t acted kingly in quite a long time, Wukong felt himself beginning to slip back into that mantel.

Was he bossing anyone around and giving orders and such? No. Being a king was a bit more then that. Besides Bajie would probably disregard him as he always did if given an order. No this was the other side of Wukong that had been seen in glimpses and flashes, like a white Hart in the woods.

This was the part he had always at his core had been: loving. Caring. Compassionate. Wukong wanted the best for his people. He had been driven across the sea to find in in Sabhuti and learn of the art of eternal life. The monkey had cultivated himself for years- all in the name of seeing his people live long and happy lives. To forever live.

Wukong had seen what death did. It took the joy from the living, took a person they loved - wether it be mate or child, mother or sibling- and left nothing but the frozen form from whence their soul inhabited. A husk of the bright flicker that had been before. Wukong had seen his fair share of tears from his people when the first of their troop had died, heart giving out in the middle of festivities and livelihood.

He had tasted the tears of his people as they had buried the elder, the first death Wukong had seen so naturally snatched in the prime spark of life, thrown petals onto the body. Wukong had experienced his first burial. He had seen the mourning.

That sorrow had been a thorn in his foot, a bite from a bug he could not ignore. He worried at it, picked at it. Would he suffer the same fate? But if he did- who would be left to protect the little children,the elder mothers, the stubborn adolescents, from the things that prowled and saw them as nothing more then Monkeys?

They were more then Monkeys. Each of his people had a name. The elder, Sunrise, had been the first name etched into the stone monkeys heart. Wukong refused to forget his smile, the way he called the loudest in the halls during feasts, or how he liked to tell the little ones ghost stories and make the mothers box him about the ears.

Wukong had made a determination, a declaration to himself. That would be the last needless death.

He had not been able to fulfil it completely.

Wukongs own need to secure safety had lead to his rise in power, which had lead to Heavens notice of him. This had lead to the first incidence of scorn and contempt by immortals Wukong had ever experienced. From Humanity? He had learned in his time with Sabhuti that bot all the disciples there looked at him with fondness.

They were mortal men, unaccustomed to the long days of merriment and joviality that Sun Wukong had created in his mountain. Their time was fleeting in Wukongs mind- like grains of sand racing to the bottom of the glass. Wukong wanted to stop his own pell mell fall into that same trap- and had succeeded.

From immortals however ? Beings he had given respect to - as much as he could while also giving them a bit of cheek and teasing for that was his way, to tease and to teach- and had been full of wisdom to him?

They had treated him nothing like his people. Nothing like Sabhuti. Contempt and belittlement had been slung at him.

So of course he had reacted.

That had been more then Five hundred years go. Ages since he had last seen his people, the children, the elders of his mountain.

Flashes of his old self, of the caring free loving monkey king from before had been slow to come forward. Yes he was still a cheeky and conniving trickster. But the playful care ? The kind he would use to tease the children of the mountain into trying new things, or to encourage his generals into learning new maneuvers ? That came in rare flashes in the most secluded moments with Tripitaka, when his master was not breathing down his neck about the importance of every life.

The importance of every life is moot if your being picked out of some upstart demons teeth.

However… Haarini had woken something Wukong was not expecting to awake until he was home and back on his mountain. Care.

Wukong set the basket down in the dew speckled grass, humming as he leapt into the tree above. The cloud cover here was beautiful - frosted in the dying light of the sun and cold crisp scent of winter winds. Wukong was in a place that had longer winters and shorter summers, where the breath of winter was always a step from the door. But for right now the summer was warm enough to fight the chill winds.

Up among the twisting branches, blossoms and apples hung. The smell was soft and fragrant and numerous. The blossoms were small, delicate little things. Bees late to their hives still flitted over them. Wukong picked the best branches and gave them a fast snap. They came away like toothpicks, the blossoms hardly disturbed.

Wukong hoped down setting the branches in the top of the basket. His smile was soft. Warmth settled in his body as he placed the little cloth back over his findings. Then with a breath he spun away, up and over clouds in a somersault that sent him into the air and beyond.

Wukong was soon back at the monastery. The rooftile beneath his feet was still warm from the sun. Night had fallen fully, the blanket of stars in full display. Cicada’s and cricket song flooded the night. The monastery’s paper lanterns gave off a amber honey glow, the fluttering of moths casting large then life shadows across their surfaces.

Below the tiled roof came the comforting murmurs of conversation. Candlelight spilled from the latticed window below. Wukong could hear Bajie and Wujing arguing and the gentle tones of Haarini and Tripitaka in polite conversation. He pulled a bit of fur from his coat and blew, creating a woven basket. Wukong separated the fruits for his master and the little treats he had gathered for Haarini. There was a bit of honeycomb he had snatched, the apple blossom branches, the best Mangos and a few rich and juicy strawberries.

Once that was settled, Wuong felt his fur itch. The urge overcame him and he set to grooming- settling his orange and reddish fur back into place. Ears immaculate, clothes without a speck of dust, tail looking less poofy then before. Once his body stopped itching so terribly, Wukong rapped his knuckles against the latticework and gave a happy hoot. There was a silence then Haarini returned the greeting, musical voice answering his in greeting.

The frame was opened and Haarini stuck her head out, yellow eyes flashing in friendship.

“What are you doing out here? You can just come in.”

“I want to give you something.” Wukong waited eagerly at the edge of roof. He was leaning down looking at her, hands holding the tiles. Everything was cast in a sort of upside down view, the room beyond the window a mess of jumbled shapes. Except Haarini. The simians silvered fur was like a second moon in the light as she quirked a brow at him.

“And that cant be done inside?”

“Not with Bajie.” He peered a bit further and into the room. The third disciple was carrying on about his ex wife and how he was a great husband. Rubbish. He may have done the work of seven people and then some but he had kidnapped his wife first off. That was something no father in law would enjoy. Or mortal women.

“The pig will only ruin it!” Wukong decided to use his secret weapon- he pressed his face close to hers, blinking to make his eyes grow large. “Please Haarini it will be a good surprise.”

Haarini blinked then laughed, snorting in a way that set Wukongs spine to rippling in the most beautiful way. He loved seeing her delight. The Sage would become the greatest jester in all the heavens if he got to hear her soft laughter.

Wukong passed the basket through the window, the one containing the majority of the fruit “Here take the fruits to Shifu and then come back to the window.”

Haarini took the basket and disappeared from sight. With her gone the itching began again in Wukongs fur. He had to resist turning to it and grooming by biting a fang into his lip. It felt like ages bur it was merely moments before she reappeared. The silver monkey was back at the window looking up. Wukong offered her a hand and pulled her up.

He didn’t let go and neither did she. Haarini leaned in looking at the identical basket covered in cloth and back to his golden eyes. Wukong took that moment to try and regain some of his thoughts back. Her smell was in his nose, her hands were soft in his. The way the dim starlight caught in her fur and danced across it like an Arctic crest of permafrost… she was so beautiful.

He could get lost in those eyes… warm like nectar and soft in the light…

“You are eager to show me what you have.” She spun and now was holding both of his hands. She looked up at him, a smirk on her face. “It better not be a trick.”

“No trick. Just close your eyes.”

“Wukong if you put a frog on my head..”

“It was one time! One!”

“One too many!” Her laughter echoed again. Wukong felt his ears melt in the sound of it. He was egged on now, entranced and encouraged by her mirth. A bit of the old King slide out from that place beneath the mountain of memory. He laughed back, allowing that play to prance upon his soul.

“But the frog had the same color eyes as you- it was a comparison” He teased and clucked. The words had their desired effect.

“You cheeky furbag!” Haarini called, smacking his shoulder in mock battle. Wukong felt none of the slaps but felt the little free spark in his heart flair to a flame.

“I am no cheek!” Wukong said with all the mischief.

“You are full of yourself and you know it.” Haarini teased. “Is this why you didn’t want to go down with Bajie?”

“Bajie likes my good humour! He would laugh at my jokes all the time before you came along.” Wukong puffed. He crossed his legs and gently coaxed Haarini down beside him.

“Possibly because you threatened him with a smack between the eyes.” She gestured to his ear where he hid his staff and mimed pummelling someone on the head.

“All in jest. I promise!” He pressed a hand to his heart as she glared at him. He felt a prickle of worry, just a smidge, as he motioned again.

“No frogs just close your eyes. Please?” Baby eyes engaged once more, trying to coax her not to be suspicious.

Haarini reached up and tugged on his ear in play.

“Alright. But if what you give me moves, I will shove it down into your gullet.”

“I dont doubt that.”

He waited until she had closed her eyes. He tested it by waving first his hand then his tail in front of her nose. Her face remained impassive, calm. The Sage had to shake himself bodily to get moving. She just was so pretty in the starlight — it should be criminal to shine without stars.

Wukong turned back to the basket and set to work. He quickly took the branches and easily wove them together. He only lost a few petals from the precious flowers. The scent smelled wonderful, crisp and clear. Wukong felt his tail twitching in excited flutters. He almsot giggled and ruined the surprise. Then Wukong turned and, with delicate care, set the crown of branches and blossoms onto her brow.

“Wukong wha—“ she was a bit startled, opening an eye as the cheeky King sprinkled the last of the apple blossom petals onto her.

“Behold! The flower Queen!” Wukong gave a regal bow, hands swooping back and out as his forehead practically kissed the tiled roof. “All hail the queen of spring!”

“You made me a crown out of blossoms?” Haarini gently ran a hand up and over the little branches that Wukong had woven together. The pale pinkish white petals gave off the softest smell and made her fur look lustrous.

“I couldn’t get you a bouquet.” Wukong chuffed smugly - and with a little bit of mirth. “Those are in the cities and the last time i got you one you nearly bit my fingers.”

“Wukong,” Haarini reproached, “You didn’t get me them-you stole them.”

“I acquisitioned them!”

“You stole them!”

Wukong smirked down on her. And unfurled his hand.

He dropped more petals onto her upturned face. The petals brushed over her nose and lips and Haarini breathed in the pollen.

This elicited the cutest sneeze The Great Sage Equal To Heaven had ever heard. Wukongs eyes blew out as she rubbed at her nose. “Oh my…”

Of course poor Haarini was unaware of the fawning King. She simply rubbed at her snout, trying to gain some composure. The petals had spread their pollen right into her face and nose, setting her to a few more sneezing fits.

A few more adorable honks that had Wukong all but fallen into himself in the urge not to suddenly grab her. It was just so … cute!

Haarini grumbled about the unfair advantages he had, specifically the one where she had no petals to throw at his smirking face when she had been right in the argument all along.

“Wukong my nose is streaming do you have a—“ her eyes had cleared enough to notice how close Wukong had gotten. He was less then a handspan away. He was laying on his belly, feet kicked up over his back, tail curled in a crescent.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Cute.” Wukongs head rested on his two hands as he peered up at her.

“What?” Haarini felt her ears beginning to burn, her fur itching all over as this monkey looked at her like she was the moon and stars and heaven come all to earth. Her heart gave a leap and her emotions were off and running. She had never had anyone admire her like that- had never had someone jest and play and look with such golden eyes into her face …

“Super cuuuute!” Wukong called again, reaching out to tap her now blushing face with the pad of a thumb. Haarini felt steam leave her ears and her fur curl. That heartbeat earlier ? It was racing- galloping- full sprinting like an Arabian horse over the desert dunes.

Seeing him looking at me like that …. I want to —

“Stop it, it was a sneeze!” She slapped at his face, feeling the thoughts of her heart beginning to overwhelm her. Haarini had had bachelors court her. She had had bachelorettes try and weave flowers into her fur. None had ever tempted her eye or caught her heart. There had been handsome ones, kind ones, ambitious ones. As the next matriarch of her troop, Haarini had felt a pressure to perform- to love and to tryst as her mother wanted and secure a successor to the bloodline.

Love had not come into the equation of it.

She had never expected to find it here, leagues away from everything she knew and loved, in the form of a monkey whos eyes glowed like the desert sun, whos laugh made her bones shake in pleasure and whos hands held the gentleset touches. A warrior such as he touched with the softness of day blending to twilight. Subtle and gentle.

Like he was now against her face, holding her in his palm and she, leaning in like she belonged there.

“The most adorable sneeze ever!” Wukong chortled as Haarini regained her independence from her lovesick heart and growled. She gathered some of the fallen petals up.

“Lets see how you like petals in your face!” Haarini pressed them into Wukongs face just as the simian had opened his mouth. The poor King was set on a fit of coughing and sneezing that had Haarini in stitches- but also rubbing his back and apologizing. Wukong returned the favour however as he grabbed her and tugged her back down and into him.

Haarini valiantly struggled under the wrestling. It was like fighting to pin and flip a mountain. She could try all she wanted but each time she got some headway over the King he would simply topped her back onto him. Then under him.

They both lay on the tile for a moment, Haarini catching her breath as she laughed and Wukong hardly breathing as he stared down at her. She was flushed a darker shade- from exertion or laughter he could not tell- and it added a undertone that had him staring into her.

Each time I look at her its like seeing her for the first time. My mind just cant give her an accurate shape.

Maybe one day I can ask an artist to paint her portrait. I never want to forget her smile.

Wukong flopped onto his side beside Haarini, fingering a bit of her crown.

“You are so cute covered in flowers.”

“Shut up-“ her breathes came out a bit faster but with no serious reprimand in them. Wukong felt a bit of a thrill. He had won. “I hope you have more then flowers for me.”

“Of course.”

Under the starlight, in the casting of apple blossoms and the smell of ripe mango and strawberries, the two sat. Enjoying each others company long into the night- past when the cicadas stopped their singing, past when the sky began to grow warm like milk tea in the turning of the day. Haarini talked and teased to Wukong and Wukong listened and teased back. They didn’t realize they were leaning into and upon each other, tails curled and wrapped like vines. When eventually Haarini fell asleep, it was Wukong who curled about her. He grew in size just enough to shelter her from whatever wind came upon them. He slept light, the seeping warmth from the roof tiles lending a heat to wherever they pressed into. Bellies full of fruit and hearts full of one another, the bight passed in peaceful companionship.

A companionship blossoming into the petals of love.

[hoshigray]

To conclude this week's leaks session, if such a fuckass plan was greenlit like this, then I'm not delusional to think that toji can come back for one last final frenzy

[kinkajouwof]

'CAUSE WE'LL NEVER STOP NOW UNTIL IT ALL COMES CRASHING DOWN HUMAN PROCRASTINATION 'TILL THE END

[howdoispectate]

Since I'm in school again (boowomp) I can only really do traditional art :p. Here's the daily dose of Yarnball :)

And a fun fact to go with it: Ruffles didn't realise he even had an allergy of cats until he met Purrham :) he finds it a funny way to find out.