sleepless-in-southlands

[sleepless-in-southlands]

unfortunately, I will write this fic and I am writing this fic are two very different things

[sleepless-in-southlands]

I lov desert duo grian goodtimeswithscar pls never die

[sleepless-in-southlands]

“i’m a top” “i’m a bottom” okay??? you may slay me and take the enchanter???

[sleepless-in-southlands]

my favorite headcanon for the life series is that its the canonical hermits and friends (as in, their minecraft characters) who all agreed to play this game and that itd be fun and their memories get temp wiped for it so all they experience during life is the Trauma of it and they go back to hermitcraft like ^_^ that was so fun hehe lets do that again!!! and whatever the thing is that causes the weird semi memory wipe thing happens and theyre in life again and its just

[sleepless-in-southlands]

in a lost past, the future grew teeth

Summary: Prophets don't just foresee other people's deaths Notes: Something I wrote for a class and am now dropping off here. Part of the In A Vision universe, but not strictly canon, just an interesting possible take on Luke's own death prophecy

~

When you last wake up, everything will be loud. Savour the peace you have now, if you want, but understand that it’s only peaceful because you don’t know better. It’s only peaceful because, so far, you have associated ‘quiet’ with ‘peace,’ and you don’t yet see the violence that exists in every unheard sound.

It’s okay. You’re figuring it out.

When you last wake up, go to the bathroom, but don’t bother with the toilet, the sink, the bath. Press your cheek to that of your reflection, and stare until your eyes are more pupil than sclera. If you find your mirror lacks a soul, you can place yours there, passed through the gaps of your teeth.

Pull back from the mirror. If it’s fogged from your breath, you did it wrong. Put a hand to your chest. If your lungs still move, you did it wrong. Add a tally to your list of regrets either way.

You’ll have until the phone rings to live, which is all the time in the world, which isn’t very much time at all. If you can’t yet stomach the thought, go back to bed and relive the nightmare of the night before until you remember why that which needs to happen needs to happen.

If there was a way out, don’t you think you would’ve found it already? If there was a way out, and you had found it, do you think you would’ve taken it?

Leave your soul wherever you manage to put it and head to the kitchen. Check your fridge, its food; make sure it’s all ready to rot alongside you, ready to mark the passage of time in a way your body won’t be able to. You won’t want to eat, but you will, if only to distract yourself from the siren song coming from your desk.

The food will taste like dirt. The plate—decaying. Mold under your nails, crawling up your fingers, spiderwebbing across the backs of your hands. You already know where you’re going. You’ll blink and find yourself outside, wood splintering into flesh, the shovel caked in mud. There’ll be a hole in the ground, empty despite your best attempts to fill it.

You’ve already tried this. You can’t bury what you dug up. Yet you’ve tried again. You try again. You’ll try again. Your hands, red painted, carry the guilt you’ve dealt into them, and trying has only made them dirtier. You’ll try to wash them but the sink won’t turn on, your nails will chip, and your blood is too sticky to clean with. Do you understand yet?

When you last wake up, everything will be loud, and you’ll wonder if you’ll even be able to hear the phone ring over the leaves rustling with a verdant fury, the insects crying, the sunlight singing as it cracks open the trees, her footsteps on the edge of your yard. Together, the noises are a scream, and when you scream with them your voice will be swallowed in the sounds and soothed away by the cacophony.

An almost peace, and when the phone rings, it’s an electric hum that will jump across the room to ground itself in your bones.

“Are you ready?”

Are you ready? If the receiver’s already in your hand then you are. The plastic won’t rot, it will shatter, but that’s not your concern. Listen to the voice through the speaker, the wind slamming into the house, the dirt crumbling into your self-made grave, the deer fleeing and the wolves howling and the crows wailing and there—

A knock on your door.

Breathe, if by that point you still can. It won’t matter if you can’t. You’ll drop the phone on instinct, unflinching as it crashes to the ground. When you walk towards her, do so with purpose, with resolve, not blind to your fate but instead embracing it.

Pay attention to the way that, for a single moment, everything tilts towards you. The wood of your house, flimsy in the face of force, knows what it’s like to be chopped down. The animals, knowing you were nothing more than another victim, will prepare to mourn you. The earth, old and timeless, already remembers the way it will hold you.

You will hesitate for a single moment, hand on the doorknob. Do you see now? How beautiful the noise is?

When you last wake up, everything will be loud, and the gunshot will be the most wondrous thing you have ever heard.

[sleepless-in-southlands]

[They want your life]

[10 minute night doodle because I was up for drawing, didn't have enough time for anything else]

[sleepless-in-southlands]

Personally I think that Mumbo would describe himself as a cis man but I also think he has a completely incomprehensible sense of what gender actually is ala the warden Cleo limlife comic

You ask Mumbo what being a man means and he’ll tell you it means grooming your facial hair if you have any, having moderate to severe hay fever, and wearing fuzzy socks on Wednesdays

[sleepless-in-southlands]

I'm sure some of these have already been done before but I got too excited for the next season and made a bunch and still have many more ideas

[sleepless-in-southlands]

You're Telling Me Lies (I'm Telling You Myths)

Ao3

Summary: As a mob boss in Heremita, Scar's life was an inherently dangerous one. Surviving as long as he had required a certain level of risk-awareness, and the ability to make choices that would prioritize his safety as much as they did his power. So as to why he kept ending up spending time with another mob's right-hand, one who he was fairly certain would happily kill him at a moment's notice… well, Scar was still working on rationalizing that. Content: AU - Mob bosses, open-ended; flirting/threatening/who knows, trust issues, myths, flower language, poor communication, the rituals are intricate and right now that's not helping them ok Pairings: Fruity scarian (the plot is that they won't admit it), background also-fruity-but-not-admitting-it grumbo, platonic scar + bdubs Notes: Part six of the Bloody Fruits au

~

“Just buy a second bed.”

“We generally try to avoid staying overnight. A second bed encourages the opposite.”

“It doesn’t seem as though having only one bed is serving as much of a deterrent.” Grian pointed out, glancing at Scar. “Is it a cost issue? I’m sure the South could afford to supply its ally with another bed.”

Scar huffed, feigning insult. “A cost issue? Have you never seen the goods of the Glass Empire?”

“Goods?” Grian echoed questioningly, staring at Scar in a way that meant nothing but, as of late, hadn’t once failed at getting under Scar’s skin in the most maddening of ways.

“Gems and jewels and precious metals? All of exquisite taste and high cost?” Grian’s expression didn’t change, not that Scar truly expected it to. “You’ve been to at least one of my shops before, you know they’re jewelry stores.”

“Rocks don’t interest me much.” Grian said with a shrug, very purposefully adjusting his amethyst tie clip. Scar rolled his eyes.

“Alright then, what does interest you?”

“My work.”

Scar waited for Grian to say something else, chuckling when it became clear he wasn’t going to. “That’s all? Just your work?”

“Were you expecting something else?”

“What about- I don’t know- your employer?”

“Mr. Eris is rather heavily related to my work.”

“You know what I’m referring to.” “I believe what you’re referring to comes from a time where I was… less than rested, and you were nearly dead.” Grian dodged neatly, ever so slightly tilting his head in mock confusion. “So I don’t know if it’s a trustworthy reference.”

Get an inch, lose a mile Scar thought as he sighed, ignoring the smirk Grian technically wasn’t making but was certainly present. “Still. Nothing else?”

“You know my profession. Would you prefer I not give it my full attention?”

“I mean your out-of-work hobbies.” A blank stare. “Oh, I know you know what a hobby is.”

“My hobbies are also work related.” Grian stated with another shrug.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Are you trying to tell me, what, you don’t do anything except work? If it doesn’t have anything to do with being a right-hand, it doesn’t have anything to do with you either?”

Scar’s tone was teasing, non-serious; if Grian wanted to keep his hobbies to himself, Scar wasn’t going to pry, but he was going to poke fun. Grian’s reaction, however, was oddly somber. His face shifted minutely, but instead of scoffing or rolling his eyes, his lips downturned into something that could be read as rueful.

“My job is my priority.” He said flatly, the statement shadowed by a hidden meaning Scar could sense but not make out, before turning away from Scar to organize supplies at the back of the bar.

Frowning, Scar crossed his arms over the bartop. He had been at the End Crystal for about thirty minutes, having originally come to talk to Mumbo only to learn the head of the South was ‘busy.’

(“He’s busy with paperwork at the moment,” Grian had told him, which either meant that Mumbo wasn’t there or Grian was forcing him to rest, because never once had Scar seen Mumbo prioritize paperwork over anything, “but I can pass a message if you want.”)

Scar, whose business wasn’t quite worthy of leaving a message over, had opted to chat with Grian instead. Whether or not Grian would have entertained him in usual circumstances was moot, the right-hand having briefly traded his role as overbearing casino security guard for that of bartender, making it difficult for him to escape Scar. The only bartender employed for that portion of the day shift had called out sick, and since the End Crystal was rarely busy enough in the daylight hours to need more than one, they were short-staffed. The next shift worker wasn’t set to arrive for a few hours, and with no extras on stand-by (they had yet to fill the most recently vacated position, and Scar was starting to doubt they ever would- not for the first time, he considered seeing if he could convince them to let him handle it on their behalf), the options had come down to Grian filling in for a bit or closing the bar during business hours. Apparently, Grian bartending was the lesser evil.

Not that Scar was convinced it was any sort of evil. Grian had mostly been sorting and putting away supplies, a task he carried out with familiar ease even while talking with Scar, and the few drinks he had mixed he had done so with deft and clever movements. It was obvious Grian was experienced with working behind a bar, not that he was going to directly acknowledge that to Scar.

(“You’ve worked as a bartender before?” Scar had asked, watching as Grian flipped a bottle in hand and poured it into a metal shaker, arm rising and lowering gracefully as he did so.

“I have more important things to tend to than our drink selection.” Grian had responded, non-committal, as he lidded the container and began to shake it. The ice within the shaker started audibly cracking right away, slamming against itself and the metal around it, tossed about with the strength of arms built by cracking bones. Scar told himself he wasn’t thinking about that.

“You’re pouring drinks as skillfully as you break fingers.” Scar pointed out, earning an amused eyebrow raise from Grian as he did just that, a dark gold liquid spilling out of the shaker into the tall glass he had put onto the bartop beforehand. “You clearly know what you’re doing.”

“Interested in what I can do with my hands, Mr. Chronos?” Was Grian’s only reply, detached and cheeky, leaving Scar to pretend he was glaring at Grian when he was really watching his fingers flex as he smoothly slid the drink down to the patron that had ordered it.)

Grian had moved back to the counter area by the time Scar reemerged from his thoughts, stacking drink napkins underneath the lip of the bar, a silent indication that Scar could keep talking if he wanted to. Scar grinned at the gesture. Even if Grian was playing a passive role in the conversation at best, and even if he was working the entire time, and even if he was most certainly going to abandon Scar the moment he was no longer working the bar, Grian did want to talk to Scar.

Not that it mattered to Scar whether or not Grian wanted to talk to him. Or, it did, but only because it was important for Scar to be on good terms with all his organizational allies, like he was with Mumbo. But not exactly like with Mumbo, obviously, not that he would necessarily be against- wait-

By his Empire, Scar was starting to sound as bad as Mumbo. 

“No hobbies, and the only job you'll admit to working is this one. You're a difficult man to small talk with, Mr. Penemue.” Scar finally said, using the addressing conventions he usually protested in the same way Grian had shoved all the bar knives into a drawer when Scar sat down- automatically. Even Mumbo was only ‘Mr. Eris’ around other people, and Scar wasn't trying to antagonize Grian into using his name. “What can I ask you?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“I thought we weren't using weak moments against each other.”

Grian chuckled, and Scar took it as adequate compensation for having his own wit turned against him. “Playing fair isn't really in our mission statement.”

“Not even for a friend of the casino?”

“Usually? No. But I suppose I can make an exception, seeing as you’re our only one.” Grian looked up from his counter work, shifting his gaze to Scar. “I’ll answer one reasonable question. ‘Reasonable’ is determined at my discretion. How’s that for small talk?”

“It feels a bit more like one of your casino games.” Scar replied, propping his chin against one of his hands. “Since I’m guessing that asking you what counts as ‘reasonable’ is a quick way to end the chat in your favour.”

That pulled an actual smile out of Grian, as if in delight. “You catch on quick.”

“Like I said, you’re difficult to small talk with. Have to be careful not to miss the opportunities I get.” Scar returned Grian’s smile. Thinking of a question to ask Grian wasn’t hard, and choosing might’ve taken longer if it weren’t for Scar having a particular one that had been pressing into the back of his mind for longer than he felt could be considered normal. “What’s with the name thing?”

“How elegantly put.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Grian acknowledged. “But do you think that’s a reasonable question, Mr. Chronos?”

“You’re the one who decides that, Mr. Penemue.” Scar over-stressed Grian’s name that time, metaphorically gesturing at his point. “But for the record, yes, I do think it’s a reasonable question. I deserve an answer for all the trouble you put me through for it.”

Grian moved to rest his arms on the bar across from Scar, leaning closer to him as he did so, tone amused as he repeated, “Trouble?”

“I’m not the one who’s agreed to answer a question here.”

“No. You make the mistake of doing it for free.” There was an inflection to Grian’s voice that suggested he was teasing Scar. Scar did his very best to not press closer to the counter, to Grian. “But yes, your answer- it’s more respectful to refer to casino guests by their last names, and you know how the End Crystal prides itself on treating its guests as respectfully as possible.”

“Don’t lie, I know you don’t respect me.” Scar joked. “Besides, I don’t come here to empty my wallet. No need to bamboozle me with formalities.”

“You’re still a guest.” Grian said simply, pausing for a moment before adding, “For the sake of business, last names are also more professional. First names can get… personal.”

Silence, for a long minute, as Grian busied himself with refilling a bowl of peanuts and Scar attempted to un-busy himself with watching a mental replay of every time Grian had called him by his first name. He could count the instances on one hand, theoretically quick to run through, but his mind caught on the most recent, layered with thoughts of touch and personal and close.

“That explains me then, but what about Mr. Eris?” Scar asked, pivoting hard into the familiar territory of poking at Grian and Mumbo's relationship. “Hate how I phrase it all you like, I'm not wrong when I say things between you two are certainly personal.”

“Mr. Eris and I are close in a purely professional manner,” Grian lied like clockwork, “and technically that's a second question.”

“It’s a subquestion expanding on my original question, it’s allowed.” Scar argued, like it mattered, like they were in some sort of negotiations, like Grian wouldn’t just stop playing their little game the second he felt like it.

“It’s cheating.”

“So now we’re playing fair?”

Another smile. “Of course not.”

“Then please, Mr. Penemue, answer the subquestion.”

“If I must.” Grian’s attempt at sounding put out was unsuccessful in face of the fact that Grian never said anything he didn’t want to, never disclosed anything without first carefully thinking it through. Case in point: the slight pause in consideration before he spoke again, hidden behind more bar busywork. “You are aware that me and Mr. Eris used to… work elsewhere, I believe.”

Mumbo, panicked, fingers digging into his own chest, convinced old rivals had poisoned him; Grian, staring at Scar’s neck, talking about the right-hand who had tried to kill him, as if he knew something Scar hadn’t said. “I am, yes.”

“This line of work can follow you anywhere,” Grian said casually, conversationally, and if Scar wasn’t watching him so closely he might’ve missed the quick way Grian’s eyes darted around them, “can you blame us for being careful?”

“Never.” Scar replied, a little too quickly if the raise of Grian’s eyebrows was anything to go by. Scar cleared his throat, producing another ‘subquestion’ to distract Grian with. “Have you ever considered other options? Aliases, codenames, those sorts of things?”

“We like our names,” Grian answered as he tidied the already more-than-neat bar space, “and codenames aren’t great for professional interactions.”

“So you have codenames that you only use in non-professional circumstances?” Scar asked with a smirk. “Y’know, I think they have a different term for those. Starts with a ‘p,’ ends with an ‘etnames-’”

“Purely professional, Mr. Chronos.” Grian repeated, tone flat but not necessarily annoyed. “And I never said we use codenames, merely that they would be impractical for business purposes if we did.”

Scar huffed a laugh. “I take it you won’t be telling me whether or not you two do use codenames?”

“Observant as ever.”

“I try.” Scar quipped back, conversation briefly lapsing past that. Scar had already passed his allotted small-talk-questions quota, but Grian had yet to stop talking to him, and the End Crystal’s atmosphere had Scar wanting to push his luck. “I’m also guessing you won’t tell me if you have codenames with anyone else?”

“If you have a point you want to make, you may as well get right to it.” Grian replied, sounding curious despite the way he cut Scar’s dramatics to the quick.

“The point is maybe we should have codenames. For each other. Since that’s the only time, I imagine, I’ll ever get to know any of yours.”

Grian cocked his head to the side. “Not a minute ago you were implying something very… personal about codenames. Unsubtly, I might add.”

“Codewords, then.” Scar switched to, most certainly not blushing, because he refused to keep allowing his teasing to be turned back on him more effectively than he himself had employed it. “A type of confirmation without being so ‘personal.’ Come on, throw a dog a bone.”

Grian didn’t immediately respond, not that Scar expected him to. Scar had decided the most likely outcome for his conversational gamble was Grian taking his time to prepare a truly devastating remark, one that would then force Scar to flee the casino and make the difficult decision between going back to his base of operations and being ridiculed by Bdubs, or getting shot in enemy territory.

Before Scar could get too deep into thinking through which situation he’d be in more trouble over, Grian picked up a rag, using the excuse of wiping down the bar to lean close to Scar, speaking quietly. “And what would you propose our codewords be?”

“Hmm… let me think…” Scar did his best to sound like he was drawing out his answer on purpose, and not because he didn’t expect to make it that far, “They should share a theme, something easy to bring up in everyday conversation.”

“You’ve really thought this through.” Grian commented, making it clear that he knew Scar was making it up as he went. “Shall we choose each other’s words, then? So we don’t forget them.”

“That’s a great idea. Care to go first?”

“You insult the End Crystal’s hospitality. I insist you pick first.”

“I doubt ‘hospitality’ has anything to do with it.” Scar mumbled, ignoring the professional smile Grian flashed in response and casting his gaze around his immediate surroundings, looking for ideas.

Anything relating to casinos and gambling would be too obvious, so most of the scenery was out from the start. Liquor wouldn’t be quite as conspicuous, but Scar didn’t care for the idea of assigning Grian a cocktail as his codeword. It couldn’t be anything as common as ‘chair’ or ‘floor’ either; the codeword couldn’t be so unordinary as to make it jarring to bring up, but if it was too ordinary, it would be of no use.

Scar twisted in his seat, looking away from Grian. The space adjacent to the bar was filled with a cluster of tall tables, giving patrons a place to sip their drinks and chat in between games. The centerpiece of each table was a tall golden vase holding an elegant, colourful bouquet- tasteful eye candy that was nice to look at without distracting from the End Crystal’s more tempting splendors. Oh, yes, that would do nicely.

Without a word, Scar slipped off his barstool, walked to the nearest empty table, and picked up the vase on top of it. Turning back towards the bar, he found Grian watching him, having paused his work to focus on Scar with an intensity others would likely be concerned by. Scar took it in literal stride, returning to his seat and setting the vase down on the bar between them, pushed enough to the side it didn’t block their vision.

“Flowers?” Grian asked neutrally, still watching as Scar ran his fingers through the bunch. After a few seconds, Scar stopped, fingers curling around the stem of one flower in particular, swiftly pulling it out from the rest of the bouquet.

Taking advantage of the fact that Grian was still leaning over the bar, Scar tilted forward, reaching out and tucking the purple sprig behind Grian’s ear. “Lilac.” Scar corrected, settling back in his seat and admiring the way the flowers seemed to curve around Grian’s head like a half-crown. “How’s that for a word?”

Once again, there was no immediate response from Grian, but the silence came with the uncomfortable fact that Scar hadn’t expected it. He had put a flower in Grian’s hair, for End’s sake, he had expected- again- to be ruthlessly yet efficiently quipped out of existence, or perhaps even get his wrist broken as punishment for putting it so near to Grian.

(A voice that sounded unfortunately similar to Bdubs in the back of his mind asked why, then, did you even put the flower behind his ear in the first place? Technically unable to lie to himself, but certainly willing to try, Scar put the thought aside for later consideration.)

Instead, however, Grian wasn’t doing anything, acting almost as though he had been frozen in place. His expression was the one he wore most commonly around the End Crystal, professional but meaningless, like he wasn’t quite sure how to react and had ended up on a default.

“Mr. Penemue?” Scar said, tentatively, as the silence stretched. Without knowing what was wrong, Scar didn’t know what- if anything- he could do to help, outside of calling Mumbo if Grian proved to be truly unresponsive.

Thankfully, at the prompting of his name, Grian blinked and narrowed his eyes, expression shaping into one of (oddly mild) scrutiny. “You don’t know, do you?”

“I- what?”

Another moment of Grian staring before he closed his eyes, letting out a huff that could have been a laugh, could have been a sigh. Not answering Scar, he turned to the vase Scar had brought over, shifting through the flowers for a moment before plucking one out. Stem pressed tight between his fingers, Grian waited until Scar leaned forward, allowing him to tuck the bright red flower behind Scar’s ear in return.

“Poppy.” Grian said simply, looking as though he knew something Scar didn’t, before he echoed, “How’s that for a word?”

Not for the first time, and almost certainly not the last, Scar found himself envious of Grian's ability to adapt to whatever Scar tried to throw at him, skillfully returning any advantage Scar had held over Grian back to the right-hand tenfold. In his defense, his preparations had been for an outright attack, not… whatever this was classified as.

“Stunning.” Scar said after a moment, the pause dragging out a bit too long. He was still leaning forward. Grian hadn’t moved back. Close. “Er, it’s stunning. Great word.”

Grian stepped forward, the edge of the bar digging into his midsection as he tilted towards Scar, as if staggering, as if tipsy, even with his perfectly professional expression and perfectly steady cadence and perfect-

“Is that all you find stunning, poppy?”

“Well, Mr. Penemue, I do believe I’ve taken up far too much of your time already.” Scar quickly pulled back from Grian like a moth who had finally realized the flame was burning it, the flame himself watching on with no significant reaction. “Have a good day, tell Mr. Eris I’m sorry I missed him!”

Grian watched Scar hurry off, waiting until he had made it to the lobby to sigh. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

A moment later, Mumbo was sliding into Scar’s vacated seat, not looking apologetic in the slightest for his wakeful eavesdropping. “I woke up.”

“You could go back to sleep.”

“Later.” Mumbo glanced to the side as one of the casino’s waiters quickly ducked past him, dropping a drink order on the counter in front of Grian before leaving just as swiftly. Despite their standings in Heremita, Grian and Mumbo didn’t usually have to deal with skittish waitstaff, but the still fresh-in-memory firing of the waiter who had tripped had created a tense atmosphere.

(An overreaction, both Grian and Mumbo had acknowledged in retrospect, not that either had been interested in exploring why they had made it. They had their reasons- Mumbo’s boyfriend and business partner, Grian’s boss and organizational partner- but they knew they were excuses.)

Grian picked up the discarded paper, reading the scrawled order and grabbing the first glass he’d need without looking up. Scar hadn't been wrong in his earlier assumption- the road between the Desert and the South had been a long one, and of the jobs Grian had picked up along the way, bartender had been a favourite.

For a few minutes, Mumbo sat quietly as he watched Grian mix drinks. His own favourite occupation.

“You scared him off.”

“I’m trying to make a point.”

“Is it working?”

“Given he keeps coming back?” Grian carelessly dropped an olive garnish into one of the drinks, frowning at it before he adjusted the stick and wiped off the edge of the glass to correct the slight untidiness. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Does he not,” Grian leaned forward as soon as he saw Mumbo’s arm moving, making it easy for the mob boss to brush the backs of his fingers past the petals in Grian’s hair, “lilac?” Grian scoffed. “He picked a random flower.”

“It’s accurate, nonetheless.” Mumbo pulled back, allowing Grian to return to his bartending. He moved his hand to the vase beside them, idly tracing the lip. “Yours wasn’t random.”

“I told you, I’m trying to make a point.”

Mumbo’s fingers stilled. He tilted his head, just enough to be noticeable, and Grian didn’t need to be looking at him to know a thread of melancholy had woven its way into his expression. “And you think that will work?”

Grian shuffled the completed drinks off to the side, other hand already reaching for another glass under the bar, ignoring how red the bases looked wherever his fingers pressed into them. “No. I don’t think it will.”

~

“Lilacs and poppies?” Bdubs looked up from the ledgers he had been reviewing to stare at Scar, confused and slightly apprehensive. “You want information on flowers?”

“Yes.” Scar rocked on his feet, tapping his cane for emphasis and balance. Around him, the back offices were bustling with the activity of counting bills and inspecting gemstones. Most of it was legitimate, and only Scar and Bdubs knew all the parts that weren’t. “They came up in conversation while at the End Crystal, and I was simply curious if you knew of anything… note-worthy regarding them.”

Bdubs eyes flicked to the poppy still nestled in Scar’s hair. Scar knew it was far too late to hide the flower, and trying to remove it in the moment would only draw further attention to it, but it was tempting to see if yanking it out of his hair and flinging it across the room would relieve some of the scrutiny being directed at him.

(It wouldn’t, but it was nice to think it would. Scar did miss the days when Bdubs only had to question his decisions when he got himself shot.)

“Flowers aren’t really my area of expertise.” Bdubs pointed out, as though Scar might have forgotten he was a mob boss’s right-hand and not a florist. “I know there's a myth associated with them, but that’s all.”

“A myth?”

“You don't know it?” Scar shook his head. “Well, it doesn't have much to do with the flowers themselves, but it’s supposed to tell how they came to be.”

“And that would be how, exactly?”

Bdubs frowned at Scar. “You’re aware I have actual work to be doing, right?”

Before Bdubs could finish his sentence, Scar leaned over and scooped up one of the ledgers scattered on his desk, holding it open with one hand. He gave it a quick once-over, identifying it as one of their less-than-honest logbooks before he looked back to Bdubs. “You were saying?”

Bdubs sighed before sitting back in his chair, accepting his defeat. “According to the myth, lilacs and poppies were created in a time where gods still ruled over humanity. Every so often, they’d demand a certain number of tributes to fight each other for the gods’ entertainment. Those who died were considered divine sacrifices, and the victor would honour the gods with their glory. Lilac and Poppy were two tributes in the same fight.”

“Ah.” Scar mumbled as he scanned one of the log pages. He did know some myths, after all, and it didn’t take too large of a leap in logic to guess how the named characters would end up correlating to their modern-day flower equivalents.

“The full myth is more detailed, but Lilac and Poppy team up and end up as the last two tributes. Since there can only be one survivor, Poppy offers to allow Lilac to kill them, but Lilac refuses and insists upon a fair final battle. They get one, but,” Bdubs shrugged, “Lilac still wins, and it’s unclear how hard Poppy actually fought back. Lilac, covered in Poppy’s blood, is declared the victor.”

Scar turned a page in the ledger as normally as he could, trying not to think about the flower in his hair. Or who had given it to him.

“Angry at the gods, however, Lilac kills themself as soon as they’re deemed the winner, throwing themself off the cliff they had killed Poppy on. No surviving victor, no glory for the gods.”

“Seems… extreme.”

“That’s kind of the point.” Bdubs replied, glancing towards his pocket watch to check the time. “Anyways, most of the gods hated both Lilac and Poppy for the disrespect of their final battle, but the god of love was touched by their devotion. To memorialize the tributes, he turned the drops of Poppy’s blood and the broken bones of Lilac’s body into flowers, thus giving the world poppies and lilacs.”

Scar briefly leaned against the edge of Bdubs’s desk, resting his cane against it as well. With his newly freed hand, he grabbed one of the pens Bdubs had out, making a quick mark next to one of the entries. “I take it the flowers are typically… paired together, then?”

“All the time, in romantic dramas for teenagers.” Bdubs said pointedly, reaching over to take the book and pen from Scar in a much nicer manner than he had made his implication. “And yeah, outside of movies too. It’s common to find them in the same bouquets, or in two-packs sold to couples to exchange between each other.”

“...Exchange?”

“The meanings of the flowers mirror their namesakes.” Bdubs explained distractedly, frowning at Scar’s note. Still looking down at the book, he made a gesture off to the side, catching the attention of one of the wandering employees. “Lilacs represent dogged loyalty taken to disastrous extremes, and poppies represent devotion above all else, even to the point of ruin. Although the traditional meanings are more watered down these days…”

Bdubs trailed off as the employee approached, focus shifting away from Scar as he started issuing a set of instructions to them. The timing worked out perfectly for Scar, given he needed at least ten seconds to re-school his expression into something a little less ‘openly shocked and possibly panicking.’

Unknowingly, he had given Grian a couple’s marker of intense loyalty. Knowingly, Grian had given him the matching marker of fatal devotion, right before he leaned directly into Scar’s space and called him by it.

Was it a threat? A reminder of who killed who in the stories? A promise between allies? Or… a promise between enemies?

How close do you keep your enemies?

“With that settled,” Scar forced his attention back towards Bdubs, who had handed off the marked ledger and switched to checking numbers in another, “did you ask Mumbo the South’s election counts? In between… everything else you were talking about?”

“I didn’t get a chance to, Mumbo was out.”

A microsecond too late, Scar realized his mistake, Bdubs’s eyes instantly narrowing at the admission. “You weren’t talking to Mumbo?”

“Uh-”

“Who gave you the flower, Scar?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was the bartender?” Not technically a lie, but Scar was fairly certain that wouldn’t change Bdubs’s level of disappointment upon learning who the bartender was.

“Grian was bartending?”

Scar was right- no change. “They were short-handed. And I was just passing the time to see if Mumbo would show.”

“With flowers.”

“With flowers.” Scar confirmed defeatedly. Scar moved a hand towards the incriminating poppy tucked over his ear, meaning to take it out but hesitating a moment before. The motion ended with his fingers briefly brushing the flower’s petals before dropping back to his side, achieving nothing.

Bdubs rolled his pen between his fingers, a little too fast, before sighing. “You should talk to him. Directly.”

“You and I both know how that would go.”

“It would be a start.”

Scar looked away from Bdubs, throwing his attention onto the busyness of the office instead. “There’s nothing to talk about, Bdubs.”

“That’s not-”

“Grian’s only loyalty is to Mumbo, and as either will tell you, that loyalty is entirely professional in nature.” Scar continued, shooting Bdubs a wry smile after a moment. “I’m nothing but the ally dating his boss.”

Bdubs looked up at Scar carefully, expression neutral- not Grian’s neutral, of stainless steel and polished mirrors; his had life to it, schooled away out of personal consideration rather than business etiquette. “The ally with a poppy in his hair.”

Scar just let his smile grow into a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, picking his cane back up and shifting his weight off of Bdubs’s desk in the same motion. “Speaking of allies, do you still have the resumes and background checks for our most recently interviewed, but not hired, applicants?”

“I do.”

“Did any of them have experience serving drinks?”

“A few.” Bdubs answered, turning his chair to watch as Scar started to walk away. “Want me to get them for you?”

“Yes please!” Scar called over his shoulder, fully confident as he stepped into his office that Bdubs had heard him and would get to his request as soon as he could. He slid into his chair, dropping his cane into its regular spot and readjusting the bright red flower curling around his ear.

He was going to get the South another bartender, like any good ally would do, and he wouldn’t think anything else about Grian, or mythological devotion, or the act of risking a punch just to get close enough to touch.

[sleepless-in-southlands]

ok fic is FINISHED proofreading + formatting will take one to two business days but it is Written, Huzzah, Triumph

[sleepless-in-southlands]

Ma’am sir your majesty, do not worry at all about 8 months to finish the next work even as you said that you finished 75% pretty quick, you can take all the time you need until it something you are ready to publish. For every author that publishes every x amount of time there is a reader that is going HOLY SHIT (FIC) UPDATED?! . I have personally been surprised by authors that have had a four year gap/hiatus, and when I was on the ao3 subreddit today I saw a photo of reader showing an author who updated 2013,2017, then 2024

So please do not despair of the 8 months, your fics are a treat whenever they appear

oh why thank you!! this is a very sweet thing to say, i appreciate it :]

[sleepless-in-southlands]

(guy who hasnt updated his series in 8 months voice) hello bloody fruits readers . guess who might finally have another fic

[sleepless-in-southlands]

i guess this is how warner trys to save faces instead of fixing their movie

[sleepless-in-southlands]

they already made a minecraft movie, it's called third life and it's available for free on youtube in fourteen different povs

[sleepless-in-southlands]

Little Soldiers on the brain sdfjnjfj

[sleepless-in-southlands]

in a sunlit dream, you mistook the light for fire

Ao3

Summary: The continued education of the hermits in just what it means to live with a prophet. Content: Goofs Gafs and Fun Times with a side of one-scene tension; prophecy, minor blood/injury, unreliable narrator (oblivious luke) Pairings: Lucky Jumbo (Luke Carder/Mumbo Jumbo); Luke Carder & Rendog, False Symmetry; Luke Carder & Grian Notes: Part two of In A Vision

~

“Duck.”

Mumbo tilted his head slightly at the sudden command, but didn’t move outside of that, a decision he came to regret approximately five seconds later. Luke chuckled as his boyfriend quickly turned around, half a snowball slowly sliding down the back of his head and the mischief-makers who had put it there already halfway out of Mumbo’s line of sight.

“I warned you.” Luke said amusedly, sipping his bucket of milk as Mumbo grumbled and swatted at the offending lump that was rapidly turning into slush against his neck. His foresight floated on the top of the drink, having changed little between an unalerted and an unsuccessfully alerted Mumbo getting snowball-ed.

“Yes, well,” Mumbo managed to get the majority of the snowball onto the ground, shaking his chilled hand off and spotting the grass with ice chips, “I’m still adjusting to receiving warnings from someone not even looking up.”

“Foresight was in my milk.”

“Of course it was.” Mumbo’s tone was, arguably, much too fond for the statement, shooting Luke a moustache smile as he finished patting his collar and neck dry. He picked up his clay flower pot filled with tea a moment after, returning to his and Luke’s mini outdoor drink date. “As you were saying, before we were interrupted?”

Luke set his bucket down next to his legs. “Have you ever heard of ‘cups?’”

~

“Whoa, dude. Mumbo wasn’t joking about the yellow smoke thing.”

Luke coughed, more of his totally-normal super-safe non-toxic fun-coloured smoke tumbling out of his mouth as he did so, only serving to further unsettle the Octagon founder next to him. A mini vision, something Luke had never experienced in his old world but had newly discovered in Hermitcraft. They were usually within the realm of profit prophets, brought on by purposeful connection to others. In a world where everything and everyone was constantly connected by code, Luke had come to accept they were simply a new part of his reality.

Annoying, but much more acceptable than an average vision, Luke had found. Only a small headache, without passing out or having to speak in tongues? Practically a blessing, compared to falling off his roof and scaring all of Boatem just to inform them of the next Big Eyes Crew prank.

(It wasn’t right to call the situation ‘funny,’ given Luke did feel bad that he had to be Hermitcraft’s introduction to the concept of prophets, but the emergency Boatem meeting called afterwards to determine the necessity of ‘prophet-proofing’ the town was a bit entertaining.)

Luke rubbed at his forehead. “It’s not dangerous.”

“Whatever you say.” Ren said, still sounding somewhat put-off by the smoke. Luke hadn’t collapsed (another point to mini visions), but Ren hovered close to the prophet, clearly anticipating a fall nonetheless. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Luke glanced towards Ren. “Want a prophecy?”

“Uh, sure?”

“The blood of the ocean, salty and cool, the last thing you’ll taste in your tomb of sand.” Luke recited, an echo of his usual ‘prophet voice’ shadowing the words and sending a wave through his forethought, bobbing in the air.

Between his lack of an actual mouth and his sunglasses, it was hard for Luke to read Ren’s exact expression, but Luke had enough experience to make an educated guess.

“That’s- huh.” Admittedly, Ren could certainly be taking it worse. He seemed more confused than concerned. “Will I get a notification when that happens, or do I have to guess?”

Luke blinked. “Guess. Or I can tell you afterwards.”

“Alright.” Ren said with a nod, as if Luke hadn’t just prophesied his death. “Ready to keep going, or do you need to cough up more smoke?”

“I can walk and cough.”

“You say that while looking like you want to fall over.”

“I always look like that.”

Ren laughed. “As long as you’re sure, dude. But if your eyes turn yellow again, I’m making you sit down.”

“I can accept that.”

The mini prophecy ended up coming to fruition a day after Luke delivered it, his communicator buzzing on the floor next to him while he worked on sorting all three of his holding-objects chests. He picked it up, finding the notification had come from the server’s main chat.

>Renthedog suffocated in a wall <RentheDog> OH <RentheDog> it was about a treasure chest <RentheDog> dont worry luke i got it <iskall85> what are you talking about <RentheDog> my super rad death prophecy from luke that just came true <GeminiTay> are death prophecies… good things? <iskall85> they dont sound like they are <RentheDog> someones sound like theyre jealous they havent gotten a luke death prophecy yet

Luke chuckled as he watched the conversation continue, half in amusement and half in bemusement. Arguing over whether or not a death prophecy was a ‘good thing’... only the hermits.

~

“You want to fight me? As practice?” Luke frowned. “I can barely swing a pickaxe, much less a sword.”

“I don't want to fight you for your skill-”

“Ouch.”

“-I want to fight you because Grian said you can use your four eyes to predict attack patterns.” False explained, her own sword already drawn and at ready for the proposed battle.

“Foresight.” Luke corrected, eyeing her sword. His foresight hadn’t yet predicted a swing, but it had already begun wrapping around the blade, which Luke didn’t consider a good sign. “And it’s not really predicting attack patterns, just… how the sword will get swung.”

False adjusted her grip on her weapon’s handle. “Good enough for me!”

“Again, my foresight does not translate to skill.”

“Luke, everyone is unskilled compared to me.” False joked reassuringly, letting her sword tip fall to the ground. It was her ‘dummy sword,’ a wooden one Luke was ninety percent sure she had crafted specifically so as to not spook him with the idea of having to avoid a truly dangerous edge. “Come on, just one go. I want to see what it’s like to fight someone who can see my next move coming.”

“I really don’t think this is going to be as exciting as you’re hoping.” Luke reiterated even as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a diamond sword he had crafted from diamonds lovingly donated to him by Mumbo. “Ah, do you have another wooden sword on you? Or…”

False waved Luke off before he could continue. “It’s alright, I don’t mind a bit of diamond burn.”

Luke’s foresight blurred as it suddenly shot upwards, Luke taking the hint and quickly stepping back to avoid what would have been a fairly harmless bump against his thigh had he stayed put. False’s eyes gleamed with excitement, enthused by the proof of Luke’s foresight as she hefted her sword properly. “And I don’t plan to get hit.”

Recovered from the small shock, Luke huffed a laugh and raised his own sword. “We’ll see about that.”

Fighting False was a lot different from avoiding Grian’s misguided slashes, Luke learned quickly. There was something delightfully thrilling about not only dodging incoming attacks but blocking them as well, his own sword swinging to meet False’s whenever it came for his chest or arm. His lack of skill, regretfully, didn’t magically vanish with the start of the fight, the two of them quickly working their way into somewhat of a stalemate near immediately: False couldn’t get a hit on Luke as long as he was predicting her next-moves, and Luke couldn’t get a hit on False without giving her an opening.

Luke knew that, stamina-wise, he’d run out of energy far faster than False would, meaning he had no chance at winning the spar by dragging it out. If he wanted the victory, he’d have to force the point while he still had the power to do so.

And, well, False had wanted to fight a prophet, hadn’t she?

Taking care not to accidentally spear himself on False’s sword as he did, Luke jerked backwards, a motion that technically avoided False’s swipe but was a bit more dramatic than the upwards slash called for. False raised an eyebrow as she adjusted her strategy, clearly intrigued by Luke’s choice in dodge.

“I’m never going to win if I’m only one step ahead of you.” Luke said in answer to the unasked question, dodging the next slash with a much too elaborate spin out of the way. “Two or three steps, on the other hand…”

Understanding flashed in False’s eyes, followed by newfound determination. Luke just grinned. It was a tactic he had used before, in card battles played against supposed masters who wanted the added challenge that came with a prophet for an opponent. Luke didn’t have any true control over his foresight, and in this fight specifically he was using it more as a visual guide than an instruction manual, but his competitors didn’t need to know that. The more they got inside their own heads, trying to plan their future moves by the dozen to evade Luke, the easier it became for Luke to get them in the present.

Case in point: False swung her sword low, likely the beginning of a series of moves that would have led into a beautifully crushing defeat for Luke had it been allowed to play out. Instead, in the moment, Luke took the opening it presented him to swing for her chest, shoving her back with the side of it rather than properly slashing.

Unprepared, False stumbled backwards, falling onto her backside when Luke stole her previous move and aimed for her ankles. Deciding that was as close to a ‘defeat’ as Luke felt he needed to get, Luke took a step away from her and planted the tip of his sword in the dirt next to him.

“Point to the prophet.” Luke joked as he watched False prop herself up on her forearms, looking surprised. Not that Luke could hold it against her- he has used an old card game trick in a sword fight. He had figured his chances of getting skewered were at least three times that of pulling it off.

Not that False needed to know that.

“And a point well earned.” False responded, pushing herself up and onto her feet with a grin. “Grian didn’t say anything about you being able to see that much into the future.”

“Yeah, well…” Luke glanced to the side, slightly abashed, “fun fact about prophets: we are capable of lying.”

“...It was a bluff?”

Luke turned back towards False, whose grin had only grown. “You seem oddly delighted by that.”

“You’ve been holding out on me, Luke!” False raised her sword once more, Luke mirroring the action reflexively. “Alright, best out of three.”

“I hope you know that was my one and only trick,” Luke said, watching his foresight sway with False’s sword, “and therefore my one and only victory.”

“I’m not falling for that twice.” False replied, showcasing a newfound confidence in Luke’s nonexistence skills that he did appreciate, even if it did mean he was once again getting a sword brandished in his face. “Again!”

As predicted, Luke lost the following matches, foresight and trickery only able to do so much against genuine skill, but that was alright. It wasn’t anything like the card games he missed most from his old world, but Luke appreciated having another type of competition to throw himself into, no matter how terrible he was at it.

And it was still safer than the last card game he had played.

~

“Duck.”

Luke threw out the warning idly, aware there was a good chance it would receive the same response it had when given to Mumbo- a moment of confused contemplation that would render the heads-up functionally null and void. The skeleton about to shoot Grian, after all, was behind Luke, who had been distracted by reading his foresight written in only the dark spots on the nearest birch tree. A non-prophet wouldn’t have any chance to warn for it, and Hermitcraft was still adjusting to Luke.

Luke kept his eyes towards the tree, watching as his foresight scrambled to rearrange itself after his warning. Instead of returning to its usual scrolling-sentences structure, however, the letters condensed into two large, caution-tape yellow words: LOOK OUT.

Look out?

Suddenly, a pain through the back of his shoulder. Luke gasped, more out of surprise than agony, one hand going to cover the spot as he swiveled hard to look behind him.

There, he found Grian drawing his sword as he rose from a crouched position, shooting Luke a look as he went to take out the skeleton Luke had both seen coming and completely missed. Luke carefully slotted his fingers around the arrow sticking out of his arm, blood already staining his shirt as he watched Grian make quick work of the skeleton.

Grian… actually ducked.

Skeleton defeated, Grian put his sword away before returning to Luke, careful to leave at least a block and a half of space between them as he came to a stop. He had kept his distance since the debacle that was Luke’s reveal as a prophet, Luke had noticed. Luke didn’t try to press him about it; he wouldn’t want to get too close to the guy who had torn into the pure essence of his being either.

“You tell me to duck, but you don’t do so yourself?” Grian questioned, eyes looking amused.

“I… didn’t think you would.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Moment of confusion.” Luke half-answered, shifting his grip on his injury. “Most people don’t trust prophets on the drop of a hat.”

“And I don’t want to get shot when it can be avoided.” Grian gave by way of response, the throw-away comment concealing an emotion Luke couldn’t quite catch before it was gone and Grian was changing topics. “Do you have a golden carrot on you?”

“I do.”

“...Are you going to get it?”

Luke rolled his shoulder, ignoring the twinge of pain generated by the motion. He knew the arrow would eventually ‘despawn,’ as Mumbo had phrased it, given enough time, but he had known too many horror stories of flesh healing around foreign bodies in his old world for him to feel entirely comfortable doing it on purpose. “In a second?”

Grian sighed, an action Luke had yet to make peace with, given he wasn’t entirely certain Grian needed to- or did, or could- breathe. “Do you want to take the arrow out?”

“I was planning on waiting for it to disappear on its own.”

“Your shirt’s going to be the same colour as mine if you wait that long.” Grian pointed out, reminding Luke of the unfortunate reality of his blood. Luke had tried talking to Xisuma about getting his ‘blood mod’ removed, only for the admin to find out that Luke’s code was a mess of an enigma; indecipherable and untouchable. It was a small mercy, at least, that the blood went away at about the same rate that arrows did, once the originating wound was closed.

“Good point.” Luke acknowledged, suppressing a wince as he gave the arrow still lodged in his arm an experimental tug. “Okay, on the count of three- one, two-”

“Do you want help?”

Luke paused in his bad-idea speedrun. “Hm?”

“Mumbo prefers taking out the arrows first, too, so I’ve got practice.” Grian crossed his arms in hesitation. “If you want my help, that is.”

Luke considered the offer. Letting someone who knew what they were doing take the arrow out was tempting, given his plan had just been to rip it out and hope it didn’t hurt too badly, but he didn’t want to make Grian uncomfortable with the proximity it would require. “Only if you don’t mind.”

“Wouldn’t offer if I did.” A pause. “Do you mind?”

“Why would I mind? You’re doing me a favour.” Luke carefully let go of the arrow as he spoke, frowning at the blood dripping off the side of his hand as he held in front of himself. “A messy favour, at that.”

“It’s alright.” Grian gestured with a wave. “Can you turn around?”

Luke did as requested, trying not to jostle his shoulder too much as he did so. His foresight was no longer decorating the birch tree beside him, having seemingly vanished after its attempted warning, but Luke could still track the quiet yet audible sound of Grian’s footsteps as he came to stand directly behind Luke. He placed a hand on Luke’s upper arm, grip oddly cautious, followed by a slight shock of pain that Luke presumed came from Grian grasping the arrow.

“Ready?”

“Go for it.”

A wiggling pain, a moment of adjustment, and then the arrow was out of Luke’s shoulder, Grian moving fast to minimize the discomfort from the action. Luke’s whole arm instinctively tensed, stinging with the action, and for half a millisecond Luke could’ve sworn he felt Grian give his arm a squeeze, as if in reassurance, as if in comfort.

And then the second passed, Grian letting go of Luke and taking a step back behind him. Luke turned to face him once more, fishing a golden carrot out of his pocket with his blood-free hand at the same time. He took a large bite off the end of it while Grian discarded the freed arrow, reveling in the near-immediate relief the expensive vegetable brought with it.

“All done.” Grian shook off the hand he had used to pull out the arrow, crimson drops hitting the grass next to them. “Ready to keep going?”

“Yeah.” Luke kept munching in his carrot as they began walking once more, shooting a glance at Grian's hand. “Do you want to wipe off your hand at all? I think I have some wool on me.”

“It's alright, it'll despawn soon enough on its own.”

“You’re sure?”

“Completely.”

Luke nodded, accepting the answer. Silence descended upon the two as they continued on, Grian’s eyes forward while Luke’s kept straying back to the side, watching his own blood paint a dotted line a block and a half away from him.

[sleepless-in-southlands]

a love letter to qsmp.

welcome to the qsmp // “gift to both my communities” - quackity announces his own bilingual minecraft server called qsmp by shreyan mukherjee // quackity opens his new smp - qsmp twitch stream // quackity on twitter // screenshots from qsmp egg wiki pages, quackity on twitter, philza on twitter, and slimecicle avenges his minecraft child (qsmp) twitch stream // quackity welcomes brazilian creators to the qsmp 🇧🇷 twitch stream // quackity welcomes french creators to the qsmp 🇫🇷 twitch stream // @mikaikaika // festa junina qsmp wiki page // screenshots from cellbit & roier wedding qsmp wiki page and tumblr // @shikai-the-storyteller // quackity welcomes new creators to the qsmp twitch stream // @majickth // @kadextra // screenshots from 4th of july, welcome carre!, and mexico’s independence day qsmp wiki pages and tumblr // @bloodyteeth-png // quackity on twitter, cellbit on instagram, quackity on twitter, slimecicle on instagram // screenshots from PARANORMAL ORDER: QUARENTENA - PART 2 (FINAL) twitch stream, etoiles on twitter, missa on instagram, bagi on instagram, cellbit on instagram, tubbo and cellbit on twitter, and tumblr // quackity on instagram // screenshot from 2/11/24 (reposted here) // screenshot from 2/11/24 (reposted here) // @royalarchivist // screenshot from 2/17/24 (reposted here) // quackity on instagram // quackity on twitter // screenshot from 3/16/24 (reposted here) // en - a letter from pomme // screenshots from qsmp korea on twitter, former or current admins (shade, artea, @.dandelionryans [admin of sunny]) on twitter, en - a letter from pomme, and tumblr // @kadextra // art by @sweevanna, @ivelte, @brunmary, @din0lover, @milenalovememe, @anartisticdreamer0, @fghniki, and @mailb0xbunii // @ramons-elevator // screenshots from 3/22/24 (reposted here) // quackity notifications (@.quackitybell) on twitter // @lionheartedmusings