#and by that i mean search my ao3 on twitter

[fanfictionlibrary01]

AO3 works being stolen and posted on rivd.net

What is happening, and what you can do. Check for edits with additions at the end of the post!

We've posted these infos in our Discord server, but want to make them accessible for more of you AO3 and fanfic folks out there. What is happening? A user called "Fanfic Books" on the site https://rivd.net is posting over a million of fanfics since May 18th (account creation time of that user), all of which seem to be stolen from AO3 users. You can check if your works were stolen by searching your AO3 username on that site. Reporting this on the site is tedious, and contains so much requested data and personal (sensitive) information about you that is just seems sketchy and like they want to grab your data to sell it off again. (See this for more on that.) That a virus called "rivd" apparently also exists does not help their case. Since the person posting the works is also listed as Moderator of the website, chances of successful reports are, by our estimation, very small to non-existant. (As you can look up here.) Creating an account on that site is also tedious - after trying it, the feedback was that a moderator needs to approve of my account creation request. How long that is supposed to take is not known. What can you do? We deduced - through admittedly rushed, because we felt like time was of the essence, and and sparce, checks - that people who have their works locked on AO3 have not been affected. (At all/as much is not to say, it's our best hope and theory rn.) We advised our server members to lock their AO3 works for the time being, as that currently seems like the only prevention method available. A great tutorial for how to lock all your AO3 works at once has been posted here. Kudos to this X/Twitter post that seemed to have started the spread of information, and others relaying the infos (like e.g. r/AO3 on Reddit). Edit (0,5h after initial post):

With permission of the author on AO3, here are screenshots from when I checked if their works (unlocked on AO3) were stolen. Searching for works of the FFL Discord server's admin, who has them locked on AO3, resulted no matches on the rivd site - hence the theory/recommendation that locking your AO3 works helps.

Edit 2 (4h after initial post):

There also seems to be a new occurrence that the fanfiction tab has been emptied/does not contain (publically displayed) fanfics anymore. What this means and if the fanfics are really taken down is unclear, but given that the anime fanfic category that once existed is seemingly completely gone, something is being done. Rumor is that a mass report of DMCA at Cloudflare caused this - it feels like a win either way!

Edit 3 (23h after initial post):

It seems like rivd.net is now completely down/inaccessible. See last attached screenshot in this post! No infos on what this means or what caused this are available atm, but like before, it feels like a small win!

[ladyelainehilfur]

Literally insane to me how small the general webtoon fandom is outside of the webtoon app itself (and maybe reddit??)

I've talked to multiple people irl who LOVE reading webtoon, but the online community is borderline threadbare ! Most people on Tumblr have no IDEA who our blorbos are! I've checked tags for some fairly popular webtoon and it was like visiting that Tatooine town in the Mandalorian where there are 5 citizens total, but only if you also count the Mayor, the sheriff, and the deputy.

Lore Olympus is the most popular webtoon and has under 2,000 fics on AO3. Lookism has roughly 1,000. Unordinary, THEE legacy webtoon, only has 600, and it's been running for almost 7 years now. It has nearly 6M subscribers and still gets 50K+ likes each week. It's not dead by any means.

I guess it doesn't help that each webtoon is its own micro ecosystem and once a webtoon ends, that ecosystem typically fades with it. But webtoons can go on runs longer than most shows on streaming services, and those fandoms burn hot and bright even if only for the first month of a new season drop.

By comparison, webtoon fans are largely casual about their enthusiasm, even if they're highly invested in the story or characters. From my experience, only the most passionate try to connect with other fans online. But when you're passionate about one webtoon, I suppose it's hard to show constant excitement about the 20+ other stories one might keep up with. Still, between the 85 million monthly readers, you'd think each major webtoon would at least have a dedicated fan base (meaning people who regularly post theories, thoughts, fics, and fanart) of mere thousands outside of the app.

One exception for this is that Batman webtoon? It actually trends on Tumblr every now and again. But it doesn't count, because Batman has a built in fandom who'll eat up and yell in the streets about any content where he's a decent dad.

People who read romance webtoon all tend to read the same comics, and actively understand the references to other popular romance comics (Trashta, Team Seojun, SLS), so you'd think there'd be a greater sense of unity. More people actively searching out others to discuss with and posting their thoughts online and not just in that webtoon's comment section.

I mean, C'MON girls!!! Millions of people log into that app like everyday!!! WHERE is the community?? WHERE is the fanart?? WHERE is the fanfic?? WHY does Odd Girl Out only have 7 fanfics?? WHY are there like 2 people on Twitter posting about Weak Hero?? Head in hands fr

[pinkrelish]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶When Eddie gets a call at work telling him Adrie is sick, he rushes to pick her up from school, accidentally leaving his black notebook behind. Being you, you find the means to return it to him. But while at his trailer, you ask him the question he's been avoiding for months.

"Let's get down to those rumors, hm?"✶

NSFW — strong tw for a dark conversation surrounding eddie's past (accusations of murder, rape), heavy angst, comfort, drug/alcohol mention/use, slow burn, fluff, flirting, 18+ overall for eventual smut

chapter: 8/20 [wc: 14.1k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12

AO3

Chapter 8: The Munson Name

Leave it to Eddie to make your day special not two minutes into work.

Upon entering the garage, the back door was ajar as usual, but instead of phantom wisps of smoke swimming in the sunshaft, a shadow moved, and Eddie’s arm curled around to knock on the aluminum siding for your attention. His chain bracelet clinked from the motion, and his rings caught the light as he gestured for you to come over.

You peeked through the opening and saw him standing against the wall, but his morning smile wasn’t aimed at you, it was elsewhere, off to the side. You wrapped your fingers around the doorknob, and followed where he was looking.

A bright red cardinal sat perched on the round side mirror of Eddie’s car, chirping and hopping while fluttering its wings, spinning around in search of something, and after several twittering singsongs, it flew away.

“That was precious,” you whispered, breath fogging in awe.

“I’m glad you got to see him before he took off.” Eddie grabbed the door from you and pushed you both inside, shaking his arms in an intense shiver, and shrugging his jacket up around his neck while he hugged his hands around himself in his pockets. “Uhm..”

The goofy smile he wore was mutual, as was the dear silence. The energy between you had changed; it was charged with a new development in your relationship. One that did not need to be articulated in words. It was there, in his well-rested eyes owning a playful gleam when you looked at him, and his need to rock from foot to foot in a measured sway, like a subconscious impulse to recreate that beautiful night.

Then, he cleared his throat. You averted your gaze to the floor.

“You, uh, you said it was one gift,” he recalled with an audible wince squeezing the oxygen from his sentence.

Unsure on how best to approach you buying his daughter a generous amount of presents, and hearing the impassive edge to his voice, you shut one eye and opted for a joke, “It was one gift.. bag.”

“It was too much.”

Your demeanor sagged. “Oh.”

“No, no! Not in the bad way–No.”

You perked up. “Oh?”

A soft laugh poured from the snuggly place he had his chin tucked behind the tan canvas. He dropped his shoulders, and drove his weight forward into jaunty little steps towards you, closing the gap between your bodies. There were affectionate nuances to his fond expression when he corrected himself, “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound that way. The gifts were great. Like, real home runs. Uhm, she loved them, and they were really thoughtful. Just.. really sweet of you.” Immersing himself in the steady eye contact you were both proud to uphold, he licked his lips, and raised his eyebrows. “You’re so sweet, in fact, it’s piling onto that thank you I owe you at a ridiculous rate.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I just like doing things for you and Adrie. Besides, I live rent free in a tiny town with an abysmal lack of nighttime entertainment for me to waste my money on, so I figured why not spoil my favorite four-year-old.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know I don’t owe you, but” –he moved his hand around in his pocket– “I’m gonna figure out a way to repay you. Do something nice for you. Something big. Until then, your favorite almost-five-year-old made you this.”

He presented his palm to you. Cradled in it was a bracelet made of plastic beads in an assortment of colors, some shaped as stars, some with glitter, and at the middle was a name arranged in white blocks with black lettering. M-O-U-S-E.

“I had to help her spell it,” he said, tugging up his sleeve, “but it matches mine.” D-A-D-D-Y.

There was no masking the effect the bracelet had on you; breath hitched on a raw noise, chest falling on the exhale, muscles tensed on the cusp of a bigger reaction–but you tamped down the wealth of feeling wanted, and spoke beyond the heaviness in your heart, through the strain in your throat, and behind the blurriness of tears, “A true Adrie Original. I love it, tell her thank you for me.”

You slid the elastic band over your trembling left hand. He wore his on his right.

Eddie leaned in to get a better look at you, and the amusement in his face was replaced by genuine surprise. “Are you crying?”

You crossed your arms over your chest and gripped your shoulders, laughing, smiling through the embarrassment of being caught. “Maybe! It’s–It’s really sweet.”

“I’m gonna tell her you cried!”

“Don’t!” you yelped, running away from his evil fingers advancing towards your ribs.

“But it’s cute!”

“Stop chasing me!”

Luckily for you, refuge was on the other side of the glass door you managed to lock before he could grab the handle. You guarded your safe space with a glare. He pouted, and said something. You cupped your ear. He grew more passionate, flapping his lips at a rapid rate and putting his hands up in a prayer, but you couldn’t hear what he was saying. You shouted you’d only let him in if he apologized for making fun of you. “I’m sorry.” The sincerity was lost on his smirk, but you gave in so you could make coffee and get to work, and so he could get said coffee and take your pen cup and put it just out of reach on the ledge of your desk while on his way out to the garage.

And unluckily for you, the first thing on your to-do list after the break was checking the flashing buttons on the phone. You picked up the receiver, pressed the playback for messages, and listened with a pen hovered over your new set of index cards.

The first one began with a startled, “U-uhm, right.”

The second one began with a confused laugh.

The third was a long pause before telling someone else in the room they’d try again later.

Dread pooled in your stomach. The recording button. The fucking recording button for an outgoing message taunted you. Faded yellow, and ugly.

With a clenched jaw, you prepared your racing heart, and pressed it. And oh God. You covered your eyes, more and more mortified as it played.

“We’re currently closed for the Holidays, and will open at 8AM, Mon–” Raspberry. “You! Why! That one was perfect. God, you are so–freaking–annoying. I swear. Obnoxious little..”

————

Standing at a respectable distance from where Eddie sat at the breakroom table with his notebook, you held up three calendars for the new year. “I’m replacing the one in the garage. Which do you want? Mythical Creatures drawn by Eric Carle, Coca Cola, or hot chicks posing on sports cars?”

He dropped his head back, and tipped his chair to balance on its rear legs. His bangs fell, showing his wrinkled forehead as he looked at you upside down. “Interesting options,” he commented.

“The mall didn’t have much left.” A lie. The calendar kiosk at the mall was stocked to the brim, you just had a hunch Eddie would go for one in particular.

“Does the mythical creature one have a dragon for a month?”

“Yes,” you said without checking.

“I’ll take that one, then.”

Predictable.

“Cool, I’ll give Mr. Moore the hot chicks, and I’ll take the Coke for me.” Speaking of–the front desk phone was ringing, and it was in your job description to answer it, you supposed.

You left him to get back to his writing, and put the receiver to your ear. The voice on the other end was politely stressed in the customer-friendly way. You left it in the cradle on hold, and called down the hallway, “Hey, Eddie, it’s Adrie’s school calling for you. I’m sure–” Stumbling out of his way, his jacket softened the blow of his shoulder knocking into you. He reached his hand back in an apologetic gesture, but his focus manifested in the flash of panic crossing his pale face. “I’m sure she’s fine,” you finished sympathetically.

He answered the woman on the line, and you waited along the wall, eyeing the scuff marks around the floorboards you should probably buff off at some point, and after his short conversation, he hung up.

“Adrie’s sick,” he said quickly, patting down his jacket. “Wayne’s not answering the phone, so I gotta go pick her up, and uh, I��” He pivoted in a circle, glancing around, fumbling for his keys in his pocket. “I–I’m sorry. She needs me.”

You drew your eyebrows in, and waved him off. “Yeah, it’s okay. You can leave. I’ll clock you out and let Carl know when he’s back from lunch.”

“Thank you,” he said in breathless earnest, leaving so quickly his boots left black streaks on the tile.

~~~

Lunch came and went. Carl came and went. The end of the hour posted under the CLOSED sign came and went. Eddie had yet to call the shop to update you, which was fine and dandy (aside from your anxiety over whether or not Adrie was okay), but in his rush, he left behind something important..

His black notebook with the devil-horned skull laid in the middle of the table like an ominous item from a horror movie.

And much like the horror movies, you as the final girl should leave it alone, right? Just.. walk away, and forget about it, and leave it for him to pick it up tomorrow, or whenever he’s able to come back to work..

But.

You were worried about Adrie, and when you went to the garage to replace the trash can liners, you saw his rings still on the black tray near the tool cabinet. Now, it’s not like he needed those either, however, what if you just.. returned them for him? And the notebook fell open while you were at it?

It was wrong. Everything about what you were doing was all so very, very wrong. Going inside Mr. Moore’s office and flipping the lightswitch, making your way to his desk in an innocent saunter, and–oops!–kneeling down to pick up a stray pen, and if the bottom drawer happened to be opened, and the plastic folder with the employee’s details from when he hired them was inside, who could blame you for taking the quickest, tiniest glance before closing it?

Yours was in there, of course, along with–

“Edward Munson,” you snorted. “Dorky name.” Duh his full name was Edward, but it was still funny to see.

You read over the top of the file where his address and phone number were. Thankfully, from your various car rides with Robin, you recognized the street name, placing it in your memories as the rusted sign next to the Forest Hills Trailer Park entrance.

The phone number you imprinted into your brain as a recreational activity, and put the folder away.

Closing the door behind you with a hefty jingle of heavy rings in your pocket, you approached the notebook, and gave it a pitied sigh. Having committed many sins in the past minute alone, you figured why not. You didn’t even feel shame opening the stupid thing after months of being teased by it. Besides, what’s the worst he could be hiding in it? It couldn’t be that embarrassing, right?

..Right?

“Okay, can honestly say I was not expecting a big tittied bird lady.” The drawing wasn’t overly detailed, but the artistry was above average. Small details etched the feathers covering her avian legs, and a gleam shone on her talons coming to a sharp point, posed to attack with milky white irises. Above her was Eddie’s stylized font: HARPY, with abbreviations and numbers in a column. His rushed handwriting filled the rest of the page. Reading it over, it appeared you opened to the middle of a story.

Thumbing through, you encountered your first dog-eared page.

IF CHEST IS CHOSEN, GO B

IF DOOR - ROLL FROM INDEX CHART POISON

Absolutely lost, you did see a box labeled B further down with a short bullet point list of what would happen, and more options to choose from on the next dog-eared section.

Flipping deeper towards the back, it was pages and pages of his handwriting. Names of characters fighting dragons. Fantasy towns housing creatures you’d never heard of. Countries with too many syllables and apostrophes. Whatever it was, you were more than happy to hop on your bike and ride it over to the trailer park, only second guessing your sense of direction three times, and releasing a grateful, “Thank God,” when you spotted it up ahead.

The place had an eeriness to it despite the slanted beams of afternoon sun gracing it in gold. Homes were tarnished with dents and algae staining the outside. Trailers slumped on their cinderblocks, buckling under the weight. RVs had permanent brush growing under their parking spots. A child’s scream echoed around the tree-less lot, but you couldn’t see them through the orderless blockade of dilapidated residences and abandoned cars. People watched you: glancing out their windows, or gathered around a charcoal barbeque. Curious eyes followed your trail down the main road. Bumping your bike around potholes, avoiding tetanus ridden nails and petrified clothes molded to the ground as if they’d been there for years.

Dogs walked their fences as you passed.

You were beginning to have some regrets when a beacon welcomed you. After a curve, an old van parked out front of a blue and white trailer came into view, but more importantly, dwarfed next to the Chevy behemoth, was a black car you’d recognize the red interior of anywhere.

The heat of parent’s concerned stares burned into the back of your neck as you rode up to the concrete stairs, leaned your bike against the metal handrail, and approached your fate.

Even though you were absolutely sure this was the correct address, you knocked with as much confidence as a dormouse. Any harder and the sound of your knuckles striking the aluminum would’ve been too loud in the creepy-quiet trailer park.

No answer.

You knocked again. Harder. Louder.

There was movement inside. Footsteps. A muffled voice. Your heart leapt. In your throat. Closer. Closer. This was so stupid. This was a mistake. This was a bad idea. The excuse in your mouth was weak, and you were about to embarrass yourself in front of your coworker by surprising him at his house, which you only knew where to find because you were snooping, and there was no amount of explaining that would help you out of your spot in hell–

Eddie swung open the door, and his heavy-browed, distrustful, annoyed, apprehensive, suspicious glare jumped to wide-eyed shock.

Your cheeks went hot.

“Nope!”

You winced at the slam, but nothing–no God’s will, no Devil’s agreement–would convince you to blink at the shuttered window where he once stood. No. No, no, no. No, never. Never would you want the searing glimpse at Eddie’s naked chest out of your sight before it was engraved into every second of every day of every night of every dream for the rest of your years.

In some part of your mind, you knew your gazes connected long enough to see the blood drain from his face, but your attention was soon urged downward, to the overwhelming amount of skin.

His hair was tied back, exposing a poetry of shadows. Hollow of his throat, to his clavicle, to the swell of his shoulders. Biceps twitching under a prominent vein when he caught himself on the trailer’s frame, and gripped the door handle. Muscles straining with fear, then soft with relief, then strong with fear again when he realized it was you who caught him in this shirtless state, discovering the beautiful line between his pecs when he flexed. Witnessing the fine wisps of softly auburn hair on his chest, juxtaposed to the wiry dark curls creating a blessed trail to the top of his sweatpants. Drooling over the eclectic collection of tattoos sporadically placed over his body. Too many to decipher in the brief encounter, aside from the dragon crawling up a sword etched into the subtle planes of his abs and curving around his slight stomach, with the blade ending at his waistband–a full picture of the tattoo you spied at the grocery store when he stretched his arms above his head.

The door creaked open again, and you’d yet to recover. But thinly obscured in the darkness of his home, he was visibly flustered as well.

Eddie hunched over, struggling to get the zipper of his tan jacket up, tugging it harshly, grinding the metal teeth in his anxious fight to cover his chest; and when it was snug to the splotchy kiss of pink on his neck, he squinted at you. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, voice gone hoarse from his dry mouth.

Knees locked, and oh so staring him directly in the eyes, you took the black notebook from under your arm (not remembering when you tucked it there), and showed it to him. “You left this at work.”

He took it from you slowly without a thanks.

“And, uh,” you continued, gathering the clinking jewelry in your jacket. “These too.” You dropped them into his cupped palm, brushing your pinky over a scratchy callus, experiencing the zing of intimacy of skin on skin.

And he felt it too, with how he curled his fingers in to seal the fleeting sensation.

Pocketing his rings, he stood meek in his doorway. The pain of expecting someone different to be knocking at his trailer had dwindled, but the tension was there in between his eyebrows, weighing on the slope of his gentle frown, painting brilliant highlights on the long line of his nose in the blazing dayglow threatening to invade his home.

The dull brown of his eyes glinted aside the honey as his mouth hung slightly open, tip of his tongue curled against the pearly dam of his teeth. The lined pages of the well worn notebook fanned out, flopping in his grip. “Did you read what was in here?”

Shifting your gaze to the sharp edge of the tin roof decorated in elaborate dangly fish hooks, you clasped your hands behind your back in a cute way, and delivered the answer he awaited with an inflection like it was a question, “No..?”

“For an actress, you’re bad at lying.”

“Or I’m being obvious on purpose so you tell me what it is.”

Working his jaw back and forth, he bided his time, each grind a consideration at his options in regards to how vulnerable he should be, and if this would be the final nail in the corroded coffin where you’d realize what a giant loser he was. “It’s..” You leaned towards him in interest, and he looked away. “It’s notes and stuff for Dungeons and Dragons,” he admitted in a mumble.

“Nerd! Nerd!” You jumped up and down, pointing, shouting, “I knew it! You’re a nerd!”

Twisting his mouth in a sarcastic sneer at your childishness, he snatched the side of the door and began shutting you out. “Okay, okay. I get it. See why I didn’t want to tell you?”

“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie,” you exhaled, switching on a dime from your teasing to a serious tone. You caught the door, and pleaded for him to stop being an idiot, “I knew you were a dweeb when you held me hostage for an entire thirteen minute lecture about your song lyrics. The Dungeons and Dragons shit is the third least surprising thing you’ve ever told me.” You clasped your hand over your heart. “Truly.”

“What’s the second?”

“Your music tastes.”

“And the first?” he asked, despite his better judgment.

“That you’re single.”

He announced his displeasure in a deadpan expression. “And I’m beginning to see why you are, too–” All of him went rigid, withdrawing slightly into the trailer with his head lowered, ear angled towards the right of him, listening as his gaze went unfocused.

After a few seconds, his lungs reawakened with a relieved breath. “Just coughing,” he said to himself. Dragging his attention back to you, he gestured weakly at his jacket to indicate his lack of clothing, still embarrassed at the situation. “Adrie, uh.. She puked on me earlier. That’s why I wasn’t–uhm–dressed.”

Worry edged its way into your question, “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine. Kids get sick from daycare all the time. Basically just sentient germs running around, licking their hands after touching everything.”

Your eyebrows ticked up at the memory of the awful Dayquil hangovers following the weekends you worked as a clown for children’s birthday parties.

You asked, “And what about Wayne?”

“Hm? Oh.” Recognition, and the ease of a casual conversation overtook the near-permanent anticipatory hardness to his features, softening his bristly nature around you; finding you comforting when he was in the place where he was supposed to feel safest, but didn’t.

Home wasn’t home for Eddie Munson, and you felt that icy statement behind your ribs as you watched him pat his pocket as a way to check his rings were there for reassurance, acutely aware there was an hostile world at your back, and you chose to only see each other.

There was a tender innocence to his lip crooking up in a lopsided grin as he remembered you asked him a question. “Typical old man. Wayne was outside and didn’t hear the phone ring, that’s why he didn’t answer. He’s at work now, though.”

“Mm,” you hummed. “Do you have soup?”

“Soup?”

“For Adrie,” you clarified.

He glanced over his shoulder, assumingly at the kitchen, and after some mental deduction, he shrugged in vague nonchalance. “Yeah, there’s probably soup for her.” As if you didn’t know him well enough at this point to read past the nervous habits weaving their way into his fidgety unsureness.

You backed down the stairs as you spoke, “Okay. Well then, guess I’ll get going since you have everything on lock down here. Got your sick kid, got your soup, got your notebook, and your uncle’s at work. Sounds like everything’s in order.” Hopping off the last step, you swung around the handrail and guided your bike to the road, beaming. “See ya!”

“Yeah, see ya,” he replied, settling into his usual side-ways glance around the trailer park, challenging the gawkers who watched a girl willingly walk up to his home and leave it smiling. They did not dare to say anything, of course; returning to their lives with sealed lips, pretending to pay him no mind. Just how it should be.

He held his chin high.

————

And when Eddie next answered the door, it was in the low blue hue of a setted sun, and he did so in his black jeans and a white tank top. His unzipped work jacket swayed prettily around his torso, low bun at his nape loosened to a mess, short curls in a frizz over his ears, and cheeks flushed. “I figured you’d be back,” he forced out evenly, doing his best to disguise his panting breaths.

You hugged the brown paper grocery bags to your chin, and grinned.

He stuck his foot behind him in an awkward curtsy, and swept his arm for you to enter.

Walking into his place for the first time there were many things to comprehend, absorb, fawn over, and ask about until he was tired of explaining their origins–and since you were already crossing an entire notebook’s worth of lines today, you inquired about the most obvious. “You, uh, like collecting hats and mugs?”

“They’re Wayne’s,” he grunted, unplugging the vacuum he left in the middle of the living room by yanking the cord out of the wall, and dragging it on his way to the hallway closet where he kicked and shoved things aside to make room, rattling the thin door that definitely had been punched through at one point, patched and painted over, and was now a canvas for crayon squiggles along the bottom. “Before he worked at the power plant, he was a trucker. Collected them at every rest stop in every state, that sorta thing.”

“Ah.”

In a quick spin, he surveyed the rest of the trailer, and made a similar “ah” sound when he saw the cleaning products and balled up paper towels on the tiny table squeezed against the wall. He lunged for them, stuffing the evidence and other garbage into the overflowing trash can. “I still keep up the tradition by getting him a mug for Christmas.” Jerking his chin at the shelf above him, he specified the one on the end. “This year was Looney Tunes.”

“How cute.” The bags crinkled in your arms as you stood in the entryway, nodding expectantly.

“Shit–Sorry.”

You smiled. He finished clearing a space on the wrap-around kitchen counter for you to set the groceries down, scooting a candle out of the way, flickering the flame he may have burnt himself on while lighting, if the red mark on his thumb was anything to go by. And he was back to pivoting, scanning the area, desperate to latch onto the object which would jog his memory on where he was in his cleaning: dishes dripped in the drying rack, Wayne’s grilled cheese endeavor was out of sight, the bathroom radiated the nose-burning scent of bleach.

He snapped his fingers at the overflowing trash can, and almost slipped in his frenzy to tie up the bag and rush for his boots, saying he’ll be right back on his way out, leaping down the stairs.

“Alrighty..”

The steady rumble of a washing machine rattled every loose bit of metal in the museum of belongings.

You waged war with your tennis shoes, wiggling out of them with the laces still tied, and stepped off the carpet dividing the trailer in half. The bubbling vinyl kitchen floor stuck to your socks, still damp from being mopped, and heaved the groceries onto the pale blue countertop, sliding them across decades worth of scratches scarring the material. Once you were sure you could let them go without a toppling situation, you took the goods out one at a time, but your attention was nosy and undivided.

Acting as foreground to the walls of hats and mugs was the rest of Eddie’s life. Laundry baskets occupied a couch with flattened cushions. A coffee table supported stacks of his daughter’s playthings after picking them out of the vacuum’s path. There was a fold out bed in the corner, and a modest TV situated on top of a VCR. To compensate for the lack of overhead light was an abundance of mismatched lamps on each surface.

It was a hodge podge, and it was cramped, and it was incomprehensible, and it was his house.

Turning, you began to guess at which cabinets he would store a bag of rice when you spotted the artwork hanging on the fridge.

Pinned under a teddy bear magnet was a decoupaged version of your Thanksgiving turkeys, cut out and glued to a single piece of construction paper, complete with the castle in the background. And secured safely under a smiley face magnet was a stick figure drawing of two people–one in a pink dress, one in all black scribble–and dated in neat ink by someone with less messy handwriting: 5/7/92.

Eddie came back to your wide grin, and two cans of baked beans held up in a question.

“They go over here,” he said, nodding at the skinny door next to where he stood at the small green table set for three chairs, organizing today’s mail in his hand.

You opened the pantry next to the recessed oven, and stacked the rest of the cans inside. Towards the back there were two white cereal boxes with plain blue text and nothing else, leaving you to deduce no one in his family stooped to eating unsweetened cornflakes even if that’s all they had. Meanwhile, he arranged overdue bills into a ladder style letter holder hung on the wall beside the phone, periodically taking one out and placing it down a rung, ordering them from most to least important.

“I was supposed to go grocery shopping yesterday, but I had to buy and install a new hot water heater,” he told you suddenly. Whether he was saying this because he was coasting on the fumes of his Christmas bonus until December’s child support arrived, or because he was simply too busy to go shopping, neither of you addressed it more than necessary. He accepted your help, and you didn’t pry.

“Unexpected shit sucks, huh?” you added for his benefit.

“Yeah,” he huffed in a short laugh, playing the same game.

And it was him who rested his forearms on the edge of the pale blue wrap-around counter, watching you commit good deed after good deed, guessing where groceries went in the cabinets, acclimating to his kitchen’s set up, and making room for a bag of grapes and three apples between his six pack of Pabst and block of Government cheese.

“Can I ask you kind of a weird question?”

You brightened at his voice, teetering on the edge of a smile just from that alone. “Always.”

He drew absent-minded circles with his finger as he tried to find the best way to word something he wondered about since the week you met. “When you saw Adrie for the first time, you had this really, uh, surprised look on your face.. Why was that?”

Your tone was dismissive in the wake of something that appeared to haunt him, “Oh, that?” You folded down the empty paper bags, and placed them on top of the fridge after he said Adrie would use them for arts and crafts. “Well, it’s like, Mr. Moore has dozens of pictures of his family on his desk, and Carl told me–approximately–ten different stories about his sons an hour after meeting him, and Kevin carries pictures of his dogs in his wallet. It just seemed like if you had a daughter, you would’ve shown me a picture too, like most dads.” You waved your hands around, and contorted your mouth in a silly manner. “I mean, it was just weird you never mentioned her.”

He took your assessment to heart, and opened the drawer closest to him. Amongst the clutter of junk was his black wallet resting on a coiled chain with clips on either end. Taking out the cheap leather, he cradled the width in his palm, and wiggled out a picture kept sealed behind a plastic window. He said, “Actually, I do carry a picture of her,” and handed it to you.

On instinct, you pored over the image of him first, prizing the crown of his head sporting the same wild haircut. He had his face tipped down to the newborn wrapped in a pink blanket in his arms, crooking her in their safety as he held a bottle to her lips. His knees were on display behind his ripped black jeans. His shirt was sleeveless. She was tiny and precious. He was decidedly emotionless from what you could see, sat on a couch that was not the same as the one across the room from you.

“That was taken at Harrington’s place,” he answered your unstated question, keen to the recognition washing over your face as you placed it as Nancy’s ugly pink floral loveseat.

You gave it back to him.

He looked over the captured moment in time, bleak gaze set on his little girl when she was so fragile, and small, and when he was so weak, and teetering on a long overdue breakdown.

“It took me a long time to carry this around,” he said, tone heavy with disappointment, regret, and shame. “Wayne and I were fighting constantly. And I mean, I don’t blame him. He gave up his life to take care of me when I was twelve, and I put so many gray hairs on his head that he went bald from my bullshit, and then there I was, bringing home a screaming infant I didn’t know the first thing about taking care of. Y’know, just proving I was a fuck-up right when he thought I was smart enough to get my act together.“ Tracing the sharp edge of the photo trimmed to fit his wallet, he placed it in its windowed slot and tossed it back in the drawer, closing the past from his sight. “I don’t have a lot of good memories from that time. Shit fucking sucked.”

“I can imagine,” was all you could say.

“I love her,” he said in the event you doubted him.

“I know you do,” you offered in return.

Steering the conversation in a different direction, you swung your index fingers at the extensive cabinetry, and asked, “Where’s a cutting board?” Right of the sink, he answered. “And a knife?” Top drawer next to your hip, he responded. But it took until you shook out the washed celery stalk, and snapped the ribs off, lining them up on the white plastic cutting board did he become suspicious.

He leaned more of his weight on his forearms, and kept his tone carefully neutral, “What’re you doing?”

Keeping your expression indifferent aside from your arched brows, you cut the celery into manageable sticks and began slicing them lengthways. “I believe I’m in Edward Munson’s trailer making him and his daughter soup.”

The crimson guitar pick at the end of his necklace swung forward, jostled from where it was stuck to the healthy sheen of sweat glistening along the top of his chest. “How do you know my full name?”

“A little birdie told me.”

He shifted his shoulders, head lowered, eyes narrowed, voice deep, “Better question. How do you know where I live?”

“A bigger birdie told me.”

“Someone told you about me?”

Rightfully confused, you pulled a face. “Huh? No. I was kidding. No one talks to me. Anyway, back to the soup.” You harnessed all your charm into impressing him by meeting his stare while you diced the celery, using your knuckles as guidance. “Are there any vegetables she won’t eat? Or stuff she’s allergic to?” Your flagrant insolence irked him: reading his notebook, inviting yourself to his residence, filling the voids in his kitchen with groceries, and now making him soup without ever asking if he wanted you to do those things.

Because of course he wanted you to do those things.

He surrendered to your kindness. “No allergies, and she’ll eat anything as long as it’s diced small–Yeah, like that–and cooked down to mush. It’s the one thing she’s always been good about.”

“And you?”

It took a few sad seconds for him to understand you were asking about his allergies and his preferences, not used to his needs being taken into consideration. “No, no, whatever you make is good. Uhm. Hey, you don’t have to do all of this. Don’t roll your eyes, I’m being serious. Adrie’s sick and I don’t want you to catch what she has.”

“Please,” you implored in thick sarcasm, “I’ve been coughed on by every disease known to man on the Q train. There’s not a cold or flu in existence I haven’t succumbed to. I’m immune at this point.”

You found a stock pot from the cabinet at the junction of the wrap-around counter and the sink, and set it on the cooktop to come to heat while you peeled and chopped an onion. Eddie dwelled in his observations; listening to you recount tales of working in kitchens because they were always hiring, collecting horror stories from being a dishwasher, a waitress, a morning food prepper; moving from title to title; birthday clown, bartender, craft store cashier. Flighty, flighty, flighty. He watched your hands move in quick chops and long sweeps down a carrot with skill he didn’t have the patience nor time to learn. He told you as much, how when he comes home he’s fucking tired, and doesn’t have the energy to make dinner.

“Now what’re you doing, sweetheart?” he asked in what he hoped was an exhausted tone, but he knew it was futile. The timidness was there, sneaking its way into his words when he made the leap to calling you an endearment in his own home. And how could he not when you pulled out a stack of tupperware, divided the piles of chopped vegetables between them, and wedged them into the freezer, still tending to the sweating mirepoix with a wooden spoon.

“It’s so next time you want soup they’re all ready to go. You don’t have to waste time cutting vegetables. Just dump a container in a pot and add broth and noodles, and call it a night.”

He made a fond noise in the back of his throat, looking at you through his lashes. “You’re really doing everything in your power to extort me for this ‘thank you’ I owe you, aren’t you?”

“You’re the one who promised me something good,” you reminded him.

Water splashed, sputtered in the pot, steaming into a cloud of savory humidity, filling the living space with earthy aromatics. You added bouillon cubes, and stirred the stock together while turning the dial on high to bring the soup to a boil.

“Yeah, guess I did,” he said, petering out into a mumble, straying further from the current topic. He wasn’t finished talking about the previous one yet, and he made it known.

Tracing his thumb along his plump bottom lip, he tested a boundary, tiptoeing into a realm he did his best to ignore. “So, uh, you employ the same strategy with jobs as you do dating, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” you grinned. “Having an endless well of stories about shitty customers to pull from is perfect for stand up. Everyone loves the perpetually single girl who works in service or retail, and just can’t seem to find the love of her life, despite going on an insane amount of first dates with New York’s most average. It’s funny, and relatable.”

“And now you’re stuck as a boring receptionist in a nowhere town in a nowhere state.”

You released a sugary, syrupy, sweet giggle. “And now I’m stuck as a boring receptionist in a nowhere town in a nowhere state, and it’s the longest job I’ve ever held.”

His eyelashes fluttered from the nerves–the strong ache in his chest pressing down on him, stealing his breath. “And what about the dates? Gone on any with Hawkins’ finest?”

“Just one.” Though your back was to him while you washed and dried the cutting board, your smile was outlined in your banter. “But it was awful,” you emphasized in a dramatic sigh. “Worst date ever. He drank my Icee, wouldn’t stop talking during the movie, and, get this! He didn’t even tell me I was pretty. Not once.”

“What a jerk,” he agreed fullheartedly, scrunching his nose and twisting a curl of his hair over his stupidly smitten grin. “Sounds like a real asshole.”

“Actually, he was my favorite,” you corrected him, turning down the dial to where the coils lost their fluorescent glow. “Huge, huge nerd. Like, the biggest dork ever, but he was definitely my favorite out of any of my dates.” On your way to the green table, you bent close to his ear, and begged him in a whisper, “But don’t tell him I said that. He’ll get a real big ego about it.”

He made a zipping motion over his mouth.

“Soups gotta simmer until the potatoes are done. Might as well sit.”

He unzipped his mouth. “When did you cut up potatoes?”

“When you were staring at me all dreamy-like,” you supplied, words dipped in coy and flirt.

Undecided on which way to balk at your claim, he did them all: rolled his eyes, clicked his tongue, muttered a small “was not,” and slung himself into his usual chair at the table. He expected you to do the same, to match his silly theatrics with your own impassioned eye roll and smirk, but you didn’t. You sat across from him, poised, hands clasped together with the black notebook beside you.

The mood of the evening dipped visibly in your serious gaze set on him.

You tapped your knuckle on the metal spirals binding the worn pages of his latest campaign together. “No more secrets,” you punctuated. Three short words let go on an exhale. Three little words standing taller than the final barrier he built to keep others out. Not an ask, but a necessity if you were going to continue your relationship–platonic or not.

Your posture and expression were stern, but gentled by patience. “Let’s get to those rumors, hm.”

It was time.

No going back.

Whatever happens, happens.

Eddie took a shaky breath, and invited you over to the vulnerable truth. “Has anyone ever told you anything about me? Not like Harrington’s stories, but actual rumors?”

You shook your head. Between spending most of your time at work, or at Robin’s place, you didn’t have much opportunity to speak to random people, apart from small talk. And chit chatting about the weather was nowhere near as grave as what rooted itself in the solemn slow blink wherein he closed his eyes, and dipped his head.

“I’ll tell you everything, but can I ask you not to say anything while I explain?” he hesitated, knowing how it sounded. “I don’t know how else to word that to make it less rude, but this shit is difficult for me to talk about, and I’ll probably ramble, and go on tangents, and jump around the timeline, but, please, don’t interrupt me or say anything until I’m finished, okay? I don’t want to forget any of the details, and have to discuss this again. Can we do that?”

Digging your thumbnails harder into the flesh of your fingers, you agreed to the terms with a solid nod.

He swallowed. And when his tongue remained too thick in his dry mouth, he swallowed again, and sat up straight, pressing his back into the chair. “Okay.”

Two anxious stomachs twisted at once.

He cast his vacant stare around the room; never allowing it to land on you. This conversation was with himself and the green table and the shelf of mugs and the soup bubbling away on the stove and the washing machine entering its spinning cycle and the containers of Play-Doh on the coffee table; speaking to the non-judgemental objects instead of the person across from him.

“I’ll start with my reputation in school,” he said. “Probably doesn’t take much of an imagination to picture me as I am now with the same hobbies and opinions, just a lot louder about them. Heavy metal was the only music I listened to, and people called me weird for it. And I thought ‘weird?’ Was that supposed to bother me? I loved being weird! I wore the title ‘weird’ with pride. I didn’t want to be like everyone else. And when they saw I played Dungeons and Dragons, they called me a Satanist. Satanist? Like Ozzy, and all the bands I looked up to? Hell yeah! I thought being called a Satanist was so cool I sewed a Leviathan Cross on my jacket.” The corner of his lip jumped at a memory, smiling at something from long ago. Then, it faded. “Goes without saying I didn’t make many friends until I found other outcasts who shared those same views as me. We started a band together, and after some convincing, we made a DND club with me as the Dungeon Master. Of course people called me a cult leader for it, but being a cult leader sounded fucking awesome, so I encouraged it. Antagonized it. Weird, Devil-worshiper, cultist, freak. I wore them all like armor.”

He paused to crack his knuckles, expression falling blank as suppressed scenes unfolded in his head. “I got bullied a lot. Not that surprising. I was so aggressively opinionated about everything and never shut up. But the worst of it stopped when I got held back enough grades that I made “grown-up friends” and started dealing to help pay for my guitars and stuff.” He shrugged a single shoulder in apathy, and the tan jacket slipped down his arm, revealing a faded stick-and-poke viper above his armpit. “Unless it was Steve or someone in that friend circle, I was never invited to parties except to bring drugs. Weed, pills, whatever low scale stuff, nothing that serious, but I wasn’t very popular outside of that context.” The washing machine buzzed at the end of its cycle. “And as much as I told myself I didn’t care, I did. I did care when my friends were out on dates with their girlfriends, and I was alone, stuck in front of a record player learning a song just to give myself something to do, and something to say I did over the weekend when they all talked about the movie they saw together.. Made me feel like I was the outcast even amongst the outcasts.”

Listening, but not responding, you smoothed your thumbs over the divots in your skin your nails left behind.

Swallowing again, he faltered, “Girls didn’t like me. Even if I was the cooler, older guy who was so confident in everything he did, I was still off-putting. Or just weird in the bad way, because I didn’t know how to act, and came on too strong, or too–I don’t know–fucking dorky, doing shit like opening doors and bowing for them, laughing too loud at my own jokes when they didn’t find them funny.” It took everything you had to not to break your promise–to stay silent, and indifferent, and not gather him into a hug and assure him all those goofy mannerisms were exactly why you liked him. “I dated, y’know.. Had girlfriends here and there, but they never lasted more than a month.”

To close one chapter of his life and open another, he rubbed at his eyes, and ran a hand down his face, scrubbing over his chin as he spoke to the ceiling, “Now onto my old man.”

The hand he used to wipe the loneliness from his somber visage came to a rest on the edge of the table, and he ran the side of his palm along it as a way to fidget.

“He was in and out of jail for a number of things my whole life, but when I was twelve, he murdered someone. She was a nice lady. Well known in town, and well liked. Popular. Prom Queen, cheerleader type. Everyone loved her.. And he murdered her.”

Silence, silence, you remained in white-hot, visceral, sweat dripping, jaw-clenching silence.

“According to my criminal record, I was following in his footsteps. I had a penchant for stirring up trouble. It was fun. Stealing dumb shit, hotwiring an old car to drive us to the woods to get drunk when we were teenagers, dealing, begging Steve to throw ragers every weekend so I had an excuse to get shitfaced and run from the cops.. Yeah, it really looked like I was following in his footsteps. Following the Munson name.”

Eddie sat forward. Sleeved forearms sliding across aged coffee rings staining the green collapsible tabletop, and rubbing the backs of his fingers along the other. He was close enough for you to reach, to hold, to comfort when this was over, and the ghosts were put to rest from clouding his softhearted brown eyes.

“There was a New Year’s Eve party I was invited to” –he jumped his fingers in quotations– “on the rich side of town. It wasn’t one of Harrington’s, and I was out of my supply anyway, so I skipped out and spent the night here with my friends playing DND, and setting off fireworks in the trailer park, just having a good time.” The next inhale quivered his bottom lip, “I woke up in my bed to three cop cars blaring their sirens, and someone telling me I was being arrested for-for murder. Ah..”

You steeled yourself from blinking away.

“A girl died at that party. Prom Queen, head cheerleader. The type everyone knew, and everyone liked. And.. A-and, Jesus, I-I just need to get through this, I’m so sorry–but stuff was done to her body.”

The frankness hung in the room.

He screwed his eyes shut, and let the ugly reality spill from his mouth, “A guy from out of state went to that party with way harder shit than I sold, and she wanted to try some. They went to the bathroom together, he gave her too much, drugged her, she overdosed, and h-h-he..” His eyelids twitched with movement, and the tendons in his neck strained. You weren’t sure if he could hear the small, involuntary noise you made, but he chose the same words to avoid what you could infer. What all women could infer. “He did stuff to her body.”

His voice continued to crawl up an octave as his muscles braced in a reflexive cringe. “H-He left her there, and when her body was discovered, and the police were called, it didn’t take long before someone said they thought they saw me there, and once one person said they saw me there, suddenly everyone saw me there.” Hard swallow, palms wiped on jeans. “I was arrested the next morning, and even though I had three alibis, I didn’t have any hard receipts or any of that shit they wanted to establish where I was and at what time. And when my alibis were a bunch of Satanic cultist shithead troublemakers like me, they were brushed off. And why wouldn’t they be? It’s my friend’s word against thirty people who swore the long haired guy they saw at the party was me. Cops thought they caught their man, booked me, and had me in interrogation in under an hour from kicking down my door.”

He licked his lips.

“January of ‘88,” he said with an unsteady cadence, shooting out the sentences as they came to him, lurching faster and faster towards the horrid scars he’d never heal from. “I was so fucking lucky, so fucking lucky. DNA testing had only become a thing the year before. Mhm. That’s what saved my ass. But even then, it wasn’t like it is now. That shit took weeks to process.” He lifted his hands–fingers loosely curled, trembling. “For weeks they made me look at the pictures of her. H-Her body. The b-bruises around her neck.” He gestured at his own, and his voice swung higher pitched, “Interrogated me over and over again. For days, and weeks. Trying to get me to confess. It took weeks to prove I was innocent, and clear my name. Weeks, and weeks. A-A-And in those weeks–”

The trembling escalated to uncontrollable shaking.

“–Fuck–I don’t want to talk about this,” he said, volume fluctuating.

The air was too thick to breathe.

The wrinkles between his brows deepened, as did the lines bracketing his mouth. Red flush overtook his shuddering chest, his strained throat, his scrunched face with his eyes closed in refusal to acknowledge you sat opposite him, your expression slackened by dread.

“In the weeks between waiting f-for the DNA results,” each word wobbled worse than the last, “I found out Adrie’s mom was four months pregnant. And if I knew, then all of Hawkins knew. Everyone knew I knocked someone up, and.. and more rumors started..” He lifted his eyebrows, and his hands developed a violent shiver, hovering over the table, palms open, afraid and begging. “Because of.. what happened to the body.. People thought that she was.. That I..” each pause was a short wheeze.

Your blood ran cold with the slow realization of what word he was avoiding.

Desperation influenced his stammer, “I swear to you, w-what happened between us was consensual,” he stressed the last word in a whimper delivered straight to your dropped stomach. “She doesn’t answer my calls–but I could try, if you need to hear it from her–I promise, I promise, as soon as the rumors started, as soon as they started, she denied them. She tried to stop them from spreading. She tried. She told everyone it-it-it wasn't–that we both chose to–” he sniffed back the croaky sob, and without the grace of respite, he coughed the rasp from his throat, and ushered you into another apology you didn’t know you were owed, “I should’ve told you before we went to Adrie’s school. You had a right to know why people were staring. I’m so fucking sorry.”

In the room at the end of the dark hallway, his daughter who he sacrificed everything for rolled over in her bed, bringing the covers with her. In the belly of the trailer belonging to his uncle, you kept your feet tucked under your chair, letting the information wash over you in worse and worse crashes. In the lousy home he hated, Eddie held his breath until the aches reached their peak, and released them in a cough; and another, and another, until the pain subsided.

Deep breath, deep breath.

Your chair creaked from your uncomfortable shifting.

With time, the tension in his body waned to where his composed words could be heard in all the clarity they deserved, “I know this has been a lot to hear, and process, and I’m so sorry for unloading all of this on you at once, but I wanted you to know the whole story so you could make an informed decision.”

You weren’t sure if you were supposed to speak yet, but your whisper broke through, “Informed decision?”

Cheeks hot, but dry, and lower lashes clumped together from the rescinded tears, he answered you indirectly at first, “It took months to find and arrest the guy, and by then Hawkins didn’t care. Babe, you can be anonymous in the city, but this is how small town mentality works. All it took was one person to say I was at that party, and like that, my life was ruined. My name was stained. No one cared if I was innocent. The culprit was some other guy they’d never heard of from another state whose picture they flashed on the 6 o’clock news once. He might as well not even exist.” A pause. A change. A regret. “I want to protect you.”

There was pressure building behind your eyes, and you moved your gaze to the shelves above you in an effort to stifle the well of tears from falling–for him, for the dead girl, for what he was about to say next.

Eddie alternated between weakly slapping his hands flat on the table, then turning over to show his palms, then slapping them down again; guilt and shame and loneliness and fear working its way into every part of his gentle nature. “My name carries a stigma, and if you’re going to be coming around to my place, or be seen with me in public, you need to know there are consequences. Assumptions are going to be made about you. People are going to speculate, warn you, judge you. You don’t deserve that shit, so please, tell me, and I’ll accept just being friends at work, and leave it at that. I won’t ask questions. I won’t bother you. I won’t ask for more.”

“What?”

“I’ll understand,” he said, eyes tightening in a flinch.

“Eddie–” It came out broken. His encouragement for you to end the burden of this relationship at coworkers for the sake of your image stung like the tender throb of rejection–except, it was worse. It was him giving you permission to break things off because he didn’t see himself as worth the hassle.

Your poise collapsed. “You’re right, it is a lot to process, and it’s all I’m gonna be thinking about for the next week, a-and yeah, I wish you told me sooner, but Eddie–” His knuckles made a harsh sound when you grasped for his hand, knocking them on the table with the force of your messy coordination through the blur of true friendship disrupting your vision. “This changes nothing between us.”

Graceless under the circumstances, you took his right hand and wrapped your fingers around his thumb, fitting the meat of your palm into the curve of his. You delved your other fingers under his sleeve cuff, stroking them down, then up, slotting them beneath the stretchy bracelet. D-A-D-D-Y. He cupped his free hand over top of yours, enveloping them both, and waded through the entanglement to caress the prominent callus at the tip of his middle finger over the white blocks with black lettering. M-O-U-S-E.

“I’m with you,” you said. “I’m here. And whenever you want me here, whenever Adrie wants me here, ask and I’ll be on my bike pedaling as fast as I can.”

His face pinched in sentimental yearn. “Baby..”

Instead of suffocating the intensity of his emotions as he normally would, he slid his chair back and buried his head in the hollow of his outstretched arms; and in the pocket of space where he felt safest, he allowed himself the relief of two hot tears streaking through the fine sweat overtaking his puffy face. They clung to the tip of his nose, and dripped to his jeans in a loud splat.

He snorted, but it came out as a muted huff due to his stopped up sinuses. “Can’t believe I made it all the way through that sober and without crying, and then you just–went ahead and said something like that.”

You smiled. He probably did, too. Then as yours ebbed, his probably did, too.

The intertwined pocket where you clasped each other ran hot with body temperature, humidity, and the loaded implications of his confession and your subsequent acceptance. Heavy with the context for why people stared at him. Their significant glances at you, and the new depths and meaning beyond people thinking he was weird, and you were weird by association.

But at the same time, their stares didn’t last long. They were glances by every definition. A look over, a judgment, and then away, back to their own little world and their own little lives.

You asked, “Are the rumors still as bad as they were?”

The short curls at the crown of his head waved back and forth with his slow head shake. “I don’t think so. I think they’ve gotten better in a weird, fucked up way.” He sniffled, and wiped his nose on the inside of his sleeve before returning to the darkened confines of his arms, refusing excess stimulation until he could handle it. “Ever since Home Alone came out, my friends joke that I’m like that old man, y’know, the one all the neighborhood kids target, and turn one rumor about him into this entire narrative where he’s slayed over a dozen people, and keeps the bodies in his basement.” He laughed, truly. A warm, muffled thing. “That’s the sorta rumors going around now, I think; that I’m some Boogieman that gets blamed for every bump in the night. Adults probably know the accusations, but, like I said, Adrie’s mom did try to stop the other ones, but I guess I don’t know for sure if–when people look at you and me–that’s what they’re thinking. Uhm, I don’t know if I’m making sense anymore.”

“You’re good,” you consoled him. Your thumbs whispered sentiments on his skin, smoothing over the rough terrain from his labor, and catching on the excess sweat, wicking it away and creating more with each hindered brush across his inner wrist, trapped under the weight of his heavy hand copying you; running his fingers over wherever he could, needy, grounding himself to your presence, and seeking closure. “Thank you for finally telling me.”

“Thanks for listening,” he responded quietly.

Eddie shrugged his shoulders to his cheeks, and dried his face on his jacket to the best of his ability. Together, you sat in silence for a while longer, holding each other. Thinking. Decompressing. Plunging into the ice water of yet another development in your relationship, and emerging to the surface in unison, breaking the surface tension latched together by the same lifesaver.

You squeezed.

He squeezed back.

“I think I need a minute,” Eddie said, throwing his head towards the bathroom and letting go of you to inelegantly wipe at his runny nose. He drew further away from the table, standing up and walking in his odd, awkward way; playing with his bangs, and taking his hair out of the ponytail. “I’ll see if Adrie’s awake and wants soup, too.” The edge of the bathroom door flooded with yellowed light and a faucet was turned on high.

There was a nice moment where you nodded at the homely kitchen, lost in thought, absorbing the sounds and smells of the thick bubbling brew, and tomatoey pungence. Until it dawned on you.

“Shit, the soup–!”

Thankfully, as you stirred, the potatoes stuck to the bottom of the pot dislodged themselves, and nothing appeared burnt. Because, honestly, you couldn’t take the wound to your pride if the first time you ever cooked for Eddie Munson resulted in you burning soup.

After searching, you discovered the cabinet above the dish rack housed the dinnerware. You grabbed two mismatched bowls and hesitated on the shallow Little Mermaid one, until hearing the click of the bathroom door swinging open, and a squeak from the adjacent bedroom.

Soft footsteps announced his excitement before you could turn and see Eddie’s silly hand wave.

Come here, he mouthed, peeking from around the wall.

You dropped the serving spoon on the–had to be homemade–ceramic ashtray masquerading as spoon rest, and followed, hungry for new discoveries; the first being the (offensively ugly) pirate ship wheel chandelier hanging above the washing machine you had to have been an idiot to miss earlier. Deeper into the carpeted hallway was the coat closet with crayon squiggles, a shelf of kitschy knick knacks, and a thrifted painting of a lake scene with the curled-edge price sticker still on the corner of the glass. Passing the bathroom, you got a glimpse of a dark green shower curtain, a wet rag on a packed sink of various spilled products, and a bucket of rubber ducks next to the tub.

Eddie slowed, and you were confronted with his back. Slim shoulders on display from his oversized jacket falling further down his arms, thick canvas folding over itself around his tapered waist. The white tank top was stretched to fit him, hem of the armholes digging into his flexed lats as he eased the bedroom door open, back muscles contouring in the heavy shadows as he hunched and held his breath at the creaky hinges broadcasting his entrance. Edges of tattoos taunted you while he blinked into the darkness. And when the one who usurped his bed nearly five years ago didn’t wake, he straightened up and shook his hair out of his face.

He angled to the side, opening himself to you with his arm outstretched; an unspoken suggestion in his fingertips finding the edge of your cable knit sweater. You understood the glossy shine of unfiltered love in his gaze, and fit yourself between him and the doorway, stealing the soft filtered light brushing Adrienne’s sleeping form in tender illumination–made sweeter by the curls falling over her closed eyes, and the pale blue unicorn hugged in her arms.

‘Oh,’ you sighed in surprise, and clasped your hands on either side of your cheeks, craning to look up at him.

Just like the time he helped you hang decorations in the breakroom, your head made contact with the stick-and-poke viper, and his grin was instant.

His inhale cradled you. “She loves that thing,” he said, chest rumbling against your nape, stomach pressing to your side with an amused grunt, filling the gaps between you and him with warmth.

It was as if nothing changed. Not really.

Eddie canted his forehead to you with an expression of mild jealousy over your plush toy wrapped in his little girl’s arms when his cold plasticy ones sat at a miniature table in a pink playhouse pretending to have a tea party. His eyebrows were the same–raised, hidden beneath the wet stringy pieces of his bangs skimming his wrinkled forehead. His damp cheeks, jaw, and neck were the same after his cold water wake up call, splashing himself over the bathroom sink. His full lips were the same, pink and pulled back to show his teeth. His strong chin was the same, peppered with a recent shave. His handsome nose was the same, albeit red. The crinkles at the corner of his eyes were the same, if not slightly fuller from his recent cry.

But everything had changed.

Before, you lacked the understanding of the fear in his eyes when Mr. Moore had walked into the shop. How he had risked a painful bruise on his hip from the chair he knocked over in his scramble to get away from you. The tremble in his hands when he ran them through his hair in an urgent act to appear composed, and not like he was doing something worse with you. To you.

Everything was different, but it was felt, not seen.

The leftover adrenaline from the confrontation at his kitchen table faded, and in its place, rising from the truest, barest, rawest vulnerabilities of himself, was trust. A candid expression of respect in his palm at your back, fingers curled in to stroke his nails along the knitted design of your turtleneck. He confessed his secrets, you knew him to be an innocent man, and despite his worry for your reputation becoming infected by his, you promised him the same loyalty you always had, because there was not a lie in existence that would break the bond you facilitated months ago, born from your sheer desire to annoy the one mechanic who wouldn’t speak to you.

Felt, not seen.

A promise, and an urge.

The tingly pleasure of his nails scratching over your sweater advanced to a divine expression of affection.

He wrapped his arm around you, settling his hand in the curve above your hip. It lasted all of two seconds, long enough for him to bring you into the crook of his body for the purpose of whispering something in your ear, but it was a phenomenal improvement over the usual nervous flittering his fingers performed when in your company.

His voice was candy sweet after watching your face break into a smile for his daughter, “Maybe we should let her sleep, hmm?”

You leaned into him. “Yeah,” you sighed, rolling your head along his shoulder, guiding your silly grin from him to Adrie. “She looks so peaceful.”

“And quiet,” he observed in the wise tone of a single father after long hours of soothing his child’s headache when her cries created one of his own, and juggling the duty of cleaning up her puke from the floor, her clothes, his clothes, and bathing her while wallowing in the misery of doing it all by himself.

Eddie persuaded you into the hallway, and closed the door behind him, letting his arm fall to his side, ending the cocoon of warmth he provided with the harsh drag of the metal zipper scratching across the back of your jeans. He followed you to the kitchen and opened the fridge, muttering a string of words about deserving something as he snapped a silver and blue can from the plastic ring holding them together. “Want a beer? I don’t think you can get a DUI on a bike.”

“You actually can in some states.” You didn’t elaborate, and continued spooning soup into the bowls in questionable silence. “But no, thank you.”

Crack, tss. He held your stare over the rim as he tipped back a long gulp, pressed his lips together, and swallowed with a satisfied ‘ah,’ giving you ample time to ignore him. Finally, he moved his hand about, and asked, “Not gonna tell me why you know that?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.”

Moving on, you located two spoons from the absolute chaos of the cutlery drawer, and brought the bowls to the table while he reached into the pantry for an open sleeve of saltines, tossing them between the both of you and falling into his chair with a soft grunt.

“This looks great,” he complimented in earnest, voice and face alight with appreciation as he thrashed his arms to get out of his jacket, and took another sip of beer before crowding his side of the table with elbows, forearms, and hands; always holding the Pabst, or the soup, or reaching; always in motion, dominating the space you shared between your bowls, and beneath, where your legs were slotted in tight between his wide-spread knees.

His manners were about what you would assume after eating lunch with him many times, but that’s not what had you breathless.

He just.. took off his jacket like it was a completely normal thing he did dozens of times in front of you, sometimes accompanied by a hand rolled cigarette hanging from his lips, or joined by a sneer at some bad joke you told.

But it wasn’t normal. Not this time.

Hungry, hungry, hungry, you devoured the sight of his bare skin.

While he stirred the finely diced carrots and potatoes, you were afforded the time to admire the art no longer hidden by coveralls. Guessing at the older blotchy etches on his inner arm, theorizing about the origins of the souvenirs done in various stages between professional and very not professional, probably by himself or a friend. He didn’t have many, but it was easy to get caught up in the collection of motifs spanning from the top of his shoulders, and crawling in disorder downwards, to a tiny dagger at the apex of his bicep, two dice above his elbow, and a classic twist of barbed wire. Very cool and tough, but your roving stopped at one tattoo in particular.

Rather, one cluster of tattoos making up a whole.

“The bats..”

He perked up at your whisper–”Hm?”–and looked down at his arm. “Oh, yeah. These were my fourth, I think? Somethin’ like that. You like ‘em?” he asked, mouth cutting into the same delighted place a smirk originated from, but with more fascination as he too realized this was your first (technically second) time seeing his exposed arms.

Sucking in your cheeks to curb your habit of smiling at everything he said, you nodded in response, falling into a rhythmic head dip as you thought back to your first time meeting Adrie, and the picture she drew for you, and her Halloween costume, and how she chose not to dress as a princess like all her friends, but as a bat instead, because her daddy liked bats. “Yeah.. Yeah, I like them.”

He removed the twist tie from around the crackers and counted out three, stacking them neatly between his palms and, without warning, crushing them into his soup, sending a fine powder into the air.

It was obvious you were watching him on account of your untouched food, but it was beyond your control. Winter created a barrier between you and his skin. You needed to reap the beauty now while you could. Learn what you could, like the scorpion above his collar bone opposite the viper, and the eyeball monster with tentacles twisting over the bulk of muscles laying dormant in his solid forearms, and whatever the hell else was peeking out from under his tank top.

He scraped his spoon along the bottom of his bowl, and determined he needed one more cracker to make his soup as thick as he liked, and collected it from the crinkly pack. Yet another simple movement he had executed hundreds of times in front of you, and yet..

You stared. And stared. And stared. And made a sound of disgust. Rising from your chair, you loomed an impressive shadow over Eddie’s face as he gazed up at you with an expression of open confusion.

His eyes were trained solely on the pretty glint in yours. 

Shiver. Goosebumps.

He jumped at your bold finger slipping under the strap of his tank top to move it aside. You pinched your brows, narrowed your eyes, and pressed your palm to his skin, enthralled by the sensation of him existing under you, aware of the full breath he took to fill out his chest as you introduced the touch.

Humming, you studied your hand cupped over the black widow spider inked onto his naked pec, and concluded, “That one’s smaller than my palm.”

The pale saltine cracker shattered in his grip.

Acting oblivious, you scooted your chair under you, sat, smoothed your hands over your lap as if a napkin existed there, and slurped your spoonful of soup as if you had done something as natural as point out the weather.

He released his surprise in a huff, and brushed the crumbs from his palms. “You are the lamest person I have ever met.”

“Have you met yourself?” At his weak glare, you slurped more of your soup. An amicable silence followed–the sort of camaraderie communicated through full bellies–but there’d been something on your mind since he willingly opened himself up to you and shared his past, expecting his name to become a forgotten word in your mouth and nothing more. “Hey, since we’re like, baring our souls and shit tonight, do you want to know why I created my ‘yes’ policy?”

Instead of a comically over-quirked eyebrow, he showed genuine interest in listening to your story. He set down his spoon, and turned his full attention to you. “I’m intrigued.”

“I’m tellin’ ya now, it’s not as riveting as yours, but uh,” you faltered on a pause, and fostered the same sort of nervous shrug he did. “Growing up, my parents were really.. negative, I guess is the best way to put it. Like, they wouldn’t let me hang out with friends, told me I’d never amount to anything, said I was a disappointment. Y’know, normal stuff. Uhm, I wasn’t allowed to do much, only really leaving the house to go to school or go to my job when I was old enough to have one. They said I’d never live up to their expectations, I was a failure, I’d never get a boyfriend, I’d be a bad wife, I’m going nowhere in life, and I’m an annoyance and take up too much of their time, and I was never wanted.” You swiped your tongue along your top teeth, and popped your lips after perhaps sharing too much. “Anyway, I made good grades in high school, so I took a lot of electives, and one of those happened to be Drama class. This may come as a surprise, but I was really shy at first, but after a while I got used to playing different roles, and fell in love with the freedom of becoming whoever I wanted on stage. And one day my teacher taught us a lesson in improv, and yeah.. the moment she explained the concept of ‘Yes, and..’ I was hooked. Just the mindset of nothing being rejected, and no idea was made fun of, or shot down was brand new to me. And as you can infer by now, I adopted that ideology for my own life, and, uh, yeah, I’ve been saying ‘yes’ to everything since then and never looked back. Literally, I’ve talked to my parents like, once since moving out, and that was about my insurance.

“Uh, anyway,” you said, still talking a mile a minute, “it did kinda create a people-pleasing complex for a while. I wanted to say ‘yes’ to everyone because it made them happy, since, y’know, I was always told ‘no’ and it did the opposite. But it’s whatever. And, uh, while we’re doing this, I wanted to apologize for always pointing out that you’re single.” You avoided eye contact. “Kinda harsh in hindsight.”

He broke into a laugh–a loud clap like thunder, and curling in on himself–finding the humor in your flustered state.

“Well, I’m glad you find it so funny,” you deadpanned.

“No, no, sorry–” He concealed his giggles behind his knuckle crooked to his lips. “I, yeah, I’m sorry for pointing out that you’re single too.”

“Appreciated.”

The brief teasing commenced to a slight frown between his eyebrows. His gaze drifted to his soup, worry twisting at his lips as the bubbles of oil sloshed across the surface of the reddened broth, trembling in ripples from his bouncing leg.

Eddie was emotionally fatigued. Words weren’t coming to him–none that carried the weight they needed–so he offered an alternative to hollow apologies.

He brought a shaky spoonful of soup to his lips, and dribbled some off the side as he overcorrected the angle he needed to slide it into his mouth. The next dive for a potato proved just as awkward, trepidatious, but the struggle of eating with his non-dominant side was worth it.

Your fingertips brushed over saltine dust as you accepted the proposal of his hand resting at the center of the table, palm open, and fingers coaxing you to reunite skin on skin.

“I like your policy,” he said, voice gone gruff with the exhaustion of the day.

“Really? On more than one occasion you’ve called it stupid, irresponsible, absurd, the dumbest thing you’d ever heard of, naive–”

He shut you up by curling his fingers over yours, setting your cheeks ablaze with his unashamed thumb pressed to your bracelet. “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your policy.”

A powerful move, and you matched the intimacy.

You hooked your thumb around to the scars lining the backs of his fingers, and lost yourself in the warmth of his embrace, giving yourself to him with each circle you massaged over his knuckles and between the joints. He did the same. Touching, touching, touching. Trusting. Melting into each other's palms. Holding hands with a man accused of so much, and forgiven so little. Holding hands with someone, just months ago, he brushed off as flippantly as her parents did.

He was sorry for the way he treated you.

You were sorry for the way the world treated him.

He squeezed.

You squeezed back.

~~~

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?” you asked with a whine.

The pot of leftover soup still sat without a lid on the stovetop, and the serving spoon had a layer of scum dried to it. The dirty bowls and spoons were stacked in the sink, and Eddie hadn’t moved his wet laundry from the washing machine yet. Surely, you could help by wiping up the crumbs on the table, or cleaning up the spilled toothpaste on the bathroom sink, or–

He clapped his hands on your shoulders. “No,” he stressed slowly, “it’s late, and I’d prefer it if you got home before Buckley’s mom starts filing a missing persons report, and adding another rumor to my ass.” You cupped his elbows–barricaded from his body heat by his jacket–and opened your mouth, ready to argue. “And I swear if you don’t turn on your bike’s headlight, I’m gonna–”

You threw your head back, and groaned, “You’re so annoying.”

With the trailer’s door open, the quiet night penetrated the mix of air colliding from his warm kitchen and meeting the windless cold from the season, joining where your bodies connected on his cement steps. Your shoes dragged on the pebbly concrete in a woeful goodbye, making your effort to leave appear utmost arduous, tacking on a classic bottom lip pout when you both relinquished your holds on each other, and he shooed you off.

Not like you actually wanted to clean his house, it was just fun to annoy him into thinking you did.

Leaned against the doorway, he crossed his arms and tilted his head, mirroring your fondness in his gaze. “Yeah, yeah. Get out of here before people start gossiping about the pretty girl leaving my trailer, alive.”

The sudden belly laugh escaping you reverberated off the metal boneyard.

You slapped your hand over your mouth. “Sorry,” and after a thought, you asked gently while crouched to unchain your bike from the handrail, “Do you normally joke about what happened to you?”

His shadow shrugged over the hubcap hidden amongst the crunchy brittle grass. “Makes it easier, sometimes.”

“Noted.” You threw your leg over the seat, and made a big production of clicking on the headlight situated between your handlebars. “See you at work tomorrow, pretty boy.”

The scoff he was going for devolved into a snort. “Bye. Be safe. Please.”

Eddie locked the door behind him.

For minutes he stood at the center of his uncle’s trailer. It looked much the same as any other day when he came home from work, if not neater. But things had changed. As much as he liked eating across from Adrie, the two bowls in the sink were adult-sized, and it wasn’t the scent of stale smoke clinging to Wayne’s flannels that had Eddie throwing his arms over his head, locking his grip around his wrist, and twisting back and forth on the spot.

“Not exactly what I meant when I said I was gonna invite her over,” he informed no one but the darkness behind his closed eyes, remembering he promised Adrie that you’d come over soon.

Inhaling deep, he expelled a loud sigh and addressed the leftover soup. “But what a fucking night, huh?”

Inundated by the heaviness of feeling wanted, he opened the fridge and grabbed a tall boy stuffed behind the shelf of condiments. It wasn’t a drink of sadness as it usually was, but in celebration.

Afterall, he had much to celebrate. He held your hand. Twice.

And, not to mention, you know, how he showed you the gruesome details of the reality he lived in–his home, his reputation, his daughter sneezing into his open mouth when he was instructing her on how to take her temperature while you gagged from outside her bedroom. You knew it all, and you’d see him tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. Morning smiles, afternoon laughter. Maybe he’d even ask that question he’d meant to before you left.

But for now..

He ran his fingers over the old tattoo on his shoulder, and pressed his palm over it, replicating the weight of your head resting there when you so lovingly witnessed Adrie being his best wingman, hugging her stuffed unicorn while she slept. It’s what gave him the bravery to wrap his arm around you. And what did you do in return? You leaned into him with a smile, utterly charmed by his forwardness, if his cynical eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

A voice in the back of his head whispered a seed of doubt, but after a sip, he dismissed it.

“Still fucking got it, Munson,” he complimented himself, downing a long gulp.

————

See you at work tomorrow..

You definitely didn’t see him tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.

“Here you go, my lovely,” Robin cooed. She entered your room on tiptoes, ever so quiet, and placed your requested bottle of Nyquil on the bedside table with a glass of water. “How’re you feeling, sweetheart?”

You broke from your nest of blankets for the lone reason of glaring at her saccharine voice; somehow sweating through yet another t-shirt, while still shivering as if you’d just emerged from an ice bath.

“Aw, don’t look so grumpy, baby,” she comforted you with a pinch to your cheek. “It’s what you get for locking lips with Eddie.”

“I did not–” You cut your own self off with a round of coughs, making your attempts at speaking scratchier, and scratchier. And by the time you’d recovered, Robin had escorted herself out of your vicinity.

Her giggles haunted you from downstairs.

“Yeah, she’s fine!” She yelled to her mom. “Just lovesick.”

You rolled over, and sighed.

Goodbye extra sick day.

[ennard-is-near]

In my opinion there are actually two types of FNaF fans. I know that this gets said a lot about different things but hear me out:

Type 1: Canon worshippers. These people don’t really care that much about what makes a good story, but they do really care that every aspect of their timeline is 100% undeniably canon. These people look to books, specific lines from the games, random Twitter posts, and anything they can get their hands on to find more canon lore.

I find Type 1s tend to characterize William as more fully evil, tend to have Charlie or Elizabeth die first, often include illusion disks, nightmare gas or other misc. book things in their timelines. Often they won’t call CC Evan, and will opt to just call him Crying Child instead. You will often find these people on YouTube, claiming to have “Finally solved FNaF”

The biggest pro of interacting with Canon Worshipers is that they tend to have lots of very interesting theories that could be backed up with canon. However, a con is that they tend to often claim that you’re “wrong” about the games, and tend to not play nice with Type 2.

Type 2: Story Lovers. These people actually don’t care what the canon is all that much. Sure, if they get new information they might incorporate it into their personal timelines if they like it, but if they aren’t a fan then they will ignore it. These people look to their hearts for the answers to lore questions, and only pull from canon if they want to.

I find Type 2s tend to care more about the characters and often make characters into almost their own creations. They tend to put Evan’s death first (though not always) and will call him Evan or Joshua or something. William Afton is usually less cartoonishly evil. Often Henry or Michael are portrayed as not just innocent victims, but as morally grey characters themselves. You can usually find these people on Ao3, writing multi-chapter epics about their own version of the lore.

A pro of interacting with this side of the fandom is that it’s very creative. Type 2s search for the meaning behind characters and events and will create some incredible art/writing to express this. A con is that they are often insane and can sometimes will ship characters ceaselessly, making it hard to get along with type 1s.

Conclusion: Calm down guys it’s just Five Nights at Freddy’s.

[inkedberries]

Hey! Prefacing this by saying that this isn't meant to be an attack (which generally isn't a great way to start a message but I'd rather be clear about intentions) and more so genuine curiosity. Apologizing in advance for this being long; I have a tendency to overthink and overexplain.

I don't typically interact with fandom outside of like... carefully curated little microbiomes. As such I haven't really encountered the whole proship/anti shit with any amount of seriousness since probably around 2018. I personally don't put much stock into either of the terms because there's far too much grey area and for the fact that (as per my understanding) exist as ethical frameworks, and I don't care much for subscribing purely to a single framework to the exclusion of anything else in terms of personal ethics and morality. At most with friends we tend to colloquially refer to incest + pedophile ships as proships, because that's just sort-of what the term has evolved to mean most strongly (again, at least in the circles I run in). I don't consider myself anti or proship or whatever the fuck else, because I generally don't care to involve myself with that kind of fandom drama. I'll involve myself over like, matters of being anti-bigotry but the rest is just something I haven't wanted to deal with for 5-6 years. Tagging + filtering + block functions exist for a reason, and I don't need to do anything more than prevent my feed from showing me those things. I generally just hit block and move on with that kind of stuff, especially because I'm anti-censorship for a variety of reasons.

Tl;dr on that: proship/anti aren't terms I really use or subscribe to, because I feel like they oversimplify everything and conflate "drama". From my understanding, I agree with proship ideology (????) in the sense that I believe censorship only fucks over everyone, and that you can just block + filter and move on. But at the same time I see this overall conception that 'proship' means you support/condone/etc incest and pedophilia and so on, which I really truly don't. But there is this really heavy perception that proship = this person ships (usually) pedophilic or incestuous relationships. A bit reinforced for me typically because when something like that comes across my feed and I go to block the person, they generally have 'proship' in their bio. That to acknowledge that I do have some bias in that, even if I know it's a correlation/not cause thing. That all being (over)said (and I'm SO sorry again about how fucking long this is, my twitter TL is having a meltdown and I've avoided all this stuff for so long I don't know if I'm missing something? Because ethically on my end there's no reason for me to block or whatever outside of just the word proship...? Two minutes for a quick search as as far as I can tell you don't participate in anything against my own comfort/moral beliefs. so) I guess I'm asking what your definition of proship is for yourself and why people are jumping to this conclusion of dislike so instantaneously? Obviously you're under no obligation to educate me on what I presume is fucking YEARS of fandom history, nor respond publicly or even at all. I'm only asking you specifically because this is the first time I've encountered 'being proship' ≠ shipping pedophilia etc etc. I think maybe I came across it way back when as a middle schooler, but I'm not about to trust any of my opinions/recollections from when I was that age lmao. But anyways. Just genuinely curious and wanting to understand because I'm wary of reacting too-quickly just because other people are, and especially so if it's actually a total non-issue for me. Sorry again for the insane rambling in this lol

hello!! i hope you don't mind me prefacing this response too by saying to please read this out fully, if you don't agree with the starting points i've provided, i hope you still continue on reading until the end💙 i think @/frownyalfred best words the defense i would most likely stumble on if i give it a go at answering your question with my own words

and this was a post made in 2016 (where a lot of ppl say is the year anti-shippers started sprouting up) and this is honestly what i mean when i say i hate antis

if anything, antis just started the propaganda that all proshippers are incest lovers and pedophiles and people ate it up like cats who haven't had wet food in three weeks. as proven by your friend group using the term as such? that's wild to me that ppl use the term proship like that, i hope the case i'm making will change that for you and your friend group.

no, proship literally is anti-censorship. ship and let ship. antis gatekeep, police shippers and harass anyone who doesn't ship their ship the RIGHT way. and it's not just the ships you say are 'harmful' or 'immoral'. i've shipped a rarepair before and the fandom at large did not like me shipping a rarepair so they started calling me a pedophile bc i aged up said characters???????? they'll find anything and i mean ANYTHING to twist everything i say and do to make it seem like it's "okay" for me to be harassed and bullied. "oh it's okay that i'm telling this person to die because they're gross," yeah no that behavior is So Much More Normal than a person shipping two fictional characters the "wrong" way. AND YOU KNOW WHAT'S FUCKED UP? ppl BELIEVED THEM LMAOOOO

and hey no sweat, i was like you once. i didn't define myself as proship or anti bc the real world exists but then in the one space i thought i'd be free from real life speculation and surveillance i get these anti policing assholes so yeah im a proshipper now lol just to get away from that bs. i honestly just want to have fun on here without judgement but i can't even have that lol that's why im all about blocking/muting.

you say your tl is having a meltdown? well shit, they're probably calling me names on there too. probably throwing out baseless accusations without fact checking bc i'm lowlife enough not be respected or given the decency of a fact check? or saying my art wasn't good anyway? bc gatekeeping their precious kudoichi is so much more righteous, top priority that they start slandering a real life person, right? no no no one disgusting should be touching or shipping our precious kudoichi lmao i hope you see how Not Right this is. kinda makes me feel sick for real lol

and i hope you understand how harmful this is not just to my mental state but my livelihood as an artist as these people would just start policing their fellow fans and just tell them not to support or view my art because im a 'proshipper' not even that, they'd probably just straight up say i support incest and pedophilia which are?????? such STRONG accusations to make????????? now they're just buzzwords. BUZZWORDS for antis to use to defame and cancel an artist! a real life person. over their precious fictional characters. over their precious kudoichi. oh man it makes it so much more stupid if i specify the ship, what is wrong with people sometimes😭

but hey im all about blocking and muting and unfollowing if you don't like my stuff i'm 100% for that but i hope they do it on their own terms. their own thinking. not because someone told them to.

and i dunno man that behavior of not even letting their 'friends' think for themselves, that they'd bash them too if they support me, my art, kinda seems like grooming don't it? or nah no im just looking into it. it might not be that deep. but i really yeah that's why i hate antis and why im more proship.

but hey i appreciate you even taking the time to come to me in the first place and uhhh idk i hope you found what you were looking for and that i answered your bit of curiousity there!

[rheian]

MERTHUR AUs

A collection of my Merthur fics that I thoroughly liked. This started out as a fluffy collection, how did this turn out to be a goddamn AU collection?? Also can I just say “Arlin” is such a stupid alt ship name. Glad we stuck with Merthur, christ. This list is a bit shorter than my last one, sorry about that!

If there are fanfiction you cannot access and you do not have an ao3 account then that probably means the fic is restricted, sorry! I highly recommend you to create an ao3 account.

Click “Keep Reading” for the list. ( dividers © )

How (Not) to be a YouTuber: A Comprehensive Guide by Idiots by Imagined, Scarlet_Ribbons ( T | 7k words | one-shot )

Arthur has a gaming channel. Merlin has a gardening channel. The only thing they have in common, it seems, is the fact they're both successful YouTubers, and that their followers want them to do a collab in spite of how different their content is.

Or: In which Arthur and Merlin flirt (despite Merlin’s mysterious fiancé), Morgana dishes out the hottest gossip, Gwaine keeps trying to fight the entire internet, and their fans are maybe just a little too overbearing.

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon | Youtuber AU, Secret Relationship, Social Media

twitterature by cominupforair ( T | 5k words | one-shot )

Arthur is Camelot FC’s star striker. Merlin is Ealdor FC’s starting goalkeeper. And the whole world thinks they’re rivals, but are they?

aka the Social Media/Football/Wedding AU nobody had asked for

Part 1 out of 3 : Camelot FC

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon | Football AU, Idiots in Love, Secret Relationship

Shadowlord and Pirate King by Footloose, mushroomtale ( E | 169k words | completed )

A fast ship, a good crew, a treasure, a Clan to lead -- that's all Arthur Pendragon has ever wanted. He sits on the Council, he supports his father's kingship, and he keeps an eye on the Imperial Conglomerate when they come too close to Pirate space.

One day the Conglomerate infiltrates the Clans and poisons the King. Arthur must search for a cure to keep his father alive and the Clans from civil war.

An escape route, a sharp knife, a target, the shadows at his command -- that's all Merlin has ever needed. He fulfills his assignments, he uses the Sterling to sustain his once-royal House in their exile, and wages a private war against the Imperial Conglomerate.

When he learns of an elaborate plot to assassinate him, Merlin does the opposite of what's expected. He flees onto a Pirate ship.

There's a saying among the Pirates: that one's fate is written in the stars. Destiny will always set to rights what has been made wrong.

Arthur and Merlin know that they were meant for the other from the moment they meet. They can feel it from across the galaxies separating them. Nothing can stop them from being together or from fulfilling an ancient prophecy.

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon | Space / Original AU, Space Opera, futuristic warfare

Noodles Save The Day, Even In Mysterious Ways by Dream_Me_A_Song ( T | 12k words | two-shot )

Arthur has been having a very bad week. Arguments with his father, sister and his best friend. Just got laid of his job. And now made a fool of himself in front of the cute boy from his favorite coffe shop.

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon | Modern AU, Getting Together, First Dates

It's Nice to Finally Tweet You by Pendragons Dragonlord ( T | 15k words | one-shot )

Merlin's eyes scan the headline.

Arthur Pendragon reveals mark in attempt to find the one.

"I pity the guy who's unfortunate enough to get him as a soul mate.”

In which Arthur is a famous celebrity, Merlin is a beloved teacher, and they break Twitter once. Well, twice. Okay so it's a whole bunch of times actually but it's not their fault. Really it's not.

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon | Modern AU, Soulmates AU, Twitter, Angst and Humor

True Love by platonic_boner ( T | 6k words | one-shot )

AU where soulmates can’t lie to each other.

(That’s okay, Merlin wasn’t planning to lie to Arthur anyways! Haha.. ha.. ha…)

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon | Soulmates AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings

Moonlit by TheDragon ( M | 3k words | one-shot )

Prince Arthur is a werwulf—the one thing Camelot hates more than sorcerers. He was bitten back when he was 19, and he vividly remembers spending his first full moon running through the forest, killing every animal in sight.

Nowadays, Arthur hides away on full moons. There's a corridor in the dungeons, with many cells that have certainly seen better days. Arthur spends the whole night locked and shackled in a cell at the end of the corridor, praying to any god that will listen that no one hears his snarls.

He's been lucky these past few years. Very, very lucky.

Unfortunately, it seems his luck has run out. [...]

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin) | Werewolf AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity

The Prince's Mistress by mayfriend ( M | 97k words | completed ) 

When Uther declared war on the Old Religion after the death of his wife in childbirth, he was warned that there would be consequences to his crusade beyond his worst nightmares. But Uther ignored these warnings, and the purge continued. If he'd known the price his people would pay for his vendetta, perhaps he would have been more wary.

Twenty years have passed since the great purge began, and Uther's subjects have grown barren. Fewer children are born with each passing year, until the very future of the Kingdom was endangered. In a final attempt to save Camelot, Uther decreed that men of the noble class were allowed to take mistresses without fear of condemnation. The social class from which the mistress originated didn't matter, as long as she was able to bear an heir - an heir that would be recognised and legitimised by the court.

Merlin, having been raised outside Camelot, knew little of these problems. If she had, she'd have thought twice before she saved the prat of a prince's life and was made his mistress as a 'reward' by Uther.

A fill from a kinkmeme prompt, which focuses on an canon AU where Merlin is a girl, Arthur's mistress, and the only hope for a waning Camelot.

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon | Gender Swap AU, Canon Divergence, Female Merlin, Assassination Attempt(s)

a half of a whole (cannot truly forget the other) by Steamcraft ( T | 99k words | completed )

From the majority of the patients in Camelot Mental Health Institute, Colin Morgan - or Merlin as he insists to be called - seems the most normal aside from the delusions. Bradley only wishes he'd stop calling him Arthur for gods sake because now he dreams of legends.

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon | Mental Institution AU, Modern AU, Reincarnation, Immortal Merlin, Hospital Malpractice

I Will Share Your Road by PinkGold ( E | 7k words | one-shot )

 ‘Who is this?’

Arthur’s heart was beating fast. He didn’t know what to expect, but whatever he was doing, it felt wrong. He checked to see if the doors had been properly closed, and when he looked down at his forearm again, he had a new message.

‘They call me Emrys.’

Emrys, Arthur mumbled. Weird name.

‘How are you doing this?’

The answer took a while to appear in his skin, right on the inside portion of his upper arm.

‘Magic.’

OR

In which Arthur and Merlin are soulmates who can write on each other's skin.

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon | Soulmates AU, Druid Merlin, Two Person Love Triangle, Insecure Arthur, Idiots in Love

leaves on a pear tree (the you're so young remix) by coricomile ( T | 1k words | one-shot )

“The magic,” Merlin says. “Isn’t it funny that it’s you with it this time around instead of me? Imagine what Uther would say.”

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon | Hogwarts AU, Modern AU, Reincarnation

Deeds by the5leggedCricket ( T | 6k words | completed )

Arthur is coming of age, and that means he’s about to get Deeds—marks on his body telling him of his soulmate’s greatest accomplishments. But as he tries to find his soulmate, he also makes some worrying discoveries about the kind of person his soulmate is.

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon | Soulmates AU, Canon divergence, Oblivious Arthur, Fluff

[thatapostateboy]

just don't lie to me

Pairing: Marie Hawke x Varric Tethras (with established Marie Hawke x Anders... it's complicated)

Word Count: 1087

Synopsis: on the night before the final battle, Marian demands the truth from her best friend

Prompt: Day Thirteen: Things We Say In The Dark from the Veilbound challenge by @/nympthi and @/citadrells on Twitter

Warnings: references to a big final Veilguard final battle; complete speculation

Crossposted: Here on AO3

“What in the hells in this?”

Varric looked up from the mug of ale he had carried to his room to finish before bed to see Marian striding in through the slammed open door. In her hands, she holds his new crossbow.

“Shit,” he sighed, pushing his drink aside on the desk, spinning in his chair to face her properly, “Y’know it’s rude to go through other people’s belongings.”

“Shut up,” she snapped back, “What is this?”

“I’m going to need something to fight with, I don’t fancy bare knuckle boxing an elven god tomorrow.”

She stared at him, a little stunned that he was still trying to banter with her despite her obvious anger, “Don’t be an asshole. Answer the question.”

He sighed, “It’s late, I think we both need some rest, don’t you?”

He slid from his chair to take the weapon from her hands, but she held tight, staring down at him with barely concealed… anger, confusion, perhaps even desperation, he noted.

She turned the crossbow in her grasp so that he could see the name he’d carved into the side of it.

Marian.

“What does this mean?” she asked, her voice quieter now, and he can feel the warmth of her skin as they both hold the weapon.

“Well, it’s your name, Blackbird,” he said with a tone just a smidge too casual that she relented in frustration, thrusting it hard into his arms.

“All these years and you still can’t be honest with me?”

He heard the edge of tears in the back of her throat, and he almost turned his head away in shame, but urged himself to keep his walls up, as he always had.

“Wasn’t sure Bianca Two had the same ring to it,” he said with a half sighed laugh, but she didn’t smile.

“Why my name?” she asked.

“You’re my best friend,” he told her.

“Bianca wasn’t.”

“She designed the last one,” he pointed out.

“And what input did I have on that contraption?” she challenged.

Everything, he thinks. The entire weapon was inspired by her, the deep red wood it’s crafted from, the Fereldan silverite detailing, the feathers that Davrin carved into the base that he’s pretty sure she hasn’t seen yet.

He looked at her, drunk in the sight of her here, in his room, in the depths of the Fade, at the end of the world. Tomorrow they would face the Evanuris in battle one final time. Either it would be enough, and they would be victorious… or they would all be dead.

He hadn’t wanted her here, had lied about their search for Solas, desperate to keep her safe, to let her live what semblance of a retirement she had earned, back in Ferelden raising her children with Anders. And yet, once she had heard he was in trouble, she’d had Merrill more or less punch a hole into the Crossroads to come find him. And there she had stayed, an acting agent of the Veilguard, Anders as their live-in healer and back up Warden, whilst their twins ran amok in the Dread Wolf’s lair.

The years had been kind to her, despite everything. She looked older, though he had aged gracefully into it, laughter lines etched into her face, a few steaks of grey in her dark locks, loose around her shoulders for once as opposed to the ponytail she had favoured in Kirkwall.

It had always been the assumption that he and Garrett were the closer pair, forever laughing and drinking with each other. But it was her, his Blackbird, that had truly known him all these years. The one who called him out on his bullshit, but his fiercest defender. He had wanted to protect her in turn, from getting involved with Anders, from the Inquisition, from everything happening with the Evanuris.

And yet again, he had failed.

He sighed, shaking his head, “Like I said, it’s late. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

She turned away for a moment and he prayed that she was heading for the door, but she looked back at him.

“The world is ending, Varric, and you still won’t say it?”

“What would you have me say?” he challenged.

“The truth, for once in your damned life.”

He ran a hand through his hair, “Fucking things up with my best friend isn’t the last thing I want to do before I die. I can’t lose this. You, us. So just… drop it.”

“Just drop it? Like we dropped it for years in Kirkwall? Ignored it, said it was nothing? Fuck, part of me thought I’d imagined it, this thing between us. And now, after everything that’s happened, everything that I’ve lost, that we’ve lost, all of this time… and you put my name on your crossbow the night before we face certain death.”

He set the crossbow on his desk, avoiding her gaze, “Blackbird, I-”

“For once in our lives, will you call me by my actual name? Instead of hiding behind that fucking nickname?” she yelled at him before she let out an exasperated sigh, her amber eyes seeking his, “Varric, please. Just be honest with me, with yourself, just this once.”

He wants to, more than anything. To let those final few walls down around her, to bare himself to her heart and soul, to tell her how he feels, how he’s felt it for years. He wants to spend his final few hours in this world with her in his arms, so that he could face whatever end would come for them all with no regrets.

But this isn’t one of his stories.

“And what exactly is it that you want?” he meets her eyes with a hard expression, “You’re married, and you love Anders. What would hearing any of this change, hm? You shouldn’t…” he tried to maintain the hard tone he’d taken, but seeing the way she pulled back from him, he felt it break something deep within his chest, “You shouldn’t be here. Not with me. Not tonight. You should be with your family.”

“You’re right,” she said, taking a step back, putting physical distance between them, “Goodnight Varric.”

He turned his back as she left as he couldn’t bare to watch her walk away. He heard her pause as she reached the doorway, waiting for him to call to her, to stop her, but when he didn’t, she kept going, closing the door behind her.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, sniffing back tears, “Goodnight Marian.”

[strawberrycheeks-and-glasses]

Listen to Me

Tsukishima x f!reader | rated E | 5k

Summary: Failing one of your classes, you remember a flyer you saw on campus offering ‘on call’ tutoring sessions. So, in your desperation, you call and develop a crush on the guy’s voice on the other end. Pretty soon, things start to heat up.

A/n: this is very self indulgent porn tbh, pls don’t judge me but I had a craving for a voice kink and the thought of Kei whispering in my ear gave me goosebumps. So~

“Hey there,” the smooth sounding voice on the other end of the phone says, sending a shiver down your spine.

You had seen a flyer on campus for a call in tutoring session a while back and as a joke, you snapped a picture of it for future reference. Well, good thing you did because guess who’s failing chem?

“H-hi,” you hesitate, being completely thrown off by the sound of this guys voice.

“Hello,” he greets again. “Did you need help in a subject, or are you one of those girls who call because they heard I have nice voice?”

“People actually do that? I mean you sound, like a normal guy,” you shrug, fiddling with your pencil.

“I’ve been told my voice is soothing to the ear,” he replies. “Not too deep, but not too high, and with a tone that is both unbothered, yet still attentive.”

“I just meant that you sound familiar, is all,” you scoff a laugh, rolling your eyes at how pretentious he’s sounding.

“I get that a lot,” he chuckles. The sound vibrating through the speaker tickles your ear. “Was there something I could help you with?”

“Oh, right,” you almost forgot why you called in the first place.

Talking you through your chemistry homework like he’s in the same class, he teaches you how to find the compounds and use your graphic calculator with ease. And, yeah, okay, his voice is kind of soothing, but he doesn’t need to know you think that.

“Holy shit, I think I understand now,” you laugh, amazed at how simple it actually is once it was explained in a way you could grasp. “You’re pretty smart aren’t you?” You tease him.

“Well, yeah,” he says, and you can hear him rolling his eyes at your stupid question.

“Okay, nerd,” you playfully insult him.

“This nerd just saved your ass from failing chemistry,” he rebuttals. “And the next time you have to call me for help, I’m charging you. Only the first one’s free.”

“Ugh, fine,” you say, pointedly, ending the call.

Please read the rest on ao3

Also, I’m not sure who to credit for this pic that my friend had saved from Pinterest, the artist is no longer active on Twitter and there is no watermark or signature on the art (I even reversed Google image searched and nothing came up), but if you know who made it pls lmk so I can tag them or link their art!!

Anyway, this is the Kei I think of when I wrote this fic, just to get an idea of why I needed to write this fic 💁🏻‍♀️ (also, my friend said Kei biting on the pen is slut behavior, and I agree I agree I agree)

[prince-liest]

i know you didn't mean anything bad by it, but it really discouraged me to see you rb that anti-reader-insert post. i write and enjoy both reader-insert and shipfic (my 2016 baby-in-fandom roots were in shipfic, but i'm pretty active in the reader-insert community as well these days). i really look up to you as both a current med student would to a resident (i'm an m2) and a writer would to a more-experienced/established writer, so i guess seeing you agree with a post that disparages a part of the fanfic community that we both engage in made me feel upset.

i definitely understand where people come from when they complain about xreader fics flooding the tags. i've felt that exasperation and annoyance of scrolling through the tags both on ao3 and tumblr, searching for fanart or shipfics of my favorite characters, only to be inundated with reader-insert works that i'm not in the mood to read. so, i get it.

i guess my point is: i look up to you. i really enjoy your writing. and because of my parasocial connection to you (i.e., enjoyment of your fandom takes and writing), it hurt my feelings that you seem to hold a pretty negative opinion about a side of the fandom writing community that i happen to pour a lot of myself into.

please don't feel pressured to respond to this at all-- residency is hard enough without some random anon on the internet nagging at you about some random reblog that is not nearly as important as patient care or saving lives. i don't even really know what the purpose of telling you this was; i'm not trying to change your opinion about reader-insert or anything like that. i think i just wanted to let you know how i felt seeing your reblog, with no expectations that you do anything with that information /gen. but yeah. i hope you're able to get some rest and take some time for yourself soon, and i look forward to continuing to your fics in the future.

Hey, there anon! First of all, it may make you feel better to know that I actually have absolutely nothing against x reader fics at a baseline. It's not my thing, I don't read it, but I don't have enough of an opinion on it to dislike it. I'm a big proponent of "write what you want" and while I've never written x reader content, I've roleplayed plenty of canon x OC ships back in the day, and write a lot of stuff that needs the dead dove tag. This post, to my understanding and in my intent, was meant to express humorous frustration with the ongoing issue specifically of a lot of x reader fics (particularly in the last several months, I suspect either because of Tiktok or due to Twitter's downward spiral) being tagged with irrelevant tags. I've actually had to ask on multiple posts something like "Why is this tagged with [canon ship]?"

Most people have kindly removed the tag and explained that they thought it was good exposure and didn't realize that wasn't how things work on Tumblr, which is great, but it's still frustrating that it's hard to scroll through a lot of tags without seeing lengthy and explicit x reader fics that are either tagged with unrelated ships/characters/fandoms, or undertagged with blockable x reader tags.

Even if I did dislike x reader, though, I just want to emphasize to you: I really appreciate that you look up to me and I'm really happy that I'm able to provide some encouragement to you in the form of someone with a similar creative hobby on the same career path, but also, my opinions on matters of personal taste really don't matter. I am, at the end of the day, A Random Person On The Internet Who Has A Blog, and I encourage you to look at opinions of mine that grate on you and think: "Eh. Just another random person I don't happen to agree with. Whatever, I guess." and move on, because in the long run this will be more fair to both yourself and me. There are indeed actually popular but harmless parts of fandom that I'm growing to dislike a little bit, and it feels strange to be unable to casually refer to or joke about that without being worried that it will hurt someone's feelings that I don't personally like the same thing they do. This is actually some of why I'm on Tumblr and not Twitter - the parasocial issues tend to be stronger on there! I confess that I don't really know exactly what to do about this problem yet, but I'm going to endeavor to not censor myself (as long as I'm not being a dick, ofc) while also encouraging people to not put me up on too much of a pedestal.

At any rate, I'll clarify in the tags of the post what I meant by my reblog, and I hope this at least offered some reassurance to you!

[infinite-riches]

I Was Good Until I Turned Thirteen

Summary: At twenty-five I found god. And guilt. He was tall, broad, well-built. Blonde hair and blonde lashes that framed whiskey-colored eyes so perfectly. He was my dream. And my nightmare. Crushing guilt crashed over me. Unnatural. Unholy. Disgusting. Despicable.

Or: Soap struggles with his religion

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 666

Warnings: Catholic guilt, implied/referenced homophobia, implied/referenced abuse, implied/referenced oral sex, internalized homophobia

A/N: This piece pulls heavily from my experience with religion and the thoughts I struggled with growing out of religion and into my queerness.

To anyone who relates please know you are seen and accepted and loved. Ancient religious texts or backward ideologies do not define you.

You can find me on twitter @Kit_Marlowe1564 if you need someone to talk to.

All my love <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): I Was Good Until I Turned Thirteen

I was good until I turned thirteen. Then, something started to change. I am not sure exactly when. Or why. 

It must have just been the growth that comes with change. 

The good book didn’t mean as much to me anymore. I had questions I never had before. Questions I never would have dared ask before. Questions I am sure damned my thirteen-year-old self to hell. 

Fourteen showed me the depths of human cruelty. I didn’t think we were supposed to pray against our fellow man. At night I cried and tried to soothe my soul. If they could be so cruel to strangers, what would they do to me? Would they cast stones as their ancestors did? Would they cast me out?

I think at fifteen I stopped trying to save myself from hell. It's not that I didn’t care, but it seemed that an unchangeable part of me would always be damned. And who am I to fight an unstoppable event? I am not burdened as Sisyphus is. I do not have to bear punishment every day for the simple act of existing. I can choose not to suffer. 

By sixteen I was scared of the joy and freedom I felt without a faceless god breathing down my neck. This freedom terrified me. This is when I started to find people like me. We lived quietly, taking care of our own, helping each other through the pain. If people knew what I had learned of myself… I never let that thought finish. 

Seventeen faced me with a choice. I chose to run. Legal name signed on crisp white paper. A new home address assigned to me. Pulled far apart from my family. Like Velcro, pulling until I came completely untethered from those I had always known. 

Eighteen. I was on my own. No one knew me here. For the first time, I could breathe. 

At nineteen I stumbled headfirst into a mistake. Gnashing teeth and strong grips. Harsh words and desperation. I was searching for a god where I could never find one. God would not wear down my spirit so. At least… not my god. My god would accept me. Love me. 

Twenty felt like a mistake. Kneeling felt sacrilegious. Receiving them upon my tongue like communion felt like betrayal. There were not enough Hail Marys to save my soul. 

Twenty-one through twenty-four was life. Or at least what I thought life should be. There always seemed to be a shadow looming over me. Disgusted glances. Hate-filled words. Maybe I had made a mistake. Maybe god was coming back to claim what once was his. 

At twenty-five I found god. And guilt. He was tall, broad, well-built. Blonde hair and blonde lashes that framed whiskey-colored eyes so perfectly. He was my dream. And my nightmare. Crushing guilt crashed over me. Unnatural. Unholy. Disgusting. Despicable. 

Johnny.

At twenty-six I let myself be free. I turned to this faceless specter torturing me with empty threats and banished it. My god loved Kentucky bourbon and awful jokes. His touch was like fire and his words a cooling balm to my burning soul. He worshiped me. 

I gladly fell to my knees in worship of him. Took him upon my tongue as the blessing it was. I had no need for Hail Marys, he saved my soul with every breath. 

Johnny.

So beautiful.

Lover.

My dove.

Mine. 

And I worshipped him.

Simon.

So handsome. 

Darling.

My love.

Mine. 

And he knows. The little ‘RC’ still adorns my tags. The cross my mother gave me still hangs heavy around my neck- a noose I can not bear to take off.

And when the guilt threatens to overtake me? To drown me? He is there, pulling me from the waves. Telling me that there is no shame here, where it is safe, between us. 

And one day, the flames will not bother me at all. But for now, I know my god will be there to tend the burns. 

[actualbird]

Statistical Report of Marius/Luke Ao3 Literature (2024)

(aka, a pet project i've been working on behind the scenes for a while. if you'd rather read it as a PDF, you can check it out here, but i've copy pasted its entirety into this text post, beginning in 3...2...1...)

Introduction

Ahhh, Marius von Hagen and Luke Pearce…such wonderful characters from hit mobile otome game “未定事件簿 | Tears of Themis.” As love interests to Miss MC Rosa Qiangwei, they each are incredibly compelling characters with incredibly nuanced backstories, personalities, and dynamics with MC.

Also, there’s a small but dedicated community of shippers that want them to kiss and make out and be in love with each other. Hell yeah!

Welcome to the Statistical Report of Marius/Luke Ao3 Literature (2024), a report that aims to capture this community’s literary contribution to the MariLuke ship by crunching the data available to the public on Ao3! 

Before going into the data, there are some notes and caveats to this census that the author would like to make clear.

This report’s data was taken from the “未定事件簿 | Tears of Themis (Video Game)” fandom tag on Archive of Our Own. This means that all works outside of this tag or outside of this website (ex. Twitter thread fics or Tumblr drabbles not crossposted to Ao3, fanfiction only on other sites like FanFiction.net, Wattpad, Weibo, etc.) have not been included.

This report’s data is as of May 31, 2024 as a cutoff date. This was so that I wouldn’t have to endlessly update the data and go insane.

Works that did exist but have since been deleted as of May 31, 2024 are not included, as the author does not have an encyclopedic memory of fanfics that no longer exist on the site :( 

Now with all that said, let’s dive in.

---

Number Of Fics Posted and Surge Periods

Now, let’s begin with the number of fics posted. As of May 31, 2024, there are 166 fics in the “Lu Jinghe | Marius von Hagen/Xia Yan | Luke Pearce” tag on Ao3. This number (and subsequently, this report) counts fics as they are listed in AO3 as unique fics, meaning that if it takes up its own little box in the AO3 feed, that’s one fic in itself. This does unfortunately mean that fics that act as a collection (i.e. each chapter is a different story) are only counted as one fic. This number also excludes podfics, because that’s basically the same fic in a different format.

That being said, this number is still nothing to scoff at. And things get even more delightful when we track down the frequency of fics posted month by month in a timeline.

The earliest MariLuke fic posted on Ao3 was “You are King” by itshaku on August 8, 2021, a mere 10 days after ToT’s official global release. The folks who posted the very first few fics in August 2021 laid down the foundation and bedrock of the Ao3 tag, and as ToT’s existence to the global audience continued, more and more fic started to populate our hallowed halls.

However, while that’s the earliest MariLuke fic as is recorded by Ao3 now, I happen to know that there was a fic that was posted even earlier. A fic called “Don’t Let Me Go” by sakurei. Both the fic and the author’s account has since been delated, but I knew this fic existed because I originally started this report in 2022. When I had first put together the preliminary data, I noted “Don’t Let Me Go” as the first ever fic, and then was disheartened to learn that it was deleted. Like, no…the sacred texts… All hope seemed lost until my dear friend Z Lukevonhagen suggested I search the link on the Wayback Machine, and lo and behold, a copy of the True First Ever MariLuke Fanfic On Ao3 had been unearthed. Thanks, Z!

In the month of October 2021, the Marius/Luke tag experienced its first fic surge. For the purposes of this report, any month with 8 or more fics posted during their duration is counted as a surge. Why is 8 or more the qualifier? That number was picked solely off of vibes.

A total of 9 new fics were posted in October 2021, though the I can’t find any discernible reason for this fic. After some digging, I found no relevant fan events that occurred in October 2021 that linked to any of the MariLuke fics. In terms of in-game happenings, the only thing of note here is that this is when the Symphony Of The Night event was running, but it’s not like Marius and Luke made out on screen during that event’s storyline (oh, how I wished though…)

Our next surge happened in August 2022, with a whole 12 fics posted, when the tag suddenly and beautifully got a sizeable influx of CN fics. CN fics take up 6 of the 12 fics posted during this time period, which is half of the month’s total fic yield. Thank you for your service, CN MariLukers !

Our next surge period lasted for a whopping 3 consecutive months, ushering a Golden Age for MariLuke fics, so to speak. Month by month, what happened was:

In October 2022, another surge occurred with a total of 11 fics. During this month, Twitter account Thirst of Themis had run a ToT Kinktober fan event, and a number of new Marius/Luke fics were created and posted in accordance with the Kinktober prompts. 

In November 2022, a total of 9 fics were posted, and this was mostly because of two specific singular authors’ hard work, as they published several fics all on their own in rapid succession and contributed to the surge. Ao3 author Litchire posted a whopping 4 fics during this period, along with Ao3 author ynfzymokaihewo who posted 3 fics. 

In December 2022, a total of 9 fics were posted, though this is the month where I couldn’t find any discernible reason once again. Maybe the holiday season just made us all fic-happy? Who knows.

After that, it’s smooth sailing for a while with average MariLuke fic yields for a couple of months.

Then, the Recession came. Followed by a Revival. Followed by another Recession. 

In April, 2023, only one (1) MariLuke fic was posted. Authors recovered in the following month of May 2023, but right after in June 2023, we all died once again with a staggering zero (0) new MariLuke fics posted. I assume we all went into hibernation or something. But that’s fine, because the next month in July 2023, the crops started flowering once more and the MariLuke harvest began anew.

Our next surge happened a couple months later, in November 2023, with 8 new fics posted. The culprit here is Thirst of Themis once again, for they had run a November prompts event, and 7 out of 8 MariLuke fics posted this month were in fulfillment of the event.

Now, we arrive at our latest surge and also our biggest one. In may 2024, the MariLuke Ao3 tag saw a whopping 28 new fics posted. This is undoubtedly the result of the fan event MariLuke Week (May 2024) for 27 out of the 28 fics were posted in fulfillment of the event’s prompts. The following authors participated in MariLuke Week, with their fic counts for this event placed next to their name:

xXILoveMyFridgeXx (10 fics contributed)

wtfhoney (7 fics contributed)

quarterweeb / theobscenfraction (4 fics contributed)

reptilianraven (3 fics contributed)

lukevonhagen (2 fics contributed)

Litchire (1 fic contributed)

Congratulations and thank you to the writers who participated in the event! You all contributed to the biggest surge in MariLuke stocks THUS FAR, and you should all give yourselves a pat on the back.

That concludes the timeline of MariLuke works up til May 31, 2024! Hit the showers, everybody!

---

Full List of AO3 Users Who Have Written Marius/Luke Fanfiction

The Marius/Luke writer population is a small but mighty one, with a total of 45 unique authors who have posted a fic Marius/Luke fic on Ao3 as of May 31, 2024. Before going into the full list of authors, here are some important caveats to the list:

ON ANONYMOUS AUTHORS: As this report deals with how Ao3 lists data, all authors who have opted to post anonymously will be counted as one entity. I personally know that some anonymous authors are different users, but verifying this without making any fuckups would make my tiny pea brain cry. For this reason, anonymous authors are counted as one unique author, so if you’re one of these anonymous authors, congrats on being a part of a Marius/Luke hivemind!

ON AUTHORS WITH PSEUDS: An Ao3 user who has different posted fics within the Marius/Luke tag under different pseuds will be counted as one unique author. Despite saying in the last paragraph that the my personal knowledge will not be enacted to tweak how Ao3 lists data, I’m making one exception here because it literally only pertains to three Ao3 users in the ship tag, so this won’t make my tiny brain cry at all.

So without further ado and in alphabetical order, here our are heroes:

Authors listed under the Anonymous Label

ajing_1124

artistic_gemini

asukryo

autumnsparrxw

BlazingSunflowers

CandorArchives

chechevitsa

darkbreak

doridoripawaa

dxpiarchaive / keeyamii

Eden_of_Amour / suffering_meguca

EnnTea

floweringlight

friedchickenlord

Goryo_Wataru

i_o_u_e_a

itshaku

kombat_exe

ladyhaspran

layla_wp

Litchire

lukevonhagen

m3i_day

marcipancake

monocuri

osamurice

pvsiytemhaver

quarterweeb / theobscenefraction

reptilianraven

RikuMorimachisGirl

Rxzaliya

samandspam

snocchiato

Solaste

sondepoch

strayris

Szim

Tinowenn

ThirdLibraryOfYumenosaki

turnscote

wtfhoney

xeriacat

xXILoveMyFridgeXx

ynfzymokaihewo

---

A Brief Glimpse Into Ratings and Tags

Before I looked at the ratings, I had a hypothesis that Explicit fics would take the lead because in majority of the MariLuke fics I’ve read myself, Marius and Luke are written to have incredibly active libidos. Lo and behold, when I did chart down the fics by rating, is is revealed that…

…statistically, we are horny. 

Not by a whole lot though! Fics that are rated Teen and Up comes in 2nd place by just a very small margin, so that’s a lot of fics that are accessible to those who don’t want to read Marius and Luke getting nasty.

In terms of Additional Tags, I checked out the Top 5 most frequented Additional Tags and charted them below.

The Top 5 most used Additional Tags are actually Fluff, Light Angst, Comedy, Humor, and Anal Sex. However, I reasoned that Comedy and Humor are the exact same thing, so I counted them as synonyms and added in the 6th most used Additional Tag: Established Relationship. 

Anyhoo, I think it’s really sweet to see that Fluff reigns supreme! And by a large margin, too. We love to write our boys having a wholesome lovely time. Of course, we also like just a smidge of narrative spice, which is where Light Angst comes in in 2nd place. That being said, I think it’s insanely funny that Anal Sex is in this chart. It is very out of place among the rest, LMAO.

---

A Brief Segue Into The Popularity of Marius/Luke In Relation to Other ToT BL Pairings

As of May 31, 2024, Marius/Luke is the 1st most popular M/M ship in the Ao3 tag, overall clocking in with a total of 166 works. 

In addition to that, I think it’s interesting to note that the 2nd most popular BL ship is Marius/Artem, with 130 fics, while the 3rd most popular BL ship is Marius/Vyn, with 66 fics. Tied for 4th place is Artem/Male or Gender Neutral Reader, and Vyn/Artem, both at 46 fics respectively.

The reason why I think the top 5 BL ships are interesting to look at is due to Marius’ participation in 3 out of the 5 most popular M/M ships in the ToT tag. Given this, we can veritably congratulate him for statistically beating the heterosexual allegations. Marius really gave off vibes that made many different shippers go “oh there’s no way in hell he’s completely straight.”

---

Accolades 

Longest Fic

As of May 31, 2024, the Longest Fic in the tag is [drumroll]...Losing Sight by pvsiytemhaver! This fic is actually primarily as ArtemRosa fic with MariLuke as an additional ship, and it currently clocks in at 90,109 words, taking the 1st spot as the longest MariLuke fic and the 18th longest fic overall in the general “未定事件簿 | Tears of Themis (Video Game)” fandom tag. Let’s take a look at the runner ups!

Here’s the list of the longest fics in the MariLuke tag:

Losing Sight by pvsiytemhaver (90,109 words)

the lips i used to call home (it was maroon) by xXILoveMyFridgeXx (58,185 words)

Five Points of a Star by xXILoveMyFridgeXx (25,494 words)

Risk of Pain by Solaste (25,157 words)

end of a decade (start of an age) by xXILoveMyFridgeXx (20,671 words)

Special shoutout to user xXILoveMyFridgeXx who consistently pumps out fics with gargantuan word counts.

Fic With Most Kudos

Next on the list is the Fic With The Most Kudos, and this title goes to [drumroll]... “standard operating procedure (x4 speedrun) by reptilianraven” which…oh, that’s me. 

This fic is not solely a MariLuke work, but an NXX Polycule work that has MariLuke within it. Weighing in with 827 kudos, it takes the spot as the 1st most kudos’d MariLuke work, while also weighing in as the 9th most kudos’d fic overall in the general “未定事件簿 | Tears of Themis (Video Game)” fandom tag. Let’s take a look at the runner ups!

Here’s the list of the Top 5 Fics With Most Kudos:

standard operating procedure (x4 speedrun) by reptilianraven (827 kudos)

every breath you take, every move you make, peanut will be watching you by reptilianraven (735 kudos)

how Puppy Pierce© conquered the world by reptilianraven (705 kudos)

the existence of a top student implies the existence of a bottom student by reptilianraven (575 kudos)

making out with your bro for fun and for profit by reptilianraven (567 kudos)

(Thank you for the kudos ;^;)

Author With Most MariLuke Works Written

And now, for our last accolade… the award for the author who currently has a large chunk of the MariLuke Ao3 tag coming from their own fics wrought by their own mind. 

This title goes to [drumroll]... oh goddamn it, it’s me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being insane about them. I don’t remember writing this much for them, I swear to god. Let’s look at the runner ups!

Here’s the list of authors with the most MariLuke works written:

reptilianraven (24 works)

quarterweeb / theobscenefraction (quarterweeb) (23 works)

Litchire (15 works) and ynfzymokaihewo (15 works) tied for 3rd place

xXILoveMyFridgeXx (13 works)

wtfhoney (11 works)

---

Conclusion

I love this ship. I love this ship so goddamn much, but if there’s one thing I love more, it’s the community of shippers who write for this ship. This pet project was started as a little love letter from me to the MariLuke writing community. So, thank you, MariLuke writers!! Thank you for putting your heart and soul into the works you create, thus fashioning a beautifully wide array of fics to enjoy and read, and thank you for showing your love for this rarepair!

Alright, this report is too damn long. I’m gonna go reread MariLuke fics now. Bye! Hope you enjoyed!

[fivedayslater]

Like Fine Wine: An Informal Study of Zoro/Sanji Side Pairings

I've been curious about which side pairings crop up the most alongside ZoSan, so I decided to look into it the only way I know how: AO3 tag usage

Come on this journey with me

Since people tag side pairings in either the Additional Tags section using the format Minor [Ship Tag] and in the Relationship Tags section alongside the main relationship pretty evenly, I decided the best way to go about this was to get both numbers and add them together. The way I got these numbers was by searching AO3 for works tagged with Roronoa Zoro/Sanji in the Relationship section and Minor [Ship Name] in the Additional Tags section, then with both Roronoa Zoro/Sanji and [Ship Name] in the Relationship section.

I am aware that this meant that I a) counted fics that were tagged in both the Relationship and Additional Tags sections twice, and b) counted those giant one-shot collections that tag every single ship featured even if they're only in one chapter (derogatory), which aren't quite what I'm looking for, but even so I feel this was the best way to go about it given the tools at my disposal.

As for which pairings to search, I went to the experts, aka Zoro/Sanji fic readers. I took suggestions from here, the ZoSan Club discord server, Twitter, and BlueSky. I also added the top 50 or so l tagged One Piece ships on AO3 that didn't involve Zoro or Sanji to see how they compared overall.

(Poly ships were excluded because most tagging on them also includes tagging every combination in the poly ship, and would have skewed the data)

It should also be noted that because of how this method functions, I also would have counted fics where Zoro/Sanji is tagged in the Relationships section, but is only a side pair to the main pairing. I deemed this acceptable, as the point of this quest is to see which ships go the most with Zoro/Sanji, and them being the side pairing counts. It also means that fics with these side pairings that don't have them tagged at all weren't counted, but there's not much I can do about that.

The results of all this?

Most everyone on every platform agreed that Franky/Robin, Nami/Vivi, Usopp/Kaya, and Luffy/Law were the most common. And the numbers agree:

(purple is for the assumed top ships, green is for suggested ships, and blue is for AO3's top ships)

Here's everything broken down by which tags were searched:

Here's the breakdown of what my Panel Of Experts (the people who replied) like to see alongside ZoSan:

And here's the breakdown AO3's top ships

What have we learned from this:

The pairings most popular with Zoro/Sanji tend to feature Straw Hats (Franky, Robin, Luffy, Nami, Usopp), or people who would reasonably be around the Straw Hats in an AU (Ace, Mihawk, Law, Sabo)

We as a community really need to standardize how we tag side ships. Considering writing up a Best Practices post. Will keep you posted

When everyone agrees, that's probably the right answer

I think Law/Luffy beating out Franky/Robin on the Relationship tags has to do with there simply being more Law/Luffy fic. It doesn't appear as a side pairing as much, but is often a main pairing alongside Zoro/Sanji, and a lot of Law/Luffy centric fics have Zoro/Sanji as a side pair

Doflamingo is very popular to ship around for some reason? He's in like 5 of the top 10 ships

Law is too, but like. I get that

Sabo too! Everyone really likes throwing Sabo at people

You are all so right about Kuina/Sabo though

There are pairings that made the list like Killer/Penguin and Crocodile/Dragon that I assume are very popular side pairings in like Kid/Law and Luffy centric fics, but don't have a lot of showing in Zoro/Sanji fic

More studies could be done into more specific breakdowns within each side pairing, and how often Zoro/Sanji appears as a side pairing with the other ship as a main pairing, but I don't want to. Maybe later

Mostly what I learned is that i have way too much time on my hands 👍

Still, maybe some of you are interested in the results too, in which case, you're welcome :)

[buf309]

I'll never remember to do this challenge on a daily basis, so I'm going to do 10 at once. Reducing this list down to 3 instead of 30 posts may increase the chance that I would complete it 😅 I hope so...

Ok here I go:

1/ How did you get to know SxF?

Back in 2019, the manga site I used to read Boruto manga was closed down, the translating group pointed the readers to MangaPlus to support the series on official website. I was curious and went to check out some other new series on there. I remember that SxF caught my eyes first because I thought it had the best artstyle among those.

It only had 3 chapters at that time. I read it on and off since then, but I didn't really become a "fan". The story only caught me in Bomb-dog Arc. Because, well, you know? the false death flag? 😏

After that is the smooth sliding from finding analysis posts on tumblr, to search for fanarts on pixiv and twitter, and reading fanfics on AO3, etc. Then, inevitably, after reading that fateful fanfic of nire's near the end of 2022, here I am, not only joining in the fandom myself but ALSO drawing fancomics of my own 🤡

2/ Favourite character?

All of the Forgers. But, TwiLoid gets a special place, because making him suffer is my passion he's very similar to one of my oldest OCs. A softer and warmer version to be honest. See?

3/ Least favorite character?

The Desmonds. Yes, not only our evil boss, I mean everyone in that family. I don't hate them, and I know how they play very important roles in the story. Just... whenever I think about them, I can only draw a blank space. I simply don't care.

4/ Favourite opening?

I like the scenes drawn in OP 2 - BUMP OF CHICKEN [SOUVENIR].

5/ Favourite ending?

ED 3 - Todome no Ichigeki - Vaundy feat. Cory Wong, for the MV. The MV is absolutely perfect 👌

6/ Favourite soundtrack?

STRIX, I guess? Very action-movie-y?

7/ Best moment for you?

8/ Worst moment for you?

I can't think of anything yet.

9/ Funniest moment?

The short mission where Loid's passionate project got brutally shot down at point blank by Anya 🤣

10/ Saddest moment?

That empty double-page spread in chapter 62-2.

[blubberquark]

Are Game Blogs Uniquely Lost?

All this started with my looking for the old devlog of Storyteller. I know at some point it was linked from the blogroll on the Braid devlog. Then I tried to look at on old devlog of another game that is still available. The domain for Storyteller is still active. The devblog is gone.

I tried an old bookmark from an old PC (5 PCs ago, I think). It was a web site linked to pixel art and programming tutorials. Instead of linking to the pages directly, some links link led to a twitter threads by authors that collected their work posted on different sites. Some twitter threads are gone because the users were were suspended, or had deleted their accounts voluntarily. Others had deleted old tweets. There was no archive. I have often seen links accompanied by "Here's a thread where $AUTHOR lists all his writing on $TOPIC". I wonder if the sites are still there, and only the tweets are gone.

A lot of "games studies" around 2010 happened on blogs, not in journals. Games studies was online-first, HTML-first, with trackbacks, tags, RSS and comment sections. The work that was published in PDF form in journals and conference proceedings is still there. The blogs are gone. The comment sections are gone. Kill screen daily is gone.

I followed a link from critical-distance.com to a blog post. That blog is gone. The domain is for sale. In the Wayback Machine, I found the link. It pointed to the comment section of another blog. The other blog has removed its comment sections and excluded itself from the Wayback Machine.

I wonder if games stuff is uniquely lost. Many links to game reviews at big sites lead to "page not found", but when I search the game's name, I can find the review from back in 2004. The content is still there, the content management systems have been changed multiple times.

At least my favourite tumblr about game design has been saved in the Wayback Machine: Game Design Tips.

To make my point I could list more sites, more links, 404 but archived, or completely lost, but when I look at small sites, personal sites, blogs, or even forums, I wonder if this is just confirmation bias. There must be all this other content, all these other blogs and personal sites. I don't know about tutorials for knitting, travel blogs, stamp collecting, or recipe blogs. I usually save a print version of recipes to my Download folder.

Another big community is fan fiction. They are like modding, but for books, I think. I don't know if a lot of fan fiction is lost to bit rot and link rot either. What is on AO3 will probably endure, but a lot might have gone missing when communities fandom moved from livejournal to tumblr to twitter, or when blogs moved from Wordpress to Medium to Substack.

I have identified some risk factors:

Personal home pages made from static HTML can stay up for while if the owner meticulously catalogues and links to all their writing on other sites, and if the site covers a variety of interests and topics.

Personal blogs or content management systems are likely to lose content in a software upgrade or migration to a different host.

Writing is more likely to me lost when it's for-pay writing for a smaller for-profit outlet.

A cause for sudden "mass extinction" of content is the move between social networks, or the death of a whole platform. Links to MySpace, Google+, Diaspora, and LiveJournal give me mostly or entirely 404 pages.

In the gaming space, career changes or business closures often mean old content gets deleted. If an indie game is wildly successful, the intellectual property might ge acquired. If it flops, the domain will lapse. When development is finished, maybe the devlog is deleted. When somebody reviews games at first on Steam, then on a blog, and then for a big gaming mag, the Steam reviews might stay up, but the personal site is much more likely to get cleaned up. The same goes for blogging in general, and academia. The most stable kind of content is after hours hobbyist writing by somebody who has a stable and high-paying job outside of media, academia, or journalism.

The biggest risk factor for targeted deletion is controversy. Controversial, highly-discussed and disseminated posts are more likely to be deleted than purely informative ones, and their deletion is more likely to be noticed. If somebody starts a discussion, and then later there are hundreds of links all pointing back to the start, the deletion will hurt more and be more noticeable. The most at-risk posts are those that are supposed to be controversial within a small group, but go viral outside it, or the posts that are controversial within a small group, but then the author says something about politics that draws the attention of the Internet at large to their other writings.

The second biggest risk factor for deletion is probably usefulness combined with hosting costs. This could also be the streetlight effect at work, like in the paragraph above, but the more traffic something gets, the higher the hosting costs. Certain types of content are either hard to monetise, and cost a lot of money, or they can be monetised, so the free version is deliberately deleted.

The more tech-savvy users are, the more likely they are to link between different sites, abandon a blogging platform or social network for the next thing, try to consolidate their writings by deleting their old stuff and setting up their own site, only to let the domain lapse. The more tech-savvy users are, the more likely they are to mess with the HTML of their templates or try out different blogging software.

If content is spread between multiple sites, or if links link to social network posts that link to blog post with a comment that links to a reddit comment that links to a geocities page, any link could break. If content is consolidated in a forum, maybe Archive team could save all of it with some advance notice.

All this could mean that indie games/game design theory/pixel art resources are uniquely lost, and games studies/theory of games criticism/literary criticism applied to games are especially affected by link rot. The semi-professional, semi-hobbyist indie dev, the writer straddling the line between academic and reviewer, they seem the most affected. Artists who start out just doodling and posting their work, who then get hired to work on a game, their posts are deleted. GameFAQs stay online, Steam reviews stay online, but dev logs, forums and blog comment sections are lost.

Or maybe it's only confirmation bias. If I was into restoring old cars, or knitting, or collecting stamps, or any other thing I'd think that particular community is uniquely affected by link rot, and I'd have the bookmarks to prove it.

Figuring this out is important if we want to make predictions about the future of the small web, and about the viability of different efforts to get more people to contribute. We can't figure it out now, because we can't measure the ground truth of web sites that are already gone. Right now, the small web is mostly about the small web, not about stamp collecting or knitting. If we really manage to revitalise the small web, will it be like the small web of today except bigger, the web-1.0 of old, or will certain topics and communities be lost again?

[antimony-medusa]

You are SO brave for throwing yourself on that discourse grenade, and also you are CORRECT and everything you said is in line with my observations as well, and if you don't mind me chiming in with one more thing - something very concerning I find about a lot of that doesn't-know-it's-kink fic is how much of it includes tags or author's notes that are like. "This is PLATONIC it isn't WEIRD AND GROSS don't make it WEIRD AND GROSS." And I truly want to take these folks gently by the hands and assure them that they *are* being a little bit """weird""" and that's okay. like this is an okay thing to be weird about. it's not gross and even if it WAS sexual it wouldn't be gross. truly i am worried about some young person driving themself insane with internalized shame over this. friends it's okay to be a little weird and you're not gross for indulging in some fun little fantasies that make your brain go !!!

The thing is I absolutely understand why some of these authors are adding tags like that, especially if they come from a setting like twitter that is actively telling them that anything kinky means they're basically writing porn, which is basically the same as actual sexual assault, and they should get doxxed about it. That's not an environment that lets you really start to examine the fact that you really want your blorbo to be tied up and helpless, and people are going to frantically police the line between platonic and nsfw and keep themselves on the "right" side of it at any costs.

But, like you said— it's not vanilla. I hesitate to call it "weird" in this particular cause even though I normally happily self-describe as weird, just because this is such a charged topic, but like— sometimes your interest in a topic or trope or setting is not bog-standard! And that's fine! It takes a lot of different folks to make a world! I'm not gonna be listing which of the kinks I just listed are ones that I search up personally in my off time, but some of them on the list are tags I have bookmarked, it's literally fine! Some of these I'd hope that you were over 18 before you started an unfiltered search for them on Ao3, but if you are 19 years old and really into vampires and you want to spend an evening seeing the whole breadth of the tag, or 16 and looking at t-rated fics with every vampire-related tag you can think of, that's part of a very normal grand tradition of goth teenagers. It's FINE to have things that make your brain go !!! a bit.

And so I am posting about this cause I think the twitter atmosphere of shame about this is going to drive people crazy for the really absolutely fine experience of liking borrower aus a little more than is standard. I always end up feeling a little sad when I see author's notes that are like THIS IS ALL PLATONIC DON"T BE GROSS IM NOT GROSS because it means either they've already gotten hate or they're kind of horrified of doing this interest of theirs "wrong", and man, I would hope that when we're bashing the blorbos together like dolls we could have a little more grace for both our neighbours and ourselves if we want to have some extra scenes about tickling.

[butch-bakugo]

Proshippers: omg why can't antis just leave us alone! 🙄 Don't like don't read! Cultivate your online experience!

Antis: ok. * Mass blocks you* *puts you on our DNIs * * Ignores you*

Proshippers: Wait no! I sustain myself on complaining about you! My identity is only based on how " weird" I am! You guys aren't even complaining about me making graphics harassing you guys telling you your assault was actually your fault! How can I complain about harassment and bullying when you guys don't harass or bully me! You won't even respond when I screenshot your posts and laugh at you? When I complain about the concepts of a dni because most exclude me?? Don't you get it! We're the real victims! Somehow your a puritan and a bigot and a Christian for not liking my art of two siblings fucking each other and drawing porn of an underage live action character using the likeness of the child actor who played them! Don't you understand?

I only exist as counter culture and you guys have to keep up our fight! If you disappear I'm just a sad weirdo! You can't just block me out and ignore me like I've been asking you to! Hello??? I only exist on twitter, Tumblr and Ao3 where my creepy rape mindset is normalized by other Nazis and Openly pedofil-i mean radqueers and paraphiles! If you guys let me fall into obscurity than how can I sustain myself! How will I exist in my mind as a cool nerd who fights censorship if you guys don't censor me and just let my art fail with zero engagement??

What do you mean I spend more time drawing porn of kids and defending my right to do so on the internet than actually getting the therapy I need to stop drawing sim cp period? What do you mean therapists in mass discourage fictional cp cause it often leads to offending and there's tons of documents and resources proving that available with a simple google search?? What do you mean my art isnt coping because its used to groom others and continue the cycle of violence because I make no attempt at hiding my art or content from children period but especially those in broken homes who assume its ok because my content aligns with their real abusive experiences?? What do you mean I became the villian and creep who caused me real harm and 32 year old women thirsting after teenage boys on the Internet are not the revered fandom elders i was told i should become? What do you mean I'm the type of fan no one likes and constantly has to bring up so other's know they arnt like me? What do you mean we've fostered a community that actively harms victims of abuse and children en masse and normalized it so much I'm completely tone deaf by sending traumatizing incest fanfiction to my friends? Arnt they the real abusers by not letting me retrumatize them over and over again and claim their silencing me because I cant send links to rape porn in their discord server??

What do you mean I can't compare my fetishization of sex crimes to fans of horror movies cause it's a false equivalency and only my contribution is condoning the violence by painting it as sexy and desirable and my tiny disclaimer at the bottom basically means nothing when everything else I say isnt aligned with it?? What do you mean I show my true colors when I'm faced with the reality the only people who benefit from my fictional cp are pedophiles?? What do you mean rape victims don't like it when I portray rape as some sexy coercion and I know I'm wrong simply by the fact I try to hide the real word for what I'm writing/drawling under inconspicuous shit I made up like non-con and dub-con??

I'm supposed to be the victim, not you!! I'm the real victim! Your a bully for ignoring me and blocking me! This is clearly harassment! You clearly hate gay people because you don't like my gay pedo incest art with no actual sensitivity and I exclusively made it to jerk off to and not catch a felony or address my own rotting morality by justifying my wank to child porn drawn in an anime art style because they are fictional and not real! I know I recently identified also as a paraphile and a ficto-zoonecrosomnopedo but not everyone who likes my realistic porn of animals and children also clearly have my mental illnesses that are going completely unchecked! I'm the victim in all this, don't you know! I'm the victim!!!