#Sponge Monkeys

[cortexthephantomcrow]

When I die I’m going to come back as one of these

[sponges-place]

CW: Gore/Decay

"Halloween Dead-Venture (4/9)"

The gang has decided to call off their dare for now...

[pro-crastinate17]

derailing this post it is now about Rosie Every Day Of The Week by Sycamore Smith :thumbsup:

[itsabouttimex2]

Can we get an eclipse King's continuation does y/n wake up?

Eclipse Kings

Part Two: Barbed Dusk

(Part One: Mountain Monkeys) (Part Two: You Are Here) (Part Three: Wild Dawn)

(Extra One)

(You are a ragged little thing, unfit for luxury or lavishness. “Thankfully”, Macaque sees to curating your hygiene.)

They are covered in scars.

The Six-Eared Macaque; golden eyes dimmed in frustration and impatience, is now bereft of his crown. It had borne him a striking silhouette, each wicked spike on the circlet fashioned from gold.

You could not have known it yourself, and the shadowy king would never admit it to one whom he deigned a necessary pest as most, but… he had commissioned it only a week after losing his beloved Xiaotian.

With tear-stained cheeks and gouges torn into his fur from constant scraping, the simian had wobbled down from the mountain and into the nearest smithy, then threw down a glittering heap of golden coins. His only request had been; spoken brokenly, for “something that would hurt”.

The blacksmith had been hesitant at first. The request was unusual—not for the opulence offered, for he had forged again and again petty trinkets to sooth a lord’s ego. No, it was the pain. The simian’s trembling voice and sunken eyes spoke of a sorrow too vast to comprehend, but the blacksmith had seen enough grief bite down any questions. Instead, he had worked through the night, the rhythm of hammer on gold ringing out in the silence, a somber requiem for the monkey’s fresh loss.

So the blacksmith had fashioned him a twisted crown from that heap of treasure, taking what little was left as payment after beating the metal into a branching circlet that splintered out into harsh thorns, then plated it with rhodium to darken and reinforce the malleable gold underneath.

“It’ll hurt,” the man had reminded him, touching the crown only with his thickest gloves.

The look in Macaque’s eyes had told him enough- “I want it to,” spoken through his hollow eyes and gaunt frame and torn fur, but left unsaid on trembling lips.

And Macaque had taken it with his bare hands, punishing his treacherous fingers for “allowing” his son to slip through them.

He had not allowed his agony to end there.

The sharp tips bit into his scalp, drawing thin rivulets of crimson that trailed through inky fur, leaving raw furrows through its heartless embrace. He hadn’t winced or cried or paused, instead pressing it down further and further, lips curling into a grimace that might have once been a smile, his heart brittle and sharp like fractured glass.

It would hurt, but never as much as losing his son.

An unassailable grief, incapable of transmutation into vengeance or betterment.

Until you.

Until you had wandered into their stately pagoda, wandering through the lavish halls and snatching their food, leaving the trail of an all too familiar scent in your wake.

Until you had ran from them in fright as so many had years ago, twisting through woods just as jagged and thorned as the crown that Macaque had finally pried from his forehead, smashed and discarded at the empty grave they had fashioned for their found son.

You had led them back to him.

That thought alone keeps Macaque’s hands gentle as he lathers a thick sponge with fragrant soap, wetting it and rolling the squashy corpse* against your forearms.

His mate, holding his own sponge, tends to your legs with a manic smile- it hasn’t dropped even after a full night of sloppy celebration and utter destruction. Every last little memorial and shrine they had created now lay in pieces around the pagoda, only sparing what little the prince himself would have use for- the clothes and toys they had left on these altars as gifts that would have been now resided in the boy’s room-

“It’s Y/N’s room, too,” the little one had insisted, forcing them to make arrangements appropriate for both a demon toddler and a mortal… whatever age you were. Folding screens and an extra mat.. but nothing else. Not from malice, though- they simply hadn’t quite learned what else to put in “your” room.

There was no need to separate what was his from what was yours- you simply didn’t have anything at all. Every little luxury you had accumulated in that muddy rattrap was all for your brother.

The boy’s bed, piled high with plush animals and soft quilts, had been eagerly pushed closer to yours, left with “only” a few pillows and a single blanket as he excitedly prepared to sleep in warmth and safety for the first time in years.

(Only was not a word you knew. There was no “only” in the life of one who owned nothing.)

“You had enough of a nap on the way here,” Sun Wukong sighs. “So stay awake a little longer. We can’t let you go to bed filthy or injured.”

You want to protest. To scream and cry and plead for them to take their hands off of you, to let you return to that familiar; if squalid, hovel, to let you- and your brother- go back to the only home either of you had ever known.

But words die on your chapped lips, too exhausted to be parted for begging.

You just lay there in the tub, head held aloft by one of Wukong’s muscled hands, completely incapable of moving or protesting. You just… sit there, and accept the reluctant doting.

MK (“Qi Xiaotian”), the kings and all their soldiers and maids say. You don’t think there’ll ever be a moment that you’re used to that. ) sits next to the tub with worry in his little black eyes, trying his hardest to focus on the book he was gifted by his fathers- hand-drawn pictures of him decorate each page, detailing his growth from baby to toddler. Supposedly it would “stir his memory”, but the effort seemed futile- he had simply been too young to remember anything before you.

Neither of you were truly “home” in this pagoda, no matter how they tried to push you into believing that.

MK would adjust, definitely. He would come to enjoy plush toys and doting maids and loving fathers, ample food and warm water. He could grow to love silk pillowcases and wool blankets. He could grow to love warm halls and loving fathers.

He hadn’t lived like you had. No, MK had spent his time safely inside that wretched dump, playing with whatever toys you could scrounge for him, chasing little bugs and cooing at the occasional rabbit or squirrel that came in for shelter.

This was going to be harder for you.

The warmth of the water feels unfamiliar, outright alien in its softness . You are too used to icy streams that prick at your skin, the dry rasp of dirt and grime. Here, the milky water cradles you like a cloud.

Help.

You are being helped .

And you know what that means. Help comes at a cost. A leering smile from a vendor who would try and tail you through the woods. A begrudging shove of stale bread into your hands after a trade. Mumbled curses about a “pest” under the breath of a housewife giving you a chunk of too-ripe fruit.

What price will this cost?

The thought churns uneasily in your gut as Sun Wukong tilts your head upward, his golden eyes studying your face. They gleam like the sun, but there is no warmth for you.

(Not yet.)

They’re calculating, cataloging each bruise, each scrape. Every pale white line scarred deep and unremovable. The truth of agony is plain on your skin, a map of suffering written in purples, blues, and scabbed reds.

It does not miss him that his son is, in turn, totally unblemished.

Admiration without love. Gratitude without familiarity. Respect without want.

You have done him a greater favor than any other being could provide- you are owed praise and repayment, that much the vaunted kings know.

You are deliverance from grief and agony and a haunting eternity of wondering “what could I have done to save him?”.

But you are not his child.

The golden king’s hands are steady as he finishes rinsing the soap from your hair, the last traces of filth swirling down into the bathwater, which drains into a little bamboo pipe leading outside.

One of them, you don’t care to see which, wraps a towel around you. It smells faintly of mint and ginseng- things the rich put in their soaps and lotions.

The silence stretches, broken only by the soft lapping of water and the occasional creak of the tub as one of them shifts. You think you should feel safer in this moment, surrounded by warmth and covered neck to ankle, but the unease still roils in your stomach, a highly coiled spring just waiting to snap.

The unease is not lost on MK, who cuts through it like hot butter.

Y/N!” He cheerily calls, catching your attention. You turn your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. He’s holding the book up for you to see, a wide, gap-toothed grin plastered across his face. “Look! This is me! When I was a baby!”

The drawing he points to looks almost too real, imperceptible from reality aside from the lightly yellowed edges. An infant demon with wide, curious eyes, bundled in blankets, his tail peeking from the swaddle You glance at the page, then back to MK, who looks at you expectantly.

You don’t know what he wants you to say.

You don’t even want to speak.

But you manage a “It’s cute,” voice cracking from disuse. It’s the first thing you’ve said since they brought you here, and it feels strange. “ Very cute, kiddo.”

The silence grows tenser for your words, winding further through the room and forcing it into unease. And, like before, MK keeps going in spite of it.

“You’re gonna get sick if you don’t wear something warm,” MK fussed, tugging on the towel with one little paw. “You need to put some clothes on! And you need something to drink!”

“Your Baba can get them something to wear,” Wukong coos, tapping one clawed finger against his son’s rosy snout. “The maids sewed up some nice clothes for the two of you.”

“Moonlight, if you’ll get the paste, I’ll run and grab what they made.”

Macaque nods and releases you to sit alone on the floor, turning to scrounge through his lavish cabinets, each one stocked with a costly product that you couldn’t put a name to, paired to a price that would make your eyes water if you heard it spoke aloud.

You sit motionless on the tiles, towel wrapped tightly around your bruised shoulders. The plush fabric is too heavy, too soft. It’s not comforting—it’s suffocating. Every nerve in your body screams at you to run , but… to where? To what ? There’s no dirty stream to lose your scent in, no puddle of mud to smear yourself with for camouflage. There is no place left but here .

As you think on escapes, Macaque’s shadow coils- like a wispy vein of smoke- along the floor, and for a moment, you swear it’s alive, flickering toward you like a snake.

But you blink and then it is still, unshifting and steady.

You don’t imagine things often. You can’t bring yourself to think that this was one of those rare circumstances.

…he’s even more dangerous than you had believed, and with that dawning revelation a little spark of hope is squashed in your chest.

The sable king turns to you with two glads jars, both smelling of fresh herbs even through their seals. One he sets on the wooden rim of the bathtub, and the other he brings to you- the contents glow from within, faintly white and luminescent, as though moonlight itself had been processed and bottled.

“This is going to sting,” the king warns, dipping his claws into the glittering paste to scrape out a generous, gelatinous lump. “But it’ll keep you from getting infections.”

Everything hurts, and you are tired. So, so very tired that your eyes smear the colors of the world all around, incapable of perceiving fine details. All the embroidery of Macaque’s kingly robe, purple and black and silver, blend into a dark blob as he approaches, as he kneels, peels away the top of the robe, and begins to smear the paste across your upper body.

The searing sting is immediate , sharp enough to make you gasp, breath catching in your throat. It feels like fire crawling across your skin, burning out the grime and decay that had wormed under your flesh. It hurts, worse than icy waters soaking your feet in winter, worse than all the hounds that bit at your heels as you leapt fences, worse than all the beatings you had taken when your thieving was thwarted.

Throughout all your life, only one thing has brought worse pains- hunger. But even that feels like a distant memory now, boiled away by the sensation of prickling, running through your skin in a steady march.

Macaque pulls away with a little huff, shrugging his shoulders as you twitch and writhe in place.

“Be grateful. That stuff costs an eye and a half.”

It’s strikingly casual for a demon of his status, speaking almost like a…

Maybe he had spoken like this to MK once.

Maybe he was settling back into it, with his son back, and simply didn’t think to harshen his tone with you, given his preoccupation with unscrewing the second jar.

“This is something we’ve been trying to spread in that mortal village of yours- a paste blend to scrub teeth with. Mint, ginseng, and some rock salt…”

“…why, um. Why is it… why just for mortals and not demons, too?”

“Yaoguai grow their teeth back once they’re damaged- doesn’t matter if they rot out or get snapped. A new one grows in after the old. Mortals need to take care of what they’ve got. So one of our, ugh “Sworn Brothers”- with a real soft spot for squishy little mortals - worked to make this stuff with another of our “brothers”. He even gave us a crate for our own citizens.”

“…he seems nice,” you remark, thinking on the existence such a benevolent immortal. “I hear most demons just eat mortals.”

“Most yaoguai do,” he snaps, eye twitching at the term you used. “And those yaoguai have tried to break into our village before, and my mate has always protected all of you, even before I came in and married him. Now we protect all of you from yaoguai together.”

(…if he weren’t twice your size and equipped with claws and fanged canines, you might’ve seen fit to call him something mean.)

“Now, open your mouth.”

“…excuse me?”

“It’s an herbal paste. For your mouth. You wet it with clean water and scrub it over your teeth- it scrapes out filth, and there’s not much else you brought with you into our pagoda.”

“Hmm, almost like I didn’t bring shit because-“

Snapping through the air like a whip, he interjects with a snarled- “Language .”

Macaque’s eyes are narrow, golden irises flickering with a dangerous edge that makes your stomach churn. He leans closer, looming over you, and you’re suddenly reminded - and quite vividly- of the disparity in your sizes, in your positions. His shadow shifts, darker, heavier, wrapping around your silhouette in a way that feels utterly suffocating .

Your mouth clamps shut instinctively, a primal reaction to the unspoken threat. A dozen instincts claw at you: run, fight, scream—but there’s nowhere to run, no fight you can win, nothing. So, you simply sit there, jaw tight, avoiding his gaze, your whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm.

The shadow king exhales sharply through his nose and leans back, his oppressive presence retreating as he composes himself. When he speaks again, his tone is quieter, though still sharp enough to make you flinch.

“You’ve had it rough,” he says, somewhat reluctantly. “I get it. But you’re under our roof now. Which means you obey our rules. Watch your tongue, brat.”

Submission is a bitter taste you’ve rarely sampled- rare is it that you lie down and grudgingly accept a losing lot. But there is no choice now- he is stronger, faster, smarter. You have lost without even making a move.

“You haven’t been here a day, and you’re already biting a hand that hasn’t had time to feed you.”

“I didn’t ask to be here”, is what you want to say, to scream about the unfairness of being ripped away from a home that you were at least familiar with… but you’ve been cowed, and thus, simply open your mouth.

Reluctantly, you open your mouth.

“Good,” he says, his tone softer now, though still carrying that edge of command. He dips a soft-bristled tool you hadn’t noticed before into the herbal paste and scrapes up a small amount, before lightly dipping it into a small jar of water, then maneuvers that unfamiliar tool into your mouth with some small measure of gentleness.

The first bristles touch your teeth, and the sensation is strange. Foreign. Not painful, exactly, but intrusive. You flinch, more out of instinct than anything else, and Macaque pauses, his eyes narrowing just slightly.

“It won’t hurt. Or taste bad. Azure made sure none of this would be unpleasant for a mortal.”

You try to nod, though it’s awkward with the tool in your mouth. Macaque takes it as a cue to continue, brushing your teeth with a deliberate circular rhythm. long. But, true to his word, the paste doesn’t sting or leave an acrid aftertaste- instead, it’s cool and herbal, with a faint sweetness from the mint. The bristles tickle more than anything, and after a moment, your teeth start to feel… bare.

Stripped of grit and mud. Of moldy leftovers and bits of sand.

The grime that’s been built up after years of poor living is stripped like bark is peeled from a tree, in that all that is left under the coating is a smooth, soft white. The sensation is uncomfortable in its newness, leaving your mouth feeling raw and exposed. Your tongue darts along the surface of your teeth, licking again and again at the lack of filth.

“There,” Macaque huffs, pulling back as he dips the brush into a bowl of water to rinse it clean. “Clean enough that you don’t have an excuse for getting sick.”

You swallow thickly, avoiding his gaze. You don’t feel like thanking him. Not after everything.

Instead, you glance toward MK, who’s still engrossed in his book. He’s watching you through the corner of his eye, waiting for some kind of signal. You don’t know what he expects from you—a smile? A reassurance?

It seems like you’re as much a stranger to him as he is to you, despite your efforts to keep him safe all these years.

A demon prince hailing from the kings of Flower Fruit Mountain, heir to the throne.

To you, he had only ever been a sweet little brother.

Did you realty know him at all?

The thought alone is too much.

The warmth of the bath, the suffocatingly tight towel, the newness of your teeth, the watchful eyes of a being so much stronger than you. It’s all too much. You sit down and draw your knees up to your chest, clutching the towel tightly, a silent plea for space that you will not receive.

The tension in the air again grows palpable, but before it can thicken further, the golden king reappears, his arrival announced by the clink of glittering beads against tile. Sun Wukong strides in with a bundle of neatly folded clothes in hand, his gaze flicking between you and Macaque.

“I can take over from here, moonlight.”

[skeeterbutt]

Gon smells like 10 cans of bounce that ass golly bro. Ik this niggas armpit is STANKKKKK his and frigging Uvogin r on the same level of monkey nigga stank I am not racist I am black but golly nigga ok they both shower once in a pink moon and the use a quarter as a sponge and dawn dish soap as soap. Anyways my king Chrollo and Feitan stay CLEAN💜. Kurapika smells like cinnamon sticks. Hisoka smells like diddy tip cheese and butthole flakes🤢🤢🤢

#Dyanixoutfucklameassniggasfuckyobitch

[fashiondisastertournament]

GRAND FINALS OF TUMBLR'S FASHION DISASTER TOURNAMENT GOLDEN CROC AWARDS 2023

Matchup #7.1: Cecil Gershwin Palmer (Welcome to Night Vale) vs Teruki Hanazawa (Mob Psycho 100)

This is it! From 64 initial contenders, we're down to the final 2. Trexel Geistman from Stellar Firma took the third spot already, but who will be first on the podium? Who deserves a nice pair of golden crocs for just how BAD their fashion sense is?

For one last time, let's review their Fashion Crimes!

On the left side, rises Cecil Gershwin Palmer. Crowned the Tumblr sexyman, iconic enough to make it into so many tournaments, is he also Disastrous enough to win here? His run in this competition so far has been smooth, full of sweeps even against the toughest contenders. He has been often nominated for (all canonically):

his first date outfit being described as "my best tunic and furry pants"

wearing capri pants and a cummerbund to work

wearing yellow sponge clogs, cat ears, and tights to the opera

wearing "a black tuxedo and white bow tie, open-toed polished black shoes, a burgundy velvet cape, earrings made from repurposed car keys, and a top hat with furry tassels hanging from the brim" to his wedding

going to sleep in "a honeycomb hat, a Hawaiian shirt, and leather pants"

On the right, we have Teru. Oh Teru. While his fashion sense has inspired much art from his voters, he struggled in a couple of matchups, but Terunation always pulled through - even in the last 10 minutes in one case. Can he take down Cecil? Can he succeed where Reigen failed? Here are a few of his (illustrated) Fashion Crimes:

wearing a three foot wig which causes him to resemble a cactus (above)

picking out that horrible monkey shirt that you could see in the Mob poll for Mob (it was so bad it defeated god)

certain... official promo art and official fanbook outfits (below)

This poll will last for a WEEK per democratic choice from y'all, so you have tons of time to make and share that propaganda!

[rebeltigera]

Wait now I'm a little confused forgive me-

If rumble and savage are like 10% wukongs bc of the being made from powers stuff. How did that like happen? And would wukong be told eventually? His reaction?

Sorry I'm intrigued :0

Alright , class in session, now listen carefully

This stuff is purely made for that specific au alr so do not come for me smskskwsmks,

We need to tap in who Mac and Wukong are . As well as their differences. One is a stone monkey, one is born from a storm and shadows.

The stone monkey got like - natural celestial magic, from just being born . Which isn't really important to the story but worth to explain either way since he's one of the parents

And we have Mac . His shadow magic is eating this shit out. Mac himself is absorbing passively celestial magic like a sponge. Like black Material absorbs light. And trust me , he was doing it for a long long looooong time. Back then his fur was white. Remember that .

He met Wukong- he started absorbing passively whatever magic Wukong let out passively as well.

And it got cumulated in Mac's core basically.

Now.

Monkeys went causing havoc in heaven, wukong got locked up , Mac didn't know where he was , the thing, the passive energy he stored was very slowly depleting.

We come to the fight between monkeys, and separation that lasted 1000 years.

In these 1000 years , somewhere around 300-400 years in the energy he stored was out. His fur started to turn black ,

He started to have very dangerous uncontrollable outbursts of shadows ( a lot of them ) and in one of them they appeared. The last specks of Wukong's energy together with Mac's caused them to pop out .

They gave him a reason to not give up.

Mac has no idea of any of this. Not why his fur was white, Not how it works,nor what caused them to appear. He thinks that maybe he was broken enough for his subconscious to conjure up something like that- he won't question it.

Wukong might find out about this , but probably the first one to do so would be MK and his golden vision . Wukong is restricted from getting near those kids , even if he'd love to get to know them. Mac is bit paranoid in the healing arc, he is powerless , and he can't protect them from wukong if he'd ever want to hurt them . He's scared.

Wukong would weep if he knew. Relieved, horrified, sad, happy - all the mix

[quixotical-lymbo]

Pairing: Macaque & GN!Reader Rating: SFW Summary: Training alongside MK made you realize just how useless you are compared to the monkey king's golden student. A certain six eared macaque has something to say about that. Warnings: Brief mention/implication of blood, use of the nickname 'babe' in a condescending way, cussing and self-deprecating thoughts. Word Count: 960 words

The taste of iron made you recoil inwardly.

It did not help that the humidity of the unofficial training grounds made it harder to swallow the vile taste down your throat.

While you were crouched and staring mindlessly at the ground, a shadow fell over your form.

"Tired?" The voice snarked. "It's only been five minutes, babe, are you sure you can keep up?"

The corner of your eye twitched as you looked up to glare at the dark-furred monkey under the hood of sweat gathering on your eyelashes.

Five minutes? More like five hours...but you didn't voice your thoughts as you rose to stand again.

"Yeah, yeah," You grunted.

Your gaze strayed to look at the headband donning male training a few feet away from your spot. Macaque followed your gaze and smiled as he gestured to MK.

"He hasn't even broken a sweat since we've started, honestly, I'm impressed," Macaque murmured before peeking at you from the corner of his eye. "You on the other hand...well, you'll do your best, right?"

With that lingering sentence hanging in the air, Macaque sunk into the shadows and disappeared.

"You'll do your best, right? Bitch," You mocked with rolling eyes as you stretched to prepare for another hour of exercising.

It hadn't even been half an hour before you were on the ground, limbs spread, and body drenched in sweat. From a distance, you could faintly hear the occasional 'haa!' and staff being swung fiercely.

So, not only were you tired and wetter than a sponge, but you also couldn't even keep up with those two.

A deep exhale left through your mouth as you turned on your side with your eyes squeezed shut.

Of course, you couldn't keep up. You were you and everything that anyone has said about you.

Weak, slow, dumb, not enough--

"What are you doing?"

You groaned as you curled into yourself more.

"Quitting, resting, whatever fits the fantasy inside your head, just leave me alone."

Macaque rose a brow at your lackluster tone. It didn't even have its usual bite to it whenever you snapped back at his remarks.

Silence fell over the two once more.

.

..

...

Macaque sucked in air through his teeth before sitting on his haunches behind your back, he placed his hands on his knees and began, "Look, kid, do you wanna talk about it or do you want to keep wallowing alone while MK gets better and better without you-"

"-I don't care, let him!" You hissed. "At least he's showing progress...I've only managed to slightly improve my stamina, but what else do I have? Nothing! I can't last two seconds in a fight with either of you and MK hasn't even trained for that long and I...I'm...fuck...just-"

You buried your face into your elbow and mumbled, "-leave."

Macaque blinked a few times as he mulled over your outburst. He looked over his shoulder to see MK already looking at the two of you with a concerned expression.

Macaque sighed before the corners of his lips curved into a smirk.

You waited for Macaque's inevitable exit, but instead, you were met with a heavy weight on top of your body. It wasn't a pleasant feeling all things considered. Did I forget to mention that it was hot as hell outside and you were already a sweaty mess? Macaque had fur and he wasn't in any better condition than you. 

"Huh-..wha-" You wheezed. You uncurled from the pity party ball and tried to crawl out from under the monkey. No dice.

You glanced up to see Macaque's wide smile glaring down at you.

"What's the matter, babe? Stuck?" Macaque asked.

"Get the hell off! You're fucking crushing me!" You wiggled and writhed before giving up. The thought of calling MK for help crossed your mind before Macaque's laughter made you pause.

"Why don't you try getting me off? Oh, wait, I forgot, you can't cuz you're human," Macaque continued as he directed his shit-eating grin to the blue sky above. "Compared to me, you're much weaker, slower, and perhaps even stupider."

"Fuck you."

"No thanks, but back on topic...do you wanna know why you can't even hold a candle to me or even MK?" Macaque asked. You opened your mouth to speak but eventually closed it as you looked at the ground.

"It's simple really, you're you."

"Oh, how original, it's not like I already know what's wrong with me, Macaque," You whispered.

"Heh, it's not what's 'wrong' with you...it's more like...you grow differently, yeah! Like that."

"I don't follow."

Macaque clicked his tongue before shifting to lay on his stomach, his weight still pining you beneath him.

"You're different from me and MK, that's for sure, but me and MK are also different from each other," Macaque continued. "You honestly don't believe that everyone's progress has to be the same, do you? Some people train and get quick results while others don't, that's natural."

"And you're saying this...because...?" You squinted at the demon.

"Because," Macaque swatted the back of your head, eliciting another curse to spill from your dried lips. "You shouldn't feel too bad about falling behind, Rome wasn't built in a day and neither are you."

"..." You stayed silent as his words finally processed in your head. Your cheeks felt...warm as the comforting words reached the darkest part of your thoughts.

"Thanks," You managed to cough out as the moment passed and now it was starting to get weird.

"Don't mention it."

Macaque sat up from his comfy chair and frowned as he turned to look at you. "Seriously, don't say a word about this to anyone, especially MK."

You finally let out a laugh yourself as you dusted yourself off after standing.

"I won't." 

🍜 - I do not give permission for anyone to translate, copy, republish, or plagiarize any of my written works. I provide no permission for any of my literary works to be used in artificial intelligence. sparkle banner(s) by @adornedwithlight!!

[bubblergoespop]

My Top Geordi Quotes

geordi come home i swear i’ll treat you better

“Oh. Cute. Hot. There’s a difference. There is a difference, but they’re both. How are they both? That’s not fair, you can’t be both!”

“It’s our bedroom, it’s our bed.”

“Smiling. Pretty smile. Don’t smile at me, that’s not fair.”

“My cutie.”

“It’s not a nickname it’s my full name, yes, it’s from Star Trek, yes, my parents were total nerds hahaha I like the show too, yes, I’m also a total nerd.”

“Nervous? Ya think? That’s a bit of an understatement, hot stranger. “

“Their face goes all soft when they smile.”

“Is this flirting? This feels like mental warfare. It’s kinda hot though.”

“That’s cool. That’s great. That feels good. I like this and I’m having a good time and uhhhh they want my number—”

“Just focus. Just run. Running’s fun, right? Run back to your car. Fast. Very fast. So I can have a panic attack in the comfort of my own home.”

“Have a good day, what am I, a drive thru employee?!”

“I don’t wanna hook up. Well… I mean—“

“Thanks. Oh my god, they kiss me and I say thanks?“

“Fuck they look cute. I love when you look at me like that. That little half smile. Like you can see right through me.”

“I don’t actually know how to play poker. But I sure know how to strip—“

“I’m not normal people. I’m a panicking mess.”

“You give good kisses. Except for that time where you sneezed in the middle of one.”

“I’m dating a crazy person. Oh my god they’re like those people who think they’re really vampires.”

“How did I not know they believe shit like this? They seem so normal!”

“Say… fucking… uh… ‘you asked for it, a whole video devoted to the Rainbow Sponge’!”

“I mean the two of us? Cuddling? Keeping each other warm? It’s scandalous! What’ll the neighbours think? I mean I’m pretty sure I saw your knees the other day, I mean we’re already gonna bring shame to our families at this rate. Oh and fucking on the couch yesterday probably isn’t helping our case either.”

“They come out as a Telepath and my fucking rat brain says ‘oh we don’t get to play video games?’”

“Shut up—! Call me out on it.”

“What are words? Don’t know them never met them. What am I saying? “

“Safe.”

“This is a bad idea— This is a really good idea.”

“I don’t have a chance to refine my thoughts into beautiful prose, you just get monkey-brain going—‘You? Me? We fuck now?’”

“We’re gonna fuck— Yes thank you hindbrain. The evolved parts are trying to be at least vaguely romantic— [moan] Nevermind.”

“Why does that song always get stuck in my head?! God, it’s like a soundtrack to my insanity.”

“But it’s more than that. It’s you. It’s you in here with me. Sharing everything. No walls. I don’t have to have walls with you. I’m safe with you. Finally safe.”

“I love you. I’m glad your smile is back.”

“Hell is real and it’s here in this brain.”

“You make this all feel safe. And honest. I didn’t know it could feel like that again. Until I met you.”

“I can’t fix this, but I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I got you. And I’ll hold you as long as you need.”

“Don’t smirk at me like that! But do, cause it’s cute. Rude. But cute.”

“Yeah, I’m all weeetttttt unnhhhh”

“Oh my god. You are a nightmare. My favorite nightmare. “

“Why haven’t we done this before—? Do not encourage them!”

“It’s really fucking hot. It’s also really fucking dangerous! Which is kinda hot… Oh my god why do I like this. “

“Touch me. I don’t care where we are, just touch me, fuck, please.”

“I see how much you struggle with this, and I want you to have peace from all that.”

“I want you to heal.”

“I love you. I loved you then and I love you now. You are worth work and effort.”

“Drinking this really bad bad coffee. [his laugh here brings tears to my eyes] That felt good.”

[crazylittlejester]

good day, sir🎩. i am curious what genre of music you think each LU boy would listen to, if you'd be willing to answer that :). or what artist they'd like the most

*slides across the floor in my socks and almost falls*

I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS ABOUT THIS AND I’VE MADE A FEW POSTS ON IT BEFORE BUT:

Time: Lots of Kiss, AC/DC, Guns n Roses, Journey, Earth Wind & Fire, that kinda stuff. He also definitely plays guitar and I’m not taking criticism on that

Warriors: Lady Gaga Lady Gaga Lady Gaga Lady Gaga again, Brittney Spears, late 2000s-early 2010s pop in general. But also? Chappel Roan and Sabrina Carpenter edit I FORGOT KESHA.

Twilight: Late 50s (ish)-60s music. Like Build Me Up Buttercup, Can’t Take My Eyes Off You (unironically), I’m a Believer by The Monkees (also unironically). That kinda stuff

Sky: Whatever Ricky Montgomery and Hozier have going on

Hyrule: Weird instrumental music, french pop, just honestly whatever matches the vibe. He’s not picky

Legend: Fallout boy, MCR, also Kiss, will forever deny he used to listen to P!ATD, Nine Inch Nails, Arctic Monkeys, Will Wood (and the tapeworms), that kinda stuff

Wild: Whatever in fucks name is on the radio because he likes to absorb new and random shit like a sponge. but I feel like he’d have one artist he skips every time and it’s like someone who’s a HUGE very popular music artist and this pisses off everyone who knows him who likes that artist. It’s not even that he dislikes the artist he just doesn’t vibe with their songs

Four: Whatever Cosmo Sheldrake, AURORA, and Mitski have goin’ on. He makes it into Cosmo Sheldrake’s top listeners every year

Wind: THE most high energy pop you have ever heard in your goddamn life, or just generally busy sounding music like The Living Tombstone. Would listen to Weezer unironically

[py-dreamer]

Yea!!! Can you tell I have favorites lol

so since it's the 20th in my time, it is officially my birthday today!

But I wanted to get this out regardless so kinda count it as the previous day's ig

I will be posting something later today probably but it will most likely just be a compilation of all the cakes I've done thus far.

Ok but um on with the cake!

It's like a cheesecake and I basically copied Tengen's cake with like a jelly filling with fruit suspended in it, peaches (obviously), strawberries and blueberries cause I like them and sod it I'll put them on this goddamn cake!

The thing Wukong's sitting on is one of those peach ice creams that's gotten so popular lately with the sprinkle of pink dust thingy on top.

On either side of the cake is the fillet from the journey and the hat from the brotherhood era, one from his reckless past and one from his redemption and I just think that's neat.

The blue puffy stuff is meant to be his nimbus clouds represented as cotton candy.

I have the baiju jar in there as reference to Wukong becoming immortal again due to the all the wine made from the peaches of immortality at the festival.

The staff as a little candle was so fun! And I like pocky so I chucked them on there to fill space and it looks good so sue me

The grey thing behind the staff and balloon is meant to be the Buddha's hand that trapped him under the mountain and a reference to his imprisonment under 5 phases mountain.

Peach popsicle! Of course I had too! A lil something from the present for our (shadow) peachy friend

Mk's stone as well, had to add his son in there too. The baby ever.

(probably just a cookie but it's the thought that counts)

The two sugar cookies are meant to be his logo (aka the lmk logo) and fireworks, again taken from Tengen's cake.

The sun is a candied/tanghulu esque orange thing. Like an orange slice coated in yellow melted sugar shaped like a sun and the phoenix feather cap since I consider it iconic enough to put in here. I didn't want to put it on him, blocking a lot of the decorations so I just hung it to the side and I think I'm happy with that.

A lot more monkeys here! It was very fun popping them in! I know I only gave Mac 1 but I mean Wukong's the monkey king for a reason. Let him be a loving grandpa and invite his subjects on the cake with him. He granted them immortality by ripping their names out the book of dead, let them have a place on the cake too

Also, yes that is the origami pilgims in the bottom left, I couldn't leave them alone could I?

Now the elephant in the room (or at least in my head), yes I did use @maplesleep's matcha pancake design for flower fruit mountain.

Cake on cake. Bit much but hey, I like cake and pastries better than candy normally so win for me.

And I couldn't just make cake about Sun Wukong without mentioning his home/origins of ffm. I do genuinely love the inginuity and adorableness factor of the pancake design and hope they don't mind me slapping it on my...cheesecake? Jelly cake? Jelly-cheesecake?

(also I have to ask @maplesleep, did you watch the 3rd emirichu anime cafe video, specifically the urusei yatsura cafe as inspiration for the 'sun wukong's strawberry sponge cake punishment' parfait thingy, gorgeously drawn btw I used those drawings as inspiration quite a bit for these cakes, or saw the urusei yatsura collab anime cafe

cause I couldn't help but notice the similarities between that and the 'shinobu's maiden strength parfait' cause if you didn't that be a pretty funny coincidence lol)

So what do you think? You think I could make it as another lmk food chef for lego? Can I join the club lmao?

I do realize in retrospect the disrespect I did Mk by making his cake so plain by comparison to his mentor's. But I think that's a testament to my improvement and attention to detail when making these cakes as the days have progressed!

I consider Mk's in particular to be the most lacking and I lowkey feel so bad for my boi for not giving him the main character status he deserves.

I might draw him again, idk. Not anytime soon though, like I said, I'm quite busy now more than before and I need a break, still glad I could serve y'all another slice of cake though!

[sponges-place]

"Halloween Dead-Venture (9/9)"

More of an epilogue than anything else.

Well, be honest. What would you do if you had a bunch of beloved video game characters working for you.

I hope you enjoyed this little Halloween adventure. Whether I do another one next year is down to whether or not I can find the idea and motivation to make another.

[matt0044]

What we can learn from “The Jaune Arc Discourse” (TM).

Well, to start with, people are really resistant to being corrected on lies at worst or overstatements at best.

Like if nothing else, the Does RWBY Like Women poll was illuminating in how it showed me that a veeeeeery weird myth about Jaune Arc has persisted beyond its true relevancy.

Volume 1 of RWBY features Jaune Arc in the spotlight for… what? Four episodes? The minutes of each adding up to roughly twenty minutes, the length of an average TV episode?

While he was featured in the previous storyline where we are given an eight episode arc introducing us to our eight main protagonists, he was a lot more… ancillary as comic relief. A discount Lavernius Tucker with Felix’s voice if you will.

He's Vomit Boy in episode one. Episode two has him introduced more formally as somebody who helps up Ruby after a bad first impression on Weiss. He later appears more prominently pining over Weiss and catching Pyrrha's attention before falling to bracing himself in being catapulted into the Emerald Forest.

He's bailed out by Pyrrha and it's set up that he's in over his head by not knowing what Aura is or at least wanting to know how it works. An exposition sponge as I heard on fan call it. I could go on but the point is that all signs pointed to a Butt Monkey Ron Stoppable sort who was likely there for cheap laughs.

Amusing enough but I worried if that's all he'd be personally. Lord knows that some movies give the Comic Relief character too much comic relief and, well, not enough character. But after Ruby and Weiss have their leader/lance headbutting, the four episodes that followed reassured me that there'd be more to Jaune than meets the eyes.

But to circle back to the main thesis, it's actually fascinating that the myth of Jaune hijacking the narrative for himself is this pervasive when the offending story in question... is very much a self-contained character piece. It's way less about the wider story involving Ozpin, Roman Torchwick (at the time) and the White Fang.

It has relevance in how Pyrrha starts mentoring Jaune after he deals with Cardin and gets over himself (for now) which trickles down into future stories. Even then, the next story arc right back with Team RWBY with nary a sign of the everyman in question. A story arc that does deal with elements of the main plot, leading directly into Volume 2.

And in Volume 2, Jaune trying to woo Weiss and being ignorant to Pyyrha's advancements was just a subplot scattered in the first half of the story. It very much piggybacks off of Team RWBY's whole deal.

Volume 3 has what I consider to be a reversal of what's been known as Trinity Syndrome.

Namely the sort where a male character goes off the square off with the main villain mano-e-mano after shoving the female character/his love interest away so she won't get hurt. An egrigious example being when the love interest CAN FIGHT and back him up.

However, Pyyrha instead shoves Jaune out of the way after kissing him and goes off to face Cinder in a very fatal battle. It was honestly a brilliant (as much as the term may be disliked these days) subversion of the cliche.

And it’s Ruby who sees her death and gets the trauma induced power up. Jaune only has a scene of angst before that and was the one to call Ruby to have her try and back up the one he just realized he loved.

Jaune from that point on is an Everyman Protagonist who is forced to remember that he’s not THE protagonist. Yet the myth persistently proclaims that he hijacks the narrative from the titular Team RWBY despite only four episodes being wholly dedicated to him and his head space.

How did we get here?

Well… there’s the fact that not everyone finished Volume 1 and that not everybody, well, watched RWBY. And that would be fine on its own. You gave it a shot and it wasn’t your cuppa joe. You saw the trailer but clicked on something else.

I get it. That’s fine. Contrary to popular belief, nobody in the FNDM will really fault you for it. Less fine is when you spread faulty readings of RWBY and from those heavily biased against it no less.

It cannot be emphasized enough that tearing into RWBY is a cottage industry on YouTube. Hbomberguy might have the biggest platform but you’ll find multiple channels with lengthy series on “RWBY bad, here why.” And they are actually amongst the FNDM. They know how the YT Algorithm game is played, how it rewards engagement above all else. And sadly, negativity and rage pay more bills.

It’s why there are few positive videos or at least few that are pushed into the recommendations. Many often borrow the same points from each other born from the V1 days, namely that Jaune is allegedly given favoritism by the writers while we somehow “don’t know who the main girls are.”

From four episodes.

I also think it’s also to do with how it’s not that he actually did steal screentime… so much as many anticipated he would. A lot of shows and movies I grew up with would have strong female characters but any potential they had was hindered by the male lead and his hero’s journey. See the above Trinity Syndrome I referenced.

But Jaune didn’t do that. Even when he was central to an event like his semblance being awakened, it’s a healing/power boost that he gives to others. Weiss getting skewered might’ve brought it out but it lead to her getting back into the fray while he was largely to the sides.

Seems more like he shares screentime if anything.

People cling to these myths despite legit fans actually pointing out, “Hey, that’s not true actually and here’s why,” because that hate being told they are wrong more than being wrong. And because there are many around these who reinforce this “truth,” they feel content with it. No need to challenge it when it “feels” right.

So Jaune Arc stole screentime. Because that’s what “everyone else” is saying. By you need to question popular opinions. You need to realize that sometimes… a fan community is based on lies.

”Trust me, bro” is not the gotcha you think it is.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Animal Culture

Social Learning

Aristotle was the first to provide evidence of social learning in bird songs.

Charles Darwin was the first to suggest what became known as social learning in explaining the transmission of an adaptive behavior pattern seen in a population of honey bees.

Social learning - happens when behaviors are acquired through observation or are taught by other members of a social group (e.g., caregivers, siblings) or social institutions (e.g., schools, places of worship).

Social learning among humans is important because it means that we can avoid costly and time-consuming trial and error and at the same time multiply the power of individual learning (Boyd & Richardson, 2005).

Our collective brain power makes it possible for certain behaviors to become more adaptive and spread among groups.

Animal Culture

The actual phrase animal culture was first proposed by Japanese primatologists who discovered socially transmitted food behaviors on Koshima Island in the 1940s among Japanese monkeys.

The scientists observed a female monkey dunk a piece of potato in the ocean. Basically, she washed her food before she ate it and this innovation spread to a few other monkeys in the troop (the term for a group of monkeys).

Over time, the scientists observed gender (female) and age (younger) differences in the monkeys’ abilities to imitate and learn the behavior but potato washing persists on the island today, over 60 years later (Hirata, Watanabe, Kawa, 2001). 

Social learning and transmission has also been documented in whales, dolphins and chimpanzees, as well as other animals:

WHALE SONGS

Male humpback whales produce various songs over their lifetime, which are learned from other males in the population.

Males in a population conform to produce the same mating song, consisting of a highly stereotyped vocal display involved in mate attraction.

Researchers were able to record a series of songs and identified the cultural transmission of these songs across geographic distances (Western and Central South Pacific Ocean) over 11 years (Garland et al., 2013; Garland, Rendell, Lamoni, Poole and Noad, 2017).

DOLPHIN SPONGES

A community of bottlenose dolphins in Western Australia use conical sponges as tools to find food (foraging).

During “sponging,” dolphins break off a sponge and wear it over the rostrum (snout) while foraging on the seafloor (Smolker, et al., 1997; Mann et al., 2008).

Scientists think that the dolphins use the sponges for protection while foraging.

Researchers, using genetic analyses, found that all ‘spongers’ are descendants of a single matriline (mother to daughter) which suggests cultural transmission of the use of sponges, as tools, within a specific population (Mann and Sargeant, 2003).

CHIMPANZEE TOOLS

Chimpanzees also use tools for foraging but different types of tools are associated with specific populations.

This means that not all chimpanzees make or use the same tools for the same purpose.

For example, one troop of chimpanzees plunges sticks into termite nests to gather food and another troupe uses bark or leaves as a kind of scoop to forage for termites.

There is a documented instance of chimpanzees in the Democratic Republic of Congo creating a tool that is like a paint brush or bottle washer that results in more successful foraging.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[muzzlemouths]

two of us

Moon centric / Wordcount: 4219



Moon knows something is wrong within the first ten minutes of your shift.  When your heavy footfall reaches the daycare and you enter through the doors, half-drained caffeinated beverage of choice in hand, looking like an underpaid actor who mistakenly stumbled away from the set of the newest zombie movie right down to the miserable circles beneath your eyes.

In fact, the only thing distinguishing you from someone with a taste for brains is the fact that, until this point, you were somehow still acting in a somewhat functional manner — signing papers, directing customers, and the like — either by way of miracle, or simply in desperation to keep your job. 

All of that falls apart, however, when your evening shift dips into graveyard shift territory, and sees you walking through those big, wooden doors and immediately buying a one way ticket to the floor. 

Certainly not due to the bone-deep exhaustion weighing down your every step, no siree! You choose to lay the blame of your fall on the stuffed toy you discover underfoot, evidently missed in the clean up process between day and night. 

Speaking of cleaning up, the toy is joined by a newfound stain of which the daycare carpet gobbles up like a hungry sponge, the last few swallows of your drink having spilled outside of its flimsy, polyethylene prison in your awkward descent to the floor. 

Worse still, you aren't the only one to notice. The distant ring of bells foreshadows Moon's presence, his familiar voice sounding above and beyond its usual agitation by the time he's enough within earshot to even hear what's being said. A mantra of "Clean up, clean up" hissed just under breath; a remnant of his coding that not even a virus can override.

"Nice to see you too," is how you end up greeting him that night, halfway to your feet again already, "don't get your hat in a twist, there was only a few drops left. I wouldn't have spilled it if this stupid toy wasn't here, anyway."

Not bothering to lift his gaze from the bottle of cleaning spray in his hand, and still diligently scrubbing the stain away with a rag in the other, Moon burns holes in the floor with a narrow eyed expression that implies he cares little for your excuses. "Clumsy, clumsy," he chides, "are you going to blame your tardiness on the toy as well?"

You stiffen in place, bristling around the shoulders, "I'm hardly more than a few minutes late," you defend, "I'd like to see you try to wrestle an entire roll of tickets out of a kid's mouth half an hour before closing. The mother was convinced I wanted him to choke, like I was actively trying to hand-feed her monkey of a child all the paper currency we had in stock. Fuck you!"

This earns you a chuckle, his amiability returning in the form of a shit eating grin. "Sounds like your job is becoming a running gag—" he finally looks in your direction, going quiet just as soon when he sees the state you're in. His smile disappears along with the expectation of a proper reaction for that terrible pun. "What's wrong?"

The abrupt switch to bonafide sincerity catches you off guard. Judging by the way his eyes immediately return to the floor, you think it surprises him, too. "Nothing," is all you manage in response. "I'm just a little tired. It's been a long day."

"Liar," he says. 

You bristle further. "Exactly what part of that is a lie? After the day I've had, I think it's more than fair of me to be a little tired."

"Tired, yes," he stands now with slow, methodical movements, discarding the rag in a laundry bin nearby and kicking the bottle aside so he can properly close the distance between you, "but not only a little." His eyes scan you up and down, judging the extent of damage like a bloodhound sniffing out its target, yet when he's already convinced himself of the answer he still bothers to ask the question, "When's the last time you slept?"

It's a trap. You know this, he knows this, but if you're lucky, he might still accept your word for it without too much of a fuss. "A few hours before my shift started," you lie, "I don't need a nap, Moon. Can we just drop it?"

He doesn't look convinced. Why would he? You're moving at the speed of someone who came here after crawling out of a grave six feet deep. 

Much to your surprise, however, he doesn't push it. Instead he answers you with a quiet nod and an expression you can't quite place, and shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his star adorned pants. "Are you doing rounds?” He asks, an odd tone to his voice, “I’ll join you.”

It’d be a lie to say you aren’t suspicious. Moon rarely if ever gave out free passes, especially when it came to this, and if he did it normally meant getting something out of it himself. There was something else at play here. Ironically, you’re too tired to give it much thought either way — and anyway, why look a gift horse in the mouth? Maybe he was just in a good mood.

“Actually, I’m playing the role of grease monkey tonight,” you correct him, “management wants me to repair a machine in the arcade.”

“You’re qualified for that?” He sneers.

“It’s just figuring out why the tickets aren’t dispensing,” you admit, words punctuated with a roll of your eyes, “they’re probably just stuck behind the machine door again. It’ll take, like, three seconds to fix.”

“And after?”

You answer him with a knitted brow, then a shrug, “That’s the only task I was given after checking the lights in here. I’m on the clock for another five hours, though, so I’m sure I’ll find something to do.” Then, somewhat begrudgingly, “Still care to join me?”

Moon answers you with a shrug of his own. “Might as well,” he grins, voice already dripping with sarcasm, “don’t want you falling asleep on the job.”

It’s impossible for your eyes to roll any further into the back of your head. “Fine,” you relent, sighing as you turn yourself back towards the exit. A shelf carrying pillows and blankets must be passed on your way out, forcing you to avoid eye contact with it lest you answer its siren call of comfort. “And don’t get in my way,” you add, “I want to get this over with quickly so I can spend the rest of my shift pretending I’m home already.”

He says nothing in reply, but you don’t miss the sound of bells that follows you out the door. It’s interrupted only briefly by another sound all together — the creak of metal, like an opening hatch, and then a solid click — shortly followed by more bells. You’re witness to nothing out of the ordinary in the quick glance over your shoulder. He smiles politely, too politely, and makes an expectant gesture for you to continue.

This is going to be a long night.

Moon shadows your heel from the rafters for the whole trek to the arcade, a presence which you do your best to pay no mind to. This approach to keeping your sanity intact works until it doesn’t, when you arrive to find your destination dark as the night sky, and the red glow following in your wake is suddenly accompanied by a voice — that is, a soft and audible hum. You know exactly what he’s doing.

With the escape of another groan, you retrieve the flashlight from your hip and head inside, resisting the urge to flashbang him with it. His only saving grace is the knowledge that doing so will only result in a whole lot of complaining and, frankly, you aren’t eager to encourage an already excessive bad habit of his. Besides, at this hour the DJ himself would be fast asleep on his stage, and you’d hate to wake him by enacting revenge on the little goblin above your head. 

Still, the humming is difficult to ignore and it only adds to the overstimulation already welling inside your brain, loud in the way only television static can be. In reality there’s no real noise to contest with it. The arcade itself is quiet as a morgue. There’s no reason you should be feeling overwhelmed… save for the lack of sleep, of course, but you aren’t about to admit to it with Moon’s eyes on your back.

It’s only a matter of time before these actions would have their consequences. Already, your world is starting to sway.

Well, not starting. Everything had been a little topsy-turvy in the last few hours before arriving for your shift. They say after so many days without sleep, the first thing you’ll start to see are spiders. You don’t see spiders, though. You see ghosts. Silhouettes of people in your peripheral vision which always happen to be turning a corner by the time you look their way. You hear voices that aren’t there, laughter that originates from no where in particular, and again, those damn bells. You’re starting to think those, too, are only a hallucination.

By the time you find the machine in question you’re already reaching a breaking point.

The song in his throat is familiar, but you can’t remember ever knowing its name. It’s a pretty tune, easy on the ears — soothing, even — when you had the energy to appreciate it. As it stands, you’re running on fumes. The gears in your brain are fatigued and barely in operation. When you kneel to unlock the machine’s door it’s an action done with great caution, because if you aren’t careful, you might just be persuaded into staying on the floor until your shift ends.

“Hey,” against your better judgment, you elect to offer Moon the briefest stint of your attention again in hopes that the conversation will help wake you up, “What are you doing up there?”

He falls silent. Then, with a cheeky grin you can hear but not see, “Staying out of your way.” He drops, the sound barely audible, coming to land in the space behind you. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Not what I meant, smartass.” 

Your flashlight beams into the inner face of the machine and focuses in on the ticket dispenser. As suspected, its jammed. You exhale with a particularly exhausted groan and punch your key into a port dial, turning it to the east until the machine’s system roars to life. You only need to clear the tickets stuck in the slot’s exit in order to free the rest.

Moon’s unspoken question hangs in the air. Despite not hearing him come near, you can feel his presence like heat against the back of your neck.

“The humming,” you clarify, eyes still on the task at hand, “I don’t think I’ve heard you doing that before.”

The tickets squirm in place like a printer chewing on its own paper. You grasp onto its parchment tongue and draw the line of tickets towards your chest with a little angled wiggling until the accusing portion frees itself from the confines of the slot. The constipation of tickets spills out immediately after, drawing a breath of relief from your lips. The machine correctly offers five tickets, then ten, then fifteen. You shift on your knee to begin the painstaking act of standing back up.

The tickets stop.

“Don’t know what you mean,” replies Moon at the worst possible time, “I’m just making noise.”

You try to block out the ringing in your ears. The ghosts. The tick tick tick of a clock that moves through molasses as your body attempts to continue functioning on its meager amount of rest. Moon isn’t helping. If he said anything more to you, the only noise he’d be making is that of a system shutdown after you were through ringing his neck.

Back down to your knee, again, you take hold of the stub awkwardly sitting just outside of its narrow cage and recreate the action from before. A little wiggling, a little tugging. You’re decisively ignoring the robot behind you now. Or trying your best to, anyway. He isn’t exactly making it easy.

“Do you need some he—”

“I’ve got it!” You snap before he has a chance to finish, “Just go away and let me do my job.”

Your head thunders, a continues clap, clap, clap of tension akin to someone layering rubber bands on a melon until it pops. The tickets don’t retract with ease, this time, and the violent shake beginning in your hands makes the act that much harder. Is it this irritability that makes them tremble? Or is it the same reason behind your heavy, fluttering eyes, and the palpitations drumming against your ribcage like an animal trying to set itself free.

Stubbornly, you continue, now setting your face a short distance from the slot to get a better look and proceeding to slam your fist against the side. The mass of paper budges, little by little.

“I’m not sure you should—”

A final bang unleashes the trail of currency directly into your eye. The scream dies before it reaches your tongue, forced down again like rancid bile until all that escapes is a pathetic whimper, you chew viciously on the inside of your cheek to cope and angrily cup a hand over your wounded eye as the tickets continue to freely descend.

Something new occurs as a result of this bone-deep frustration. Your eyes wet around the corners, salty and warm. You ignore them desperately and move to stand.

The machine spits and hisses. The tickets stop once again.

This time you do scream, muffling the noise into the back of your free hand, both fists indenting crescents into the soft flesh of your palms. Inevitably, the sound of Moon’s bells reaches your back. “Don’t,” you growl, not having the patience for any of his expected games.

He edges closer despite your demands. You know this by the sound of his fan, the tell-tale whir joining a tinnitus chorus in your ears. You know it by the way he reaches for your shoulder right as you grasp the frail line of tickets and wrench them backwards with all of your strength, realizing your mistake only when it’s too late. The paper rips apart and the entire train disappears hopelessly behind the secondary machine wall. The process sends you a short distance backwards, colliding with Moon.

Again, wordlessly, you find his hand on your shoulder. The other is working to untangle your limbs from each other. It appears he’s attempting to sooth you, but you don’t know for sure. You can’t see him behind the red in your vision or hear him beyond the ring in your ears. He’s saying something to you, that much you know, but not what or why, and you do nothing to find out.

Your anger is boiling. Frustration drags you from the floor and forward, onto your feet, where you take it out on the machine that has continuously fought you by slamming the metal door shut. It connects with such force that the mechanisms spring loose and the door inevitably swings open again, further mocking you.

The rubber bands around your head begin to snap all at once.

Moon says something you don’t hear. His voice is quiet. Blue fingers appear in the corner of your vision.

Your body moves on its own volition, head pounding, heart racing, your palms connect with his chest before your mind has time to catch up. 

The clatter of metal hitting the floor echos throughout the enormous arcade, surpassing even the ghosts and the bells and the ringing. You hear him fall before you see it, before you can make sense of it.

His eyes briefly go static, then flash between colors, black red black red black red blackredblackredblackredblack. Red. Normal red. You’ve never been more relieved to see the color. He picks himself up from the ground with slow, aching movements, and clutches gingerly at his faceplate, a headache of his own kind surely beginning to form. 

Soon after he peers between his fingers. Obviously, his gaze is furious, an aggression you’re all too familiar with and one you can’t say you’d blame him for, here and now, but the expression on his face changes with time and becomes relenting. Like he just…lets it go.

“Ow,” is all he initially says, staring at you pointedly. Then, with a wince and the barest hint of a toothy smirk, “You’re a terrible mechanic.”

The room falls silent again for fifteen awful, clarity induced seconds. The time it takes you to catch your breath. Finally, the last rubber band snaps and you, too, find yourself coming undone. What starts as dry, humorless laughter quickly transitions into a warble, and then a full-blown sob. You sink to the floor and wail endlessly into your hands as days worth of mounting exhaustion bring wave after wave of tears. Your shoulders tremble, your body hurts. You want nothing more than to be left alone as you break into a million pieces.

Moon, as usual, cares little for what you want.

A soft and familiar click is your only warning before a weight can be felt on your shoulders. Forcing yourself to open your eyes and blink through the tears, you see Moon wrapping a blanket around you, tucking the ends together at your front. The fabric is warm and soft. He’s brought it all the way from the daycare.

This does nothing to stop the waterworks. If anything, you find yourself crumbling against him, your throat going sore as emotions flood from you tenfold. Your forehead lands against his chest and stays there as an apology forms between sobs, again and again and again. Each time he remains silent, doing nothing to stop you, but his hand is gentle as it tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and he is undeniably careful when drawing his thumb across your cheek to rid of the tears.

“How long?” It’s a whisper so quiet, you barely hear it over the remnants of labored breath.

“What?”

“How long,” he asks again, looking deeply into your eyes, “since you slept?”

Another sob threatens to spill over your tongue. You quell it, and the tears with it, bringing your shirt sleeve over the wet tracks and swallowing around your breath until your voice returns without its tremor. You see little point in lying to him now. 

“Three days,” you admit, and Moon stiffens in place, pleading with a wide-eyed stare, like any minute you’ll tell him you’re joking. But you’re not. “I tried,” you continue, “I keep trying, but I just can’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You feel a little ridiculous like this. Wet faced and sniffling, your forehead tucked awkwardly against his chest, complaining about your challenges with falling sleep, of all things. A nightly habit that most people don't even consider a skill because everyone can do it with ease, right? 

A good book, a cup of tea, a playlist of lullabies, there is an endless list of ways to find rest and none of them work; not always. Not when you need it most. The list of things that keep you up at night far exceeds the solutions. It makes the exhaustion feel like a punishment for something out of your control.

The lack of that control makes you feel all wrong. A little useless. A little broken.

“Can I show you something?”

Moon’s voice drags you back to the surface. You turn onto your cheek, pressing that against his frame instead so you can better see his face.

Just as soon, he averts his gaze. “You can’t laugh,” he says, sounding serious all of a sudden, “if you laugh, I’ll leave.”

You wouldn’t dare. Not ever, but especially not now. For fear of answering him with a croak, you simply nod your head. It isn’t good enough for him.

“I need you to promise,” he says.

Another nod, to show you understand. You can think of no reason not to humor him so, as promised, you raise your pinky into the air with intentions to shake, an act you’ve only ever performed with Sun. “I promise.”

Though he is visibly hesitant, Moon eventually lifts his own finger, engulfing as it curls around your own. If he accepts your promise it’s impossible to tell because, for the longest time, there is only silence and a distant look in his eyes.

Then, undeniably, there is music. A gentle tune, mechanical, whirring in a way that is separate from his fans. You hear every cord, every plucked tooth and prong. A music box. It plays from deep within his chest and to his left, just under your ear. Were he human, you suspect it might sit exactly where his heart is.

“It’s nice,” you mumble, feeling your eyelids grow heavier and heavier.

A grating cord interrupts you, the tune fumbles and clashes inharmoniously, becoming discordant for a matter of time before falling into its proper rhythm once more. Moon winces.

“It’s broken,” he says, “I don’t think it can be fixed.”

Nevertheless, your ear stays where it’s at, cheek pressed soundly into the warmth of his chest.  “I guess that makes two of us,” you mumble, content. You feel him still against you, going rigid until he feels like a spring ready to fly. His arms tuck you close, and all at once, he relaxes.

“Yeah,” comes his reply, barely there at all, “I guess it does.”

The truth is that you would be content to stay like this all night. Sleep doesn’t feel so distant, now. It doesn’t feel scary, or out of reach, or like it might run if you get too close. You feel safe approaching it, and you feel safe here, even if you’d never dare admit the words aloud.

But Moon knows better than to remain here. He collects you into his arms without offering you the time to argue, and you, with exhaustion at your back and music against your ear, do not fight him in the slightest. You hardly feel each step as he carries you across the arcade. You don’t see the expression worn by the DJ, who opens a single eye from his feigned sleep to follow your exit, and you don’t see the nod Moon gives him in exchange.

You do see the glamrocks. Freddy speaks with a staff member not too far down the hall. Chica patrols the length of space separating your current location from the Daycare, often looking for conversation, and any day but today you would be happy to engage with her. But today you have the strength of a child, and your eyes are red, and your face is wet, and all you can do is tuck your head further into Moon’s chest in an attempt to hide yourself. Fresh tears spring at the edges of your vision, threatening to spill over at the thought of being so exposed in front of them when you’re already feeling plenty vulnerable.

Somehow, Moon knows, and understands, and he is wordless as he brings the hat from his head and places it delicately over your face to shield it. Like this, you look like you’re already sleeping, and no one would dare wake you up. His hat is soft and it is warm and it smells faintly of lavender. The bell rolls with a gentle ting along the length of your arm.

The feeling of wind rushing past your skin alerts you to your arrival, the heavy Daycare doors falling shut at Moon’s ankles. He brings you across the room and to the sleeping nook as you finally pull the hat from its position over your face (yet still refuse to release your iron grip on it), struggling to see in the darkness that greets you.

And then comes the feeling of being put down. He is bent at the knee and carefully lowering you into a mound of blankets when you instinctively reach out and catch the ruffled fabric around his collar, causing him to still. 

Now comes the embarrassment — though it is small, far outweighed by the warmth he has to offer and the sleepy lull of your heavy limbs — you still manage to push yourself somewhat away, mumbling, “Sorry, sorry,” almost incoherently through threads of exhaustion. 

But he's already changed his mind, evidenced by the feeling of being hoisted again into the air. He lowers himself into the spot, instead, so you can stay in his lap, and against his chest. The music box skips and stutters, but you don’t mind it at all.

The last thing you remember is a song. Adjacent to the music in his chest, a hum can be heard, ever faintly. It brings a smile to your lips.

“I knew I remembered your voice,” you whisper blearily, grasping onto what little consciousness remains, “I always find my way back to the things I care about.”

Moon pauses just long enough to press a kiss to your head. “I guess that makes two of us.”

[tanadrin]

If you think there are at least some non-animal organisms, like archaea or fungi or all opisthokonts plants, that meet the stated criteria, select the first option ("Animals or other.") We're discussing terrestrial, biological life only, though, so extraterrestrial life, supernatural beings, or machine intelligences do not figure in to this scheme (but feel free to discuss them in the notes).

Eumetazoa is, AFAICT, the largest group of animals that includes all animals with at least some nervous tissue--so not sea sponges. But it does include a few clades without nervous systems, like the Placozoa.

Chordates are all animals containing a dorsal nerve cord specifically: chordates do not include, e.g., insects, molluscs (including octopuses and squid), and starfish. Chordates do include all fish.

Tetrapods include all animals with four limbs and distinct digits; this excludes most, but not all fish, and includes reptiles, mammals, dinosaurs (including birds), and amphibians.

Mammals includes all animals that nurse their young, have fur, have a neocortex, and have three middle ear bones. This group includes monotremes like the platypus, as well as more familiar animals like dogs, cats, cows, horses, mooses, and more(ses).

Primates includes monkeys, lemurs, apes, tarsiers, lorises and, of course, humans (though all of these clades include humans).

Hominids include gorillas, orangutans, chimpanzees, and humans ("apes").

Hominins includes just humans and chimpanzees (including bonobos). (I think; the taxonomic nomenclature distinguishes between Hominidae, Hominini, Homininae, Hominina, and Hominoidae, so I might have mixed some of these up. Blame the ICZN or whoever is responsible for this mess.)

Australopithecines (equivalent to "Hominina," I think, but don't quote me on that) includes all extinct hominins more closely related to humans than to any other extant species, like Australopithecus africanus, Paranthropus robustus, and of course later species like Neanderthals and Homo sapiens.

Homo is the genus that includes the whole human family in the broad sense: modern humans, Neanderthals, Denisovans, Homo erectus, and Homo habilis.

Homo sapiens includes only anatomically modern humans, as we emerged around 300,000 years ago in Africa.