#thanks for understanding y'all

[hattiestgal]

Hey folks, my queue isn't cleared out yet, but I'm really gonna need the money here soon for a variety of reasons, I don't wanna ask y'all for more donations, so I'm reopening my queue to start filling in a backlog. I know that's not really how queues work, but please work with me here.

COMMISSION FORM

Backlog Slots Left: 3

You can find my commission terms, wills and won'ts, and pretty much anything else you might need to know on the form, but also feel free to reach out to me in DMs if you have any questions at all! It'll be a bit, but I'm excited to work with anyone who grabs a slot. Thanks for understanding.

REBLOGS VERY APPRECIATED!

Examples Below!

<3

[phantominzie]

EVERYONE.

DONT FORGET TO LOOK UP #cutewinterboots ON TIKTOK! THERE'LL BE SOME BIG BITS OF ICE ON THE ROADS FOR QUITE SOME TIME, SO BE SURE TO INVEST IN SOME CUTE WINTER BOOTS.

THANKFULLY, THINGS SHOULD BE LOOKING UP ON JANUARY 29TH, FOR THOSE WHO COULDN'T HEAR ME,

JANUARY 29TH.

That is all, y'all have a good one and stay safe during all this ICE!

[nukbody]

@dead-finch-420 threatened me only 40% so i better take my chances, but being completely honest having look at those old sketches made me just wanna redraw them all so here we are

[mobius-m-mobius]

You wanna hear a good story? Listen to this one.

Mobius + comfort

[thel0velybee]

i love this dumb (/aff) bird so much

[whatudottu]

Combined with the mortifying realisation that loopified Odile (now named Nokosu) took me multiple hours to draw the first time, I decided to try and make one speak in Japanese :) :) :)

The Japanese sentences will be under the cut plus a more literal translation and some research notes-

自分は遺残の神である。「遺す」と呼んでもいいし、「残」の字を使ってもいい。お前 の草白鳥は、すでにお前 の小烏から 「イサ 」という名前を取っている。二人の人間に同じ名前を使うのは混乱しないか？ヴォーガルド語の「サ」の発音は「ザ」に近いので、特に必��である。そうだろう？

or in Romaji

Jibun wa izan no kamidearu. 'Nokosu' to yonde mo īshi, 'zan' no ji o tsukatte mo ī. Omae no kusa hakuchō wa, sudeni omae no ko karasu kara `Isa' to iu namae o totte iru. Futari no ningen ni onaji namae o tsukau no wa konran shinai ka? Vu~ōgarudo-go no 'sa' no hatsuon wa 'za' ni chikainode, tokuni hitsuyōdearu. Sōdarou?

Literally translated Nokosu says;

I am the god of remains. You may call me “Nokosu", or you may use the [Chinese character] for “remain". Your grass swan has already taken the name “Isa” from your little crow. Isn't it confusing to use the same name for two people? It is especially necessary since the pronunciation of “sa” in Vaugarde is close to “za”. Wouldn't you agree?

And for the explanations of a monolingual English speaker with barely even surface level understanding of Japanese.

Throughout my entire journey, Jisho.org kanji dictionary has been my saving grace and backbone in my choice of Nokosu's name and what first and second person pronouns one uses. My initial goal was to find a name for survival or persistance which lead to me finding terms like; 存続 (sonzoku) meaning survival, 存 meaning exist and 続 meaning continue; 耐久 (taikyuu) meaning endurance, 耐 meaning the affix -proof (of bulletproof or soundproof), 久 meaning long time; and finally 遺残 (izan) meaning persistence, 遺 meaning bequeath, 残 meaning remainder.

To kinda help expand my knowledge of the terms I was using, I also used a combination of google translate (primarily for the pronunication of words less the actual translations) and DeepL to kinda get the sweet deets and found that izan had meant - a more common definition - remains. It. Was. Perfect.

Perfect save for one thing... Isa- Sure, Isabeau is his full name and written down Isabeau and Izan are unique enough, but technically functionally the 'sa' in French (and thus in Vaugardian) is more voiced than the 'sa' in Japanese and sounds more like the 'za' in izan, and to have Odile refer to Nokosu as Izan when "only [Siffrin] call[s] him Isa" is an in-game quote; to say I was miffed was an understatement.

But then... I turned to words that use those individual kanji and hoped to mix and match to find what I wanted.

My first direction was to turn each kanji into hiragana to find their pronunciations and piece together a word from that; 遺 in isolation is noko, 残 in isolation is zan. Finding the term no ko zan-kiri (のこざん切り) on google gave me 'chopped into pieces' which well- look at my design that's a lot of pieces! のこ残 or nokozan (turning the first character into hiragana of course) lead me to 'remnants of a servant's body' as it's main translation on DeepL, but it also provided 'backbreaking exertions' as well as 'remnants of a defeated soldier'. Plus using DeepL again izan itself full kanji gave me 'vestiges' 'bequest' 'afterlife' and the ever present 'remains'.

None of these however were getting me closer to an ample replacement for izan however, not until I returned to jisho.org to pick out words from a list using either kanji.

Turns out, both 遺 and 残 can be pronounce 'noko' so long as it is followed by the hiragana す or su. And guess what either spelling of the word translates into? The 遺す version meaning to leave (behind), to bequeath, and the 残す version meaning that same thing but more, to leave (undone), to save/to reserve, to stay (in the ring).

SO! SO! That is how Nokosu came to be named! But- what about the Japanese phrase I wrote?

Well- let's stay on the Nokosu theme now that any Japanese readers in my audience have already processed the meta-joke that can only really exist in Japanese writing (or maybe not a joke but like... a fourth wall acknowledgement). Nokosu already introduces oneself as 遺す though doesn't mention how to spell it (since it's already spelt out to the reader), then introduces the second variant of the spelling exclusively referring to the second kanji of Izan 残 as zan. Maybe it's not really a joke but it'd kinda be like the 'you use he/they, it's in your profile' equivalent.

I suppose an attempt at a joke was Odile thinking 'a very wordy Expression', but that's mostly from observing that translations through DeepL stopped run on sentences occuring from English to Japanese so... I have no idea if constant uses of commas isn't particularly Japanese, at least the joke would be that Nokosu is particularly more chatty than Odile might normally be.

And once again, people who know Japanese may have noticed the use of jibun (自分) and omae (お前) for Nokosu's pronouns. Lowkey I was thinking initially of making Nokosu's first person pronoun oira a la sans undertale 'country bumpkin' but found more interesting things with jibun and omae that I settled on those versions. jibun, a neutral formality pronoun literally meaning 'oneself', when used as a personal pronoun (like Nokosu does) it's with a sense of separation of distance to the self; I also found out in my translation hunt that jibun can be used as a second person pronoun which is very fucking fitting given who Nokosu talks to, but that's specifically from in the Kansai dialect and - well - I can't say for certain where Odile hails from especially since Japan in ISAT is Ka Bue, but she'd be well educated enough to connect the dots that Nokosu lays down. On the other hand, Nokosu's second person pronoun is omae (Fist of the North Star fans will remember it from the very iconic 'omae wa mou shindearu'), which is incredibly informal and very rude when said to elders (though in age technically Nokosu is older) as it's meant to express the speaker's higher status in non-casual relationships.

To note, though omae can be used by both genders, it and jibun are mostly used by men and in the case of omae it's more commonly used to refer to their wife or lover. This has a little extra significance to background headcanon where Nokosu calls Odile Nanafushi (七節) or literally walking stick AKA a stickbug as ones version of 'Stardust', but sometimes Nokusu would split the word in half and refer to Odile as 'Nana' which in English sounds like one is referencing a grandma but (BUT) I'm specifically using the French term which translates to 'chick' 'babe' 'girlfriend'. So when I saw that omae can also be used for that purpose, it really goes to show that at some point Nokosu had the time to perfectly craft a version of oneself that does get on Odile's nerves and has the gall to get away with it at least initially under the assumption that one is an Expression.

I've been trying to make this flow from one point to another but I don't know how to jump to Japanese nicknames, at least not the metaphorical ones that I used here (and took inspiration from the Word of God Odile nickname for Siffrin 'Little Crow'). What little I do know about Japanese nicknames is that they may take alternate readings of single kanji as a nickname or repeat a character, though that is in reference to Japanese names in the first place. I did see something about the metaphorical sort of nicknames that have connotations in the language itself but- honestly this is my most monolingual English moment yet. I will explain however what I did decide.

草白鳥 or kusa hakuchou is the character for grass 草, and the kanji combination for swan 白鳥. In DeepL however 草白鳥 translates to grasshopper and though I signifcantly lack the cultural context to know what grasshopper symbology has in Japan, I do know in English you call someone a 'grasshopper' because they're tall. But why start with grass swan at all? Well- maybe it's a stretch for whatever fantasy time-period ISAT takes place in to use an internet term but, 草 has been used in internet slang to mean lol or haha since 'w' is also a version of lol or haha, and when spammed like so - wwwwwwwwwwwww - it looks like grass. The reason for swan would be because of I guess this idea of beauty? Less due to Odile specifically considering Isabeau beauty and more so taking note of his care to his appearance - whether it be how he presents his perception of his appearance or how he makes people belief a different thing about what his views about his appearance are, white swan or black swan - and that whatever the case is, he does take pride in maintaining that appearance; a retroactive meaning to the nickname, especially when Isa starts more casually bringing up the fact he *had* Changed, would be an incidental reference to the ugly duckling, who ended up not being a duckling at all and was a swan all along. Whether the nickname actually works or not I don't really know, but what it boils down to Odile's nickname for him (and thus Nokosu's only title for him beyond fighter) would really mean 'funny (tall) beauty' which would probably fluster Odile to admit it as Isa would hearing it.

An interesting thing I found while finding kanji for little crow (specifically 小烏) was that there is actually kind of already a word for it already, Kogarasu Maru or 小烏丸, AKA "Little Crow" which is a unique tachi sword rumoured to be crafted by a legendary swordsmith like-! I don't know if that was at all intentional on Insertdisc5's part (and if I should change the pronunciaton of the romaji version of the original text to kogarasu), but beyond Siffrin's little habit to collect every little thing that shines and doesn't, what do you mean there's a unique tachi sword named 'little crow' that's like literally so Siffrin-coded I SWEAR TO GOD!

Oh, and I played ISAT in Japanese to get the correct spelling of Vaugarde and 語 (go) is just the suffix for language AKA the difference between Nihon the country and Nihongo the language okay BYE!

[cosmicredcadet]

I'm tired of repulsed "positivity" posts always having "but romance negativity is bad" tacked on, as if t comes along with repulsion. Because Repulsion positivity needs a disclaimer because we are always seen as being negative. it's always "Sex and romance repulsion is valid AS LONG AS you're not Sex negative ^^" never just "Sex and romance repulsion is valid." end of sentence.

this ALWAYS happens on repulsed posts. We are always paired with sex negativity. And Im so sick and fucking tired of it. You never see this on sex and romance favorable posts. you never see people tack on how favorable people shouldn't push toxic sex positivity and shame people for not having sex.

I do not care if you think repulsed people are "prone to being sex negative" that thought process alone SHOWS that you don't understand us and don't fully support us. I hate you. I'm tired. It's obvious you see us as less willing of support all because you assume we are sex negative, a sentiment that gets tacked onto us for simply expressing our repulsion. I hate you. I'm tired.

I'm tired.

I'm tired.

[amogus-real-not-clickbait]

here's some benreys for y'all!!! it's meal time little ones!!!! nobody starves today. i provide

also random gordo he's here too i guess-

[funnier-as-a-system]

sorry for the possibly dumb question

what the fuck is a system

Don't worry, anon, this isn't a dumb question at all! Systems aren't very well-known, so I'm happy to explain them to you. I'll start by explaining what a system is, then go more in-depth about systems in general.

So, you know how most people are one person? Or, rather, you know how when you meet someone, you assume they're the only person in their body? You don't really think "I wonder if this person shares their body and life with other beings." or "I wonder if this person I know is actually multiple people all sharing the same body.", but that's how it is for systems!

In simple terms, a system is any collective group of self-aware entities that share the same body (which is, I fully acknowledge, a complicated definition, but basically we have multiple selves whereas most people would have just one, and each self has their own identity). We may not specifically consider ourselves individual people (some systems see themselves as separated parts of one whole person, for instance), but it'll probably help you understand if you think of us as people that happen to share the same body. We each have our own sense of self, ideas, feelings, personalities, and on and on, just like anyone else.

Although this probably sounds very strange and surprising, it's likely that you've heard of systems before – just not with that language. Many people have heard of "multiple personalities" or "Multiple Personality Disorder", which is how systems used to be known. This sort of understanding of systems is especially common in horror movies, which tend to depict systems as serial killers or monsters. Of course, systems are no more likely to hurt others than anyone else is, but the stereotype and stigma persists, and can lead to harassment or even violence against systems.

However, you may have also come across more positive depictions. Body sharing is a common trope, for instance. People with Dissociative Identity Disorder, who often describe themselves as systems, are being more often portrayed as regular or kind people rather than serial killers, such as Uendo Toneido from Ace Attorney. I've often seen systems point to characters and series like Venom, Sense8, and Moon Knight – which depict systems or situations and characters that resonate with systems – to describe what their lives are like. We often find characters that are rather like systems that may not have been intended to be read as such and have a laugh about it; you might be able to spot the same, now that you know what you're looking for.

So, systems can be understood as when a single body is inhabited by more than one person, or being, or entity (whichever term you prefer). We may share the same body, but we each have our own selves, and often, our own names and identities, too.

That's the essence of it! I'll put more under the cut about systems in case you're curious.

For starters, if you're looking into systems, you'll probably run across the term "plurality", which is an overarching term that refers to all instances of someone sharing a body/brain; it is the state of being more-than-one, not just an individual collection of beings in a single body (the latter is what the word "system" specifically refers to). There's also the word "plural", which can be used either as a noun to mean the same thing as "system", or as an adjective to describe things that involve or exhibit plurality. For instance, I am plural. I very much enjoy talking about plurality and plural characters in fiction.

(As a comparison, you may think of video chats/group calls. Plurality, here, would be video chats in general. Meanwhile, a specific video chat – called a webinar – would be a system. And the people in a webinar would be the members of a system. Or, for another example, plurality would be education, a system would be a class, and the members of that system would be the students.)

Speaking of, beings who share a body – who are part of a system – are called many different terms. Two of the most common are "headmate" and "alter", although I also see "system member" a lot. I could say that my headmate was rather helpful today, or that my alter was fronting yesterday. Alter is more medical of a term, but it's more standard, especially in some other languages outside English.

But, wait, you might be wondering what fronting is! Well, since we all live in the same body, we've got to share control of it too, don't we? Fronting is what we call controlling the body, and switching is when we change who is in control. Some systems switch often, while others switch rarely, or only under certain circumstances, and some systems never switch at all. Switching may be involuntary, or it may be a voluntary skill a system has picked up. There's a lot of variety across systems.

Plurality is most often known in the context of DID, or Dissociative Identity Disorder, which often involves a lot of involuntary switches. P-DID, or Partial Dissociative Identity Disorder, meanwhile, involves very few switches, but these are likely to be involuntary, as well. There are other disorders that plurality may be a part or symptom of, but plurality can also exist as its own non-disordered state, so long as there's no attached or related issues causing problems for the system (ex. memory issues are another frequent problem in DID, and these memory issues come from the members of a system not remembering what the others did when those alters were fronting).

You may be wondering, how does this happen? How does someone become a system? There are many different ways. Sometimes, it's a part of someone's culture, religion, or spirituality. Sometimes, it's the brain's response to trauma, trying to protect itself. Sometimes, someone is simply born this way. Sometimes, someone may become a system out of the blue, or cause their own plurality somehow. Some systems have a multitude or mix of origins. Most studies on systems currently focus on systems that originate from trauma, as these systems most often have issues – including the trauma in question – that need to be looked into and addressed, but there are some budding studies into systems with other origins, such as the few current and ongoing studies on created systems (the aforementioned systems that cause their own plurality).

I'm simplifying some things here; identity such as this gets increasingly nuanced and personal as you learn more and more (for example, as said before, not all system members identify as individual persons, even if it can help understand them to think of them like individual persons that just happen to share a body). But I hope this helped you learn at least the basics about systems!

[catocappuccino]

U zee being cool and allat... like she always is

+ two random doodles

[guppygiggles]

I have a recurrent nosebleed from the cold, I cried at work today, and I had to take my spouse to the ER. I was already not having a great string of days, so... yeah, I'm gonna be real, there might not be art for a little bit. I'm also going to have to ask for some patience in terms of interacting with me and how quickly I respond, please. 💙

Thank you guys, I hope y'all are hanging in there. 💙

[lunarharp]

*nina simone* love me love me, say you do

[nell0-0]

There's this shop next to where I work that sells merchandise and manga and stuff like that. So I go, talk to the cute girl on the counter, buy the Oracle of Seasons+Oracle of Ages manga and she's like "oh, our Zelda customer, welcome back!"

I'm- omg??? I've only gone there three times—

[clowningaroundmars]

Hobie1610 pt. 3

part 3 has finally arrived!!! at a faster rate than part 2 but a bit of a wait nonetheless lol

not entirely sure how long this lil story will go on for but hope y'all are enjoying this ride regardless, whether it ends on the next part or in 3 more chapters ldfjkdhf

in this installment: thrilling action, a high stakes chase, and we get to learn more abt our beloved hobie jones! yippee!

>pt. 1 here<

>pt. 2 here<

>pt. 4 here<

♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧

By some miracle, Hobie did not mention the suit to Miles once they started texting semi-regularly.

Unfortunately, they also couldn't really make their lunch date (date? God, get it together, Morales. It is not a date…) as soon as Miles would have liked, due to a million different things getting in the way of them setting a solid day aside to chill together.

Just his luck, of course.

But in the hallways, Hobie actually deigned to give Miles a passing smile every now and then. They didn’t ever get to hang out like they did for those precious few moments on the first day of school, but Miles didn’t feel the crushing weight of guilt every time he saw Hobie in his same classroom anymore. What a relief!

So Miles was mostly okay with how things were going anyhow, even if the hangout ended up falling through and they both decided not to go in the end. He was able to patrol and do his homework in blissful peace for the first time in months.

… Kind of.

That look on Hobie’s handsome face as he looked down past Miles’ coat collar though…

That still ate away at an anxious part of Miles’ brain whenever he had the time to sit down and really let his worries manifest.

No time to think about that now, though. Miles was suited up again on a school night, hoping to get at least an hour’s worth of patrolling in before security at Visions noticed he was absent from his dorm room. He hoped Ganke would be able to cover for him like he always did.

It was yet another cold evening out in New York City, and Miles was steadily covering the edges of Brooklyn, heading towards Manhattan to do a quick sweep through Central Park like he did on occasion. There was always something going on in Manhattan, especially during the evening.

Miles decided it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick peek before calling it a night and heading back to Visions.

So away he went-- now fully in his Spiderman element-- vaulting and soaring over buildings, showing off every now and then by doing silly flips and tricks mid-air for the opportunistic New Yorkers looking to snap their Spiderman Sighting of the day. A little social media promo never hurt anyone, after all…

Spiderman finally swung down onto a tree branch on the western side of the park from a street lamp and was just about to lower himself down as inconspicuously as he could, before immediately feeling the tingling electricity of his Spider Senses race up and down his spine, giving him the usual headache along with it.

He crouched down quietly on a branch and watched as a familiar lanky figure streaked across the path underneath him onto the grass and beyond.

Whoever this runner was, he was fast. And hot on his trail was a gang of burly bumbling assholes cursing up a blue streak as they gave chase.

Spiderman’s eyes stayed glued to the fast runner like they were a lifeline. His senses honed in on the person and he erupted out of the leaves of the tree with one mighty leap, sailing through the air to shoot a web out and swing his way on over to the excitement.

Several joggers, people walking dogs after work, and mothers with baby carriages exclaimed and shouted as they were barreled into by the gang of men trying to keep up with their moving target. The runner didn’t seem to be giving up, though, as their long legs sent them flying over bushes and rocks and lounging people as gracefully as a ribbon in the air.

It was indeed getting dark soon again, but the darkness didn’t really affect Spiderman’s senses at all. His mask helped him fine-tune his powerful vision and anticipate the runner’s next moves.

It looked as though they were trying to make their way up towards the Great Lawn from Cedar Hill, but whether the person was planning to make a break for the now-empty Delacorte Theatre or the Metropolitan Museum Of Art… or beyond? That was the million dollar question.

Spiderman didn’t want to lose the person in case they happened to just be a petty thief, since that would be a quick and easy problem to fix. But as he silently chased down the runner alongside (and unbeknownst) to the gang, his suspicions gave way to some other... ideas.

Namely, that the runner seemed young, a bit too young for someone to be pissing off this many fully-grown gang members.

He pushed through his confusion and made a break for the theatre the second he guessed that the runner was pivoting in that direction.

The trees were getting thicker the closer they got to the Belvedere Castle and Spiderman eventually resorted himself to hoofing it, mindful of sticking to the shadows of the foliage that surrounded them on all sides.

He was super grateful now more than ever that his suit happened to be his signature sleek black and red, rather than the tacky and hyper-visible reds and blues of many of his Spider counterparts (sorry Peter!)

Once he confirmed that the suspicious target was indeed planning on hiding in the bleachers of the massive amphitheatre, he shot up a web to hoist himself into the infrastructure from the tall stadium lights. From there, he positioned himself a bit closer to the fray, hearing the loud and heavy boots of the gang following the runner, not far behind.

Then, he squinted into the dusk as he watched one of the entrances from his perch up high... and almost choked on his own saliva!

In comes none other than Hobie Motherfucking Jones, streaking down several steps like a shooting star, clutching onto… something tucked under one of his arms. He was breathless, panting loudly, and heading straight for the Belvedere Lake.

Upon hearing the heavy bootfalls get ever closer with every passing second, it seemed that Hobie got the idea to attempt a last-minute juke by throwing himself underneath the stairs that faced the lake, tucking himself as tightly as he could under the massive stage at the center.

Spiderman watched all of this happening with wide eyes, holding his own breath in. He prayed that the ugly thugs didn’t see Hobie’s sneaky last-second move, but climbed up high onto the stadium lights and prepared to swing down anyhow, just in case.

What was Hobie even doing here, out at this hour? And what the hell did he manage to steal that was so important to these men anyways? It was quite a chase they were caught up in, running nearly two entire miles all the way up to the amphitheatre just to catch him, and that was only from what he could see when he swung into action.

The group split up and pulled out flashlights, determinedly searching the bleachers and corners as best they could while the sky rapidly darkened above them.

From right below the webbed crime-fighter, Hobie poked his head out from the shadows and took a peek.

No, no, duck back down! Spiderman wanted to shout, but he couldn’t.

No one knew he had followed them and he was safe high above the action where he balanced himself on the metal bars that housed the bulbs. His muscles tensed as the bright beam of light from one guy’s flashlight swept a little too close to Hobie’s head. Damnit.

Spiderman couldn’t just sit there all day! He had a friend to save, stolen item be damned!

He rechecked his web shooters furtively and took aim.

He set his sights on another stadium light pole across from the stage, figuring that if he was quick and agile enough, he could time his swing well enough to scoop Hobie up from where he was hidden and avoid any detection. Hopefully.

Seemed like a solid enough plan though, until Hobie just. Shot out from his hiding place all of a sudden, the heels of his boots rapping loudly against the cement and echoing all around the stage as he made a beeline for the lakefront.

Shit!!!

Miles wanted to kill him. Those guys didn’t even suspect he was hiding where we was in the first place!

... Okay, plan B!

Spiderman’s brain whirred at breakneck speeds as he watched the thugs exclaim loudly and give chase yet again, this time much closer to Hobie than they ever were before.

Without thinking, he swung down from his perch and bowled over a couple of men in his haste to simply just… grab Hobie like a damsel in distress and fireman-carry him back around the gang to get a good line of web onto a nearby pole.

The men all cursed and shouted in surprise of course, flashlight beams waving around everywhere.

One of them even yelled, “what the hell was that?!” like a character in one of his dad’s favorite cheesy slasher movies.

Spiderman was too fast for them, a black blur simply whizzing by as he grabbed Hobie and hoisted the both of them up into the air with a mighty leap. Hobie yelped in surprise, grunting from the effort, and seemed to let whatever he stole slip out of his hands which then clattered loudly onto the ground below.

The thugs rejoiced then, shaking fists at Hobie and his rescuer as they flew up to the top of a tree and detached themselves so they could fall onto the stadium light opposite from Spiderman’s initial hiding spot.

Spiderman didn’t stop until he attached another web up to the lights and dangled there for a bit. Adrenaline still coursed through his veins as he shifted Hobie off of his shoulders and let him slide slowly onto his side, his friend’s wiry arms clutching him tightly.

They both watched with rapt attention at the goings-on several feet below them.

The thugs congregated around the fallen item, picking it up and turning it this way and that. It looked like a briefcase, though with the low lighting it really could’ve been anything. It was only when one of them-- the biggest and burliest of them all-- shouted out another colorful swear word that Hobie then seemed to come back to himself again.

He squeezed Spiderman’s shoulders with his arms and kicked at him. They swung a bit from the wiggling.

“Ouch!” Spiderman hissed, as quietly as he could. He was hoping the dark dusk would conceal their position now as long as they made No Noises, but even that wasn’t guaranteed.

“Go, go, go, go, man! Let’s get out of here!!” Hobie hissed right back into his ear, his face mere centimeters away from Spiderman’s mask.

Spiderman stubbornly ignored the heat radiating out from his face at that realization and jerked this way and that, looking for an easy escape from their conundrum.

Flashlight beams danced around the ground before finally swinging up to the trees and catching sight of a pair of shoes dangling in the sky.

The biggest and meanest one of the bunch pulled something out of his pocket and took aim.

Bullet! Spiderman’s senses screamed into his cerebellum.

“Goddamn,” he huffed ruefully as the shots rang out. Hobie panicked. “Bullets for us? That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?”

Hobie clung onto his hero for dear life. “Brother, if you do not get a move on from here, we are both gonna get turned into fish filets!” He shouted into Spiderman’s ear.

“Ow. Okay,” Spiderman grumbled, sticking himself to the side of the pole they dangled from and readjusting Hobie so that he clung onto his back instead.

He took a deep breath and narrowly dodged a bullet that whizzed unnervingly close to their heads. Hobie yelled again.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Spiderman began, speaking quickly. “Hold on, okay? Hold on tight. Just hold on and do not let me go for even a second!”

“On it!” Hobie shouted back, legs kicking a bit before wrapping themselves tightly around Spiderman’s torso.

They both took a breath and then Spiderman jumped, gaining some air before twin webs erupted from his web shooters-- aimed directly towards the seating area entrance.

Together, he and Hobie rocketed from their airborne position towards their escape route once the fluids connected to solid architecture. To his credit, Hobie only whimpered a little bit through the ride.

The thugs had no chance! They stumbled on tired, aching legs towards the very door the two teens had left out of, complaining and cursing some more as they searched through the steps and made their way out onto the theatre’s general admission and concessions area.

They searched and searched through the bushes and trees, going so far as to even check the sculptures near the structure.

After several tense moments of gruff shouting back-and-forth, the search eventually died down until only a couple of the men were left sweeping the area once more. The others had already given up their fruitless endeavor and called it a night.

“Fucking kids, man. What the hell,” Spiderman heard one of them grumble before kicking at the Romeo and Juliet statue angrily and following the rest of his cohorts down the path towards the Great Lawn again.

Hobie and Spiderman let out matching sighs of relief then, happy to have given the men the slip by managing to hide behind the giant 3D Delacorte Theatre sign right above the box offices. Lucky for them, most people don’t think to search behind lit-up signs, so they went completely undetected.

“… Wanna let me know what you were doing here this whole time? You could’ve gotten killed!” Spiderman breathed. He wanted his tone to be sharper, more authoritative… but he was just so glad to see his new friend still in one piece instead of riddled with more holes than a chunk of swiss cheese!

Hobie scoffed, tucking a loc behind his ear and sitting back. Thanks to the lighting of the sign and the other park lights in the area, Spiderman could see him digging around in his coat pocket and fishing out-- a USB drive?

Hobie held it up triumphantly, sleepy down-turned eyes glistening with pride.

“I got it! Suckers! Screw them by the way, I’m not the thief, if that’s what you’re wondering,”

Well. He was sneaky, alright. Spiderman had to hand that to him, at the very least.

He sat back on his heels as well and exhaled. “Fine. I believe you. What’s on that drive?”

Hobie squinted at him then, really giving him a good once-over now that the excitement had officially died down. “…Damn. You’re Spiderman,”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, hi, nice to meet you, I’m your friendly neighborhood Sp-- ugh, seriously man, just tell me what all of that was back there or else I’m webbing you up and calling the cops.”

“Hey!” Hobie objected. “Like I said already, I’m the good guy here. I snagged this from those guys because I caught them snoopin’ around the museum over that way. I followed them and found out they were stealing this!”

Spiderman bobbed his head. “Okay? And what’s on it?”

Hobie turned the drive over a bit in his hands, admiring it. “Most likely? Security codes, schedules, maps. I’ve been uh… investigating those dudes for a while after watching them sniff around the museum for a few days now. It looks like they were just art thieves plannin' a heist, so I jumped on the opportunity to deliver justice myself.”

Hobie’s mischievous grin was met by Spiderman’s disapproving stare.

“And why didn’t you just call security and let them know? Like I said, super dangerous thing you did back there! If I wasn’t there to save you, you could’ve died, man.”

Hobie pocketed his USB drive again and rolled his eyes. “Y’know, for a vigilante hero with cool superpowers, you sure are a square.”

Spiderman sat up and placed a hand on his chest, feigning hurt. “Oof, ow. That’s mean,”

“Yeah, it is, but you know I’m right. If a kid like me walked up to some cops and tried to warn them of a possible art heist, you just know those pricks’ll laugh in my face and do literally nothing about it. I had to take matters into my own hands!” Hobie jutted his chin out defiantly.

Well. Couldn't really argue with that, especially considering PDNY’s less-than-stellar track record of taking preventative measures most times. All that they would most likely do is nod along to whatever Hobie was telling them and chuckle, shaking their heads as they walk away. Not their problem.

Spiderman rubbed his chin. “Point taken," he conceded. "So what’s your plan now?”

Hobie glanced around, as if he was checking for any eavesdroppers. “I’m gonna submit some photos to a journalist I met online before turning this in back to the museum. The journalist’ll help get those guys behind bars once a story's published and some actual adults talk to the cops. I am going to go collect my reward,”

Spiderman blinked. He had a bunch of questions swimming in his head, but the first question out of his mouth was, “what reward?”

“The reward for turning in precious security info, genius!” Hobie tapped at his forehead with a finger and grinned. “If I get to negotiate with them, I can get some money to save up and-- uh. Nevermind. Listen, are you gonna rat me out or not?”

Miles’ brow creased behind his mask. “… I don’t think I will. Sounds like you’re doing the right thing… mostly.”

Hobie cheered silently. “Yes! Okay, I take it back, Spidey. You are cool!”

Spiderman sighed. “But first, I need to know you’re gonna be safe. Like, actually, and that you’re not gonna get followed home.”

Hobie shrugged nonchalantly and pushed more locs out of his face again. “Yeah, you can walk me home if you want,”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean, that’s not the only thing I mean. I need you to promise me that you’re not gonna get into stupid stunts like this again. That was so dangerous and you really could’ve gotten hurt!”

Hobie exhaled as well. He stared intensely into the mask’s giant white lenses for a beat, making Spiderman shift uncomfortably.

Then, he held up his pinkie. “… Fine. I won’t do stupid shit like this again. I promise.”

Spiderman blinked a few more times and hooked his pinkie onto Hobie’s. “Uh. Okay, cool! Cool, that’s what I wanna hear, considering keeping New Yorkers safe is my job! I just wanna see you safe, that’s all. No more art heists, you gotta leave that to the professionals to handle,”

“What, professionals like you? You might’ve not even gotten to them in time before they snuck off with like millions of dollars worth of art, bro.”

“Anyone ever tell you you are just so mean? Dontcha have a little faith in me? The ‘vigilante hero with cool superpowers’?” Spiderman shot back.

They both laughed.

“Seriously, though. I do appreciate the fact that you saved my ass back there,” Hobie admitted, eyes cast downwards for a second. “I was actually gonna throw this thing into the lake and hope this drive got eaten by like… a fish or something.”

“And what about you?” Spiderman smiled despite himself.

“Well,” Hobie shrugged. “If I died, I died. I guess,”

It was Spiderman’s turn to scoff now. “You have a family, man. Don’t be ridiculous. You have friends and family that would miss you!”

Hobie’s expression turned dark, his entire face shadowing for a second before being replaced by cool detached nonchalance. A slight hint of annoyance stayed put underneath.

“… My family’s barely my family. I don’t have any friends, either. Don't worry about me.” Hobie admitted in a clipped tone. He stood up abruptly and started doing some casual stretches.

Spiderman stood up as well, knowing fully well how this song and dance was going to go.

He would never admit it out loud, but he’d seen his fair share of self-destructive citizens throwing themselves into the middle of danger in the short time he’d been doing this whole vigilante thing. He had talked many a melancholy or manic person from tossing themselves off of multiple different buildings, different bridges, stopped them from “falling” onto train tracks.

And as loath as he is to admit it, this Hobie’s particular brand of cool detachment was entirely too familiar to him as well.

A flash of his uncle Aaron’s face lit up a part of his brain that he hadn’t really allowed himself to acknowledge since that fateful day. He quickly stamped that out.

He cleared his throat and rubbed at his neck. “… Well. That sounds pretty depressing, man.”

He didn’t notice Hobie’s shoulders hitch at that phrase.

“But,” Spiderman continued, “You got people out here who care about you, even if you don’t know it. You’re still so young, you could be ending your life before you even meet, like, your favoritest person in the whole world, right? So just do me a quick favor, take care of yourself. For me. Live long enough to meet your favorite person, alright?”

Spiderman put on his best comforting expression that he could despite the mask most likely getting in the way of Hobie fully seeing it. He hoped his words were enough to convince him not to dive off the deep end, at least not anytime soon.

It seemed to work at least a little bit, because Hobie looked back at him with a much warmer-- albeit hesitant-- expression.

“Can I ask you something?” Hobie finally said after a few moments of silence.

“Uh, sure.” Spiderman replied.

“Do you know about a kid named Miles Morales at all?”

The air was sucked out of Spiderman’s lungs right then as he floundered like a fish for a minute, brain working into overdrive to make his answer sound both intelligent and convincing.

“U-uh, maaaybeee? I dunno, I meet a lot of New Yorkers everyday and I don’t get many names, yanno? S-sounds familiar, but sorr--”

“I knew it,” Hobie exhaled a laugh and surged forward to embrace Spiderman with both arms.

Spiderman stood frozen in his place, arms held in mid-air as he worked to process this.

“Uh. What--”

Spiderman felt Hobie’s chin dig into the side of his cheek a little as he turned his lips to his ear. “Your secret’s safe with me, by the way. I’m not telling anyone,”

Miles felt his whole world turn on its axis before shattering completely.

Oh no, no, no, no, no! Goddamnit!

Miles pushed Hobie off and stepped back, holding his hands up. “Oh hey, whoa, whoa, whoa. I dunno what you’re thinking or who you think I am, but--!”

Hobie sighed loudly. “Miles, I saw your suit.”

The world screeched to a halt.

Hobie picked his gaze back up off of his feet and even seemed apologetic, almost. “I, uhm. Like, back on the roof. At Visions. I wasn’t… a hundred percent sure I saw it, since it could’ve been any logo at all, but. Well, you’re a pretty bad liar too, y’know that, right?”

Miles sucked in a slightly shaky breath, gulping loudly. “Uh. W-well,”

Hobie smiled shyly. “You, uh… you’re like around the same height as Miles Morales, anyways. And you sure sound a lot like him, too.”

Damn. Damn it all.

Miles spun this way and that, placing his hands atop his head as he panicked slightly. “H-Hobie, you cannot tell anyone else about this, whatsoever. Do you understand? No one. At all. Or we’re both dead!”

Hobie held his hands up, lines creasing in his face. “Look bro, you’ve got secrets of mine too. We pinkie promised, remember? I don’t break promises.”

Miles didn’t point out that the promise was so that Hobie would stop getting himself into stupidly dangerous situations, but he accepted it anyways, albeit reluctantly.

“D-do… do you actually, like actually promise me you’ll never breathe a word about this to anyone? Ever? At all?”

Hobie held up his right hand into the air, as if taking an oath. “I, MJ, solemnly swear to never breathe a single word to anyone about your super secret identity, so help me god.”

Miles planted his fists on his hip and shook his head. “Oh my god,” he exhales on a shaky laugh.

“Don’t you believe me? What would I have to gain by selling you out? Oh,” Hobie stops suddenly, perking up. “We could even work together! I got me my sweet camera and my extensive connects, man. Think about it!”

“No, no. Hobie. Stop that, man. I’m not putting you into any danger after I just saved your skinny butt. Spiderman doesn’t do sidekicks anyways,”

Hobie looked a bit put out, but shrugged anyways. “Well, I mean… think about it sometime. We could seriously take down criminal activity around here, if you’re down! And, uh. You do have my number,”

Miles looked up and took a deep breath. “Mmnyes, I do. I do have your number. That’s… I mean you’re not wrong about that. Listen, I think it’s getting pretty late and we should both be heading back home now, though.”

The corners of Hobie’s mouth curled up mischievously. “True, true. It is a school night, after all.”

Miles couldn’t stop grinning despite the heavy anvil that threatened to burst out of his chest. “Yep, yes it is! Okay, time to get you home now. C’mon, let’s go.”

Miles moved to step into Hobie’s space and carry him on his back again so he could lower the both of them down from the lip of the theatre roof.

But before that happened, he felt Hobie place a cold but strong hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

Miles looked up inquisitively and felt his breath catch in his throat as he felt those same hands slowly slide up the smooth spandex of his suit, up his shoulders, and then they stopped at his neck, at the seam of where his suit and mask met.

The entire thing probably only took a few seconds to do, but to Miles it felt like eons passed as he felt every single muscle twitch and the pulse beating underneath Hobie’s skin while he ran those fingers up his arms.

He was standing so close to him! Oh god!

The entire ordeal was unbearably intimate, and Miles could barely stop the shudder that wracked his body suddenly.

Hobie’s soft lips were slightly parted, the lighting of the sign next to them caught in the dark brown portals that were his eyes.

“U-uhm. Sorry, this is weird...” he mumbled quietly. But his hands didn't move.

All around them, crickets started their soothing chorus.

Here they were, right behind the giant lettering of the Delacorte Theatre, intertwined in each other’s arms on a cold night-- and Miles’ core body temperature has never felt hotter before. He felt like he could melt steel, the way this night was going. He didn’t know when his hands raised to grasp onto Hobie’s arms, but they must’ve done it of their own accord because Miles then felt himself squeezing softly onto Hobie’s biceps.

Slowly, painstakingly, and carefully… Hobie made his move.

Every centimeter of the mask being pushed up was accompanied by a soft look that asked-- no, it begged-- for permission to continue. His hands seemed to move on their own eventually, as he slid the mask up over the back of Miles' head and then eased it up off of his nose.

Hobie wore a soft look of determination then, that fully came into view again once Miles felt his mask slide right up off of his eyes. Hobie’s soft hands eventually fell away, mask in one hand, no sounds in the air except for the wildlife of the park starting to wake now that the night has officially fallen.

Miles wasn’t sure why he did, but he held his breath.

After a few seconds of appraising gazes from each other, pupils meeting pupils, exchanging a million words a second with just a few looks… Hobie grinned beautifully.

“Damn. There you are,”

Miles felt a plume of heat erupt from his gut and rush up to his face. “Uh. Hm, y-yep. Here I am,” he blinked back at Hobie with his big brown eyes.

Hobie had a look of pure joy on his face before it started to melt away suddenly. “You know… I should backstab you for abandoning me out of nowhere that one time, though… I really should...”

The moment collapsed like an undone web, a delicate thing now completely destroyed as Miles leaped up in indignation.

“Hobie!”

Hobie stepped back and laughed loudly. “Re-lax! I’m not gonna actually do it. But. Y’know.”

“And if you do, I’ll leave you webbed up to that billboard near Visions,” Miles threatened, mostly light-heartedly.

“Psshh, and then get my mom’s two million lawyers on your ass? Good luck,”

“As if they could ever catch me! I’m Spiderman!”

Just as easily as they had stepped out of being just kids for a moment, they stepped right back into it, bickering like they'd been friends since forever.

Miles lowered the both of them from the sign and they headed towards the eastern side of the park, making their way over to Hunter’s Gate. They bickered and bantered back and forth the entire way there, and it was only once they made it to the outer gates of the park that Miles stopped them both.

With his mask back on and other New Yorkers now milling nearby, Miles made it a point to lower his voice as he turned to Hobie and puffed his chest out heroically.

“So, random citizen. Where are we off to today? I told you I’d take you back home safely, and that’s what I’m gonna do.”

“’Cause you promised, right?” Hobie smirked, tucking his hands into his coat pockets.

“Uhm. Yeah, yeah. I did. So, lead the way!” Spiderman made a grand ushering gesture, and Hobie chuckled good-naturedly as he stepped aside and exited Central Park.

“You gonna walk me home, Spiderman?” Hobie threw him a side-long glance.

“Yyyeah…? Why? You’d rather swing home?”

“I liked swinging, actually. Yeah,” Hobie stopped where he was on the sidewalk and nodded with an air of finality. “Yeah… let’s swing!”

Spiderman felt his heart do a few somersaults in his chest before he gestured towards his shoulders. Hobie quickly assumed the position, long lanky arms wrapping around him and leaning his body weight against Spiderman’s side.

Spiderman shot up a web to a nearby street lamp and gave his friend one more glance.

“You sure?” He asked again, really making sure that Hobie was okay with this. Not many people really liked swinging, which was understandable. Even Miles wasn't the biggest fan of it at times.

Hobie chuckled and ignored the onlookers as they slowly ambled past the two, throwing the teens questioning glances as they made their way past them.

“Yeah, I am! Let’s go,”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Miles: Do you actually actually really like on your LIFE promise that you’re not ginna tell a soul about… well…

Miles: gonna*

MJ: Yes, Miles. I PROMISE [eyeroll emoji]

Miles: I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE

MJ: Do you actually, though? ;)

Miles: No. But I can find out… I got connects

MJ: Uh huh. I’ll tell your “connects” that if you don’t take me out on that promised lunch date, our friendly neighborhood Spiderman just might be the next trending topic on ALL social media apps again very soon……..

Miles: Oh my god. You are Evil. I can’t believe this. My next arch nemesis… damn

Miles: What a killer plot twist. The greatest foe I have yet to face happens to be none other than one of my very own classmates

Miles: It be ya own people

From his family’s Lower Manhattan penthouse, Hobie laughs out loud as he reads the text messages, ignoring all of the curious glances thrown his way by various members of his team.

From Miles’ own humble dorm room at Visions, he laughs aloud as well.

[hadesoftheladies]

let me be so fr y'all. i will NEVER shame a woman for having a man that treats her right. okay? that's always going to be a win, why would i complain about that? i just think that most of y'all that say you found him are fckn lying.

like i've watched women in dv situations lie through their teeth. they'll lie to their besties who know them freckle to freckle about their bruises. it doesn't even have to be abuse. i know how much women lie to keep up appearances with other women and i'm just saying i'm not buying it with most of y'all. that's my truth. and i start having issues when you start lying about that reality to younger women who will most likely just end up in the same shitty relationship bc of the false hope women in mid-to-shitty relationships with men espouse. and i can tell they're lying even MORE when they start trying to talk about how "women aren't necessarily better" whether that's about celibate or same-sex-partnered women. they'll drag their own female friends in order to convince everyone else that their man is truly the real deal as a status symbol. they'll shit on what their friends do for them in order to justify their veneration of this mid-ass moid. i've just seen it happen too many times, and that's why i think it's justified that radfems draw parallels between het-partnered feminists and liberal women who cling to femininity. y'all talk the exact same most of the time and even have the same arguments.

anyways.

[vacantgodling]

HE WHO SMITES THE SUN : Dori-Tsokhizhemasonen

CHAPTER 1: SANO'NYON KI MANYENYA (The Rain Dance)

The light of the bonfire was so bright, that even standing atop of the outside wall of their ancestral city, far removed from the center of their encampment where it blazed, Tsokhizhe could still see it. The flecks of stray warmth and light traced its paws against his dark skin, still drawing him into its orbit. The flames rose higher than they would ever dare at a normal pyre, but tonight was a special night, and so special exceptions were made. Every clan and tribe south of the Gingi’nga Nanmoso would be celebrating tonight; there would be no need to worry about an attack, safe within their wall with guards like Tsokhizhe to keep it. There was a mysticism in the air tonight—one that made the flame’s reds closer to oranges, and oranges closer to white; and the colors danced, interlocked and interwoven against the backdrop of the pitch black sky. Music and laughter fueled the mirthful, heady flame, up to the very heavens above where the Affinities, named and unnamed, lie; surely enjoying the spectacle. It was a celebration worth the ages, and then some, better yet than any they had before.

Yet, unsurprisingly, Tsokhizhe was purposefully left out of the festivities. While other guards may have traded posts with one another to each take their turn at the pyre, the dances, or the feast; he was not permitted; despite being the Khoda’s own eldest child. However, he was used to this. His mother, Khoda’nga Kori-Yadeno, approached him with quiet steps at his lone hut—sequestered away from the rest of the clan’s residential huts, or the nobles grand estates; hidden in the overcast of their city’s walls—just before dawn had risen that morning. Her face was hardened, yet there was no other expression he was used to from his mother. When she spoke, her words burned, with quiet disgust barely hidden on her tongue:

“You are to be stationed at the Eastern Gate tonight.”

Tsokhizhe quickly got out of bed, still in his sleep-dress, and knelt at her feet, his head bowed respectfully to the earth. “Yes, Khoda’nga.” He said, devoid of all inflection. It was hard to be hurt by something he already knew was coming. When he was a child and first took watch-duty during this festivity, he hadn’t understood why he was not allowed to join. But now, he knew, even if no one said. He knew it in the way that his parents avoided him, the way other Kori and Dori avoided him, how even those of the diminutive gender would not meet his eye when he walked past. Every meal he took alone, hunted by his own hand. Every mission he braved alone, only speaking to his father for duty and his mother for instruction; never an affectionate word or hand given to him. These sins he bore, and wore, not with pride but obligation. 

“Kori-Tsokhizhemasonen, do not disobey me.” His mother scolded. Even his name: She Who Smites The Sun, spoke of this great transgression of his: his very birth, under the most evil of all nights, and that omen of misfortune would forever follow him, to the rest of his days.

“You are to be alone and you are to stay away from the festivities. Do you understand this?” 

“Yes, Khoda’nga.” If Tsokhizhe could bow his head lower, he would. He could feel his mother’s steely gaze lie upon his back for a moment too long, then she finally turned on her bare heel, whisking herself away towards the main grounds. Still, out of a long borne habit, Tsokhizhe stayed that way, waiting until he no longer heard the pad of her feet against the ground before he allowed himself rise. 

The Eastern Gate was the furthest away from the festivities of the night. It is why, whenever they were short on guards, he was stationed here. Even the guards did not meet his eyes, and instead kept their gazes turned away towards their mounts, or their sword hands that always rested just so on their scabbards when he passed. They were ready to strike him down at a moment’s notice, he knew. But he did not bow his head in defeat, nor shame. He only bowed to his Khoda, and father, Dori-Darada’ngomakhadzonki—Chief, He Who is Master of Mounts; his mother, Khoda’nga Kori-Yadenomanyozhango—Chieftess, She Who Guards The Store; to his younger sister if their parents bore witness to an interaction; Kori-Chazomakenan’nyopinyi—She Who Breaks the Dying Season’s Song; and most of all to the power of the Affinities named, and unnamed, who lorded above all. He may be cursed, and he was not proud, but Tsokhizhe knew better than to show weakness. If his mother taught him anything, it was to bear your sins for they define you and it is folly to expect another to bear that burden in your stead.

Still, watch duty was Tsokhizhe’s least favorite occupation. He would rather be hunting—out in the far off fields away from the reminders of his misdeed and the ire of his betters. But kenan’nyo had fully set in now—the nights were long, and the frost had begun to pepper the ground with its kisses of chill. The store was full and there was no need to go out—only perhaps, for water runs. But even that had been circumvented by the canal that as of last year had been finally completed. Now, freshwater flowed through their ancestral streets, confining Tsokhizhe more and more to these walls of clay and mortar.

Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice the shadowy figure coming to approach him until a friendly hand tapped his shoulder. Tsokhizhe was long practiced in never startling—and he was thankful he hadn’t—the moment he recognized Yanyado, the shorter man was immediately throwing his arms around Tsokhizhe in a hug, a joyous cry of  “Sonenko!” leaving his lips. The momentary discomfort at the ko at the end of the fond name, did not stop Tsokhizhe from putting his arms around Yanyado in turn.

Yanyado—or, Yanyanagape’nyodo, Moon Crier— was his closest friend—only friend. And despite their friendship spanning for nearly two decades, Tsokhizhe still had never become accustomed to the affection that his friend handed out in doles. Yanyado was the only one who never besmirched him. Why Tsokhizhe never knew. But even if they were from totally different worlds—with Tsokhizhe being a Kori, and Yanyado being of a lower gender, nevermind the omen that hung about Tsokhizhe like a frightful, impenetrable cloak; he never seemed to mind this. Like the sun, Sonen, and the moon, Yanya, the two of them were inseparable and complementary, and despite his mother’s warning from this dawn, Tsokhizhe still found some part of himself happy to see him.

“How did you find me here?” Tsokhizhe asked when they pulled apart. 

“Your mother always stations you here when she does not wish for anyone to find you.” Yanyado’s voice was coy. “She is not as subtle as she thinks.” He said so conspiratorially, as though it were a lighthearted and playful secret between friends but instead a lump of basalt lodged itself in Tsokhizhe’s throat; he nodded along. “I see.” 

“Don’t look so sullen!” Yanyado lightly punched his shoulder. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” Tsokhizhe nodded, but he could tell that his expression must still be far away since a frown pulled over his friend’s features. “I know what will cheer you.” From the folds of his brightly colored parka, he pulled out a wrapped cloth. “Take it, take it!” He urged, holding it out to him. Eventually, when Yanyado did not pull his hand back, Tsokhizhe took the proffered parcel. It was warm to the touch, and the sweet smell of freshly cut herbs and flowers, rolled in sweet dough hit his nose. He had not eaten anything since sunrise, after his mother visited him and informed him of his disinvite, he charred one of the rabbits he felled the day before, gnawing on its grisel, then armed himself for the day’s activities—namely, to make himself scarce. His stomach growled, but still he could not bring himself to unwrap the parcel.

Yanyado noticed his hesitation. “I will be upset if you do not eat it. After all the work I put in to make it, I would hope you appreciate it, Sonenko.”

Something that could have been a smile tugged onto Tsokhizhe’s face, and he slowly unwrapped the cloth. “You made this?” Yanyado puffed his chest out, beaming. This made the traces of a smile that tried to bloom fully blossom on Tsokhizhe’s face. “My Yanyado does not know how to cook. Are you sure you aren’t a sopiro?”

Sopiros—fables told by parents to scare their children into behaving. People who denounced the order of things, such as the genders assigned to yokhe’nyo and kenan’nyo, who believed themselves mighty enough to hold even a speck of power that the Affinities wielded. Outsiders, hated by everyone, and shunned from all the Southern Tribes; forced to wander the wilderness unto the end of their days. Even if they warred amongst each other for resources, hunting routes, ancestral cities and land—they all agreed that sopiros were not to be trusted. 

Tsokhizhe himself, perhaps in another life, could’ve been a sopiro. He wondered it when he was small; and he heard snatches of stories around the campfire of those treated just as he. But try as he might, no otherworldly confidence came to him. No sparks of affinity flew from his fingertips or burned strong in his chest. And after the first time he was discovered and was beaten for it—he tried no more. It was then that Tsokhizhe learned that sopiros could not be feared; it was those who feared them who posed the real threat.

“Do you really think a sopiro could be so handsome as I?” Yanyado asked indignantly; but the jest was heard in his light tone. “But furthermore, I have the burns on my hands to prove my labor for you.” Yanyado held his hands out in the far off light of the bonfire, and even further light of yanya and the stars that attended it—there, on his forefinger and his thumb, Tsokhizhe saw the telltale angry welts from a few burns from a hot iron pan.

“Yanyado.” He tsked, but it was fond. “You ought to be more careful. For my sake.” He added when he noticed Yanyado’s mouth open to protest. He tucked the parcel of food underneath his arm to take Yanyado’s hand into his own. There wasn’t much he could do to heal the burns, but he did still rub them between his hands, the cooling of his skin hopefully a balm to heal it. Yanyado smiled—he was always smiling around Tsokhizhe. Tsokhizhe still hadn’t learned what fondness to his friend he held, but it did warm something broken in him. 

“For my sake, my burns will be for nothing if you don’t eat.” Yanyado reminded him. Tsokhizhe gently let go of his friend’s wrist, and finally took a bite from the doughy treat. It melted in his mouth and the taste of lemongrass and chamomile danced along his tongue. He hummed appreciatively, but before Yanyado could say more off in the distance, the songs began to grow louder, as though every voice in their clan were joining as one to cry out to the heavens their thunderous, joyous celebration. They both turned their heads. After a moment of listening, Yanyado’s eyes lit up, recognizing the melody.

“They must be doing the Sano’nyon Ki Manyenya.” Yanyado held out his hand invitingly, the beads of the colorful bracelet around his wrist jangling just as joyfully as the sound. Tsokhizhe… hesitated.

“I… do not know the steps.” He slowly admitted. 

“I know you do!” Yanyado replied. He didn’t wait for an answer and grabbed Tsokhizhe’s hand anyway. The wall was too narrow to do the dance properly, and Tsokhizhe really did mean it when he said he didn’t know it—at least, he didn’t know the ko part; the follow. They bounced together awkwardly trying to find the faint rhythm’s steps, and it was everything Tsokhizhe could do to try and keep with his do’s lead. Their hands were tangled awkwardly together; just as their feet marched arrhythmically in place. Tsokhizhe’s scimitar bounced at his hip and the jangle of the ties and beads of its scabbard just added to the confusion. At last Yanyado gave up and released him with a breathless laugh. 

“You have two left feet, Sonenko! I have not danced the steps that badly since my mother showed me how nearly a decade ago!” 

If his dark skin would allow him to blush, perhaps Tsokhizhe would’ve; but not of embarrassment but shame. The only part of the Rain Dance that he knew was the lead—the do. That is what he taught himself, observing from a closer wall station as a child; when he was yet too young to be fully left alone but still wholly excluded from the festival’s activities. He’d returned to his little far off hut at the end of the night and while all the tribe slept, whisper sang the words that had entranced him all evening until his voice went hoarse:

Ki yin nana ma’sen

I do not talk much

Ranmi renin ke petono’ni sikhona’nyo

But the rhythm knows my desires

Manyenya naro ke, ki’ngi da zhazhana

Watch me dance and I will show you

Nimon da soson da ki’ngi chon

If you leave I will follow

Nimon da kasachi pon ke, ki’ngi zhino dechi soson da

If you tell me to stay, I will never leave you alone

Nimon da sano’nyo ki’ngi yangipan

If you are water then I will drink it

Sano’nyon-ki’chi. Ki’ngi yangipan. Ki’ngi yangipan.

It’s raining. I will drink. I will drink.

“I’m sorry.” Tsokhizhe could hardly find it in himself to make his voice louder than a whisper. Even in his mirth, Yanyado was still attendant to his friend; a frown pulled down over his round, heart-shaped face, and he stepped into Tsokhizhe’s space, pushing his friend’s twisting blue locs away from his eyes.

“Old friend, you have nothing to apologize for!”

“You believed in me, and I failed.” It was childish, how much the thought of failing Yanyado hurt to admit—but Tsokhizhe admitted it anyway because he was not proud. He was honest. But Yanyado wouldn’t have it. He quickly reached for Tsokhizhe’s cheeks, squishing them together until Tsokhizhe tore his golden hazel eyes from the space between their shoes. 

“To not know is to partake in the joy of learning.” Yanyado was always wiser than his youthful face would suggest. He squished Tsokhizhe’s cheeks harder. “And anyway. If you wanted to dance the do part, why did you not tell me?” 

Tsokhizhe felt as naked as the day he was born. “Wh… Why would you assume that?”

“You didn’t deny it, no?” Yanyado smiled cheekily. “And anyway, we kept messing up because you stepped the same ways that I was. I hop right, and you hop right with me. You must know enough of the dance to know do hops right, unless you knew not at all, where perhaps you would only stare at me.” 

“I would not stare.” Tsokhizhe sputtered.

“You stare during every other festival that I have seen!” 

“And when have you seen me during other festivals?” Tsokhizhe countered—a fair question. Now it was Yanyado’s turn to look bashful, but it too seemed borne out of shame rather than embarrassment. 

“I have sought you out, on occasion.”

“Perhaps?” Tsokhizhe asked, and Yanyado nodded, confirming it. “Why have you not approached me until now?”

“Our Khoda—”

“I understand.” Tsokhizhe didn’t want to hear anymore. Tomorrow would still come, and he would face it as he had faced any other day.

“Would you like to try leading me?”

“I would not want you to disgrace yourself.” Tsokhizhe grunted. The music from the pyre had finally died down, and with it, the flames, as their stokers departed, perhaps to the awaiting feast. The warm glow that touched and glimmered on every far off rock and blade of grass outside of their ancestral walls, was now bathed in the serene light of yanya. It was too dark for Tsokhizhe to see Yanyado’s expression.

“You are above me, Kori-Tsokhizhemasonen.” Tsokhizhe winced when Yanyado used his full name—even if it were true. “That I should lead you at all is not fair to you. Ki’ngi chon da.” I follow you.

Tsokhizhe pulled away from his friend, turning his back to both him, and their city. He looked out into the night; willed it to swallow him. “The feast has begun, and I would not wish you to miss your meal.” 

“Just one verse.” Yanyado held out his hands again, palms flat and inviting. But Tsokhizhe did not turn back to his friend; he was not weak. He crossed his arms over his chest until Yanyado finally sighed and began his descent down the wall—back to the rest of the clan, where he belonged. Tsokhizhe belonged here. Guarding him. Them. From those like him, who would expect others to bear their burden.