#all implied or referenced

[fortheloveofexy]

My second @aftg-mixtape submission, this time for @lacklusterlion! The song they requested was Be Nice To Me by The Front Bottoms, which just happens to be one of my favorite songs of all time :)

I hope you like it Leo!

[whumpiary]

content warnings: abuse cycles, grooming, referenced noncon, referenced drugging, general dubcon vibes

-

Cass sits in the front seat with his head against the car window, hands tucked into the navy woolen sweater Christopher dressed him in this morning, watching droplets run long and silver along the glass. He has his feet tucked up, knees held to chest and, for once, Christopher doesn't say anything about keeping his shoes off the leather seats.

It’s grey outside. And cold. The heater blows soft and gentle on his face and the condensation keeps building on the glass. They’ve passed the rain now, though. Driven above it, maybe. They’d been on a steady, uphill climb for some time now, and they’d passed through fog a while back.

He doesn’t know where they’re going. He doesn’t know how far they’re driving or when they're heading back. He can’t remember if he saw anyone pack bags into the car. But that doesn’t mean anything either. It wouldn’t be the first time he thought they were going on a day trip and then they were gone for a week, two, three.

He can’t bring himself to fucking care today. He’s too angry and too tired and his body is aching too much.

Nat King Cole plays low through the speakers, the only other sound between them besides the car’s low hum. Christopher tried making conversation when they first started driving, attempting to stoke his boy into small talk and light hearted jokes. But silence is about the last line of protest Cass has to hold at the moment. So he holds it. And ten minutes into the drive, the music went on.

He’s glad, at least, for quiet. He’s glad the car is warm. The clothes he’s been dressed in are casual and comfortable for once. And if he sits very still and the road stays smooth, his body doesn’t even hurt that much. He’ll take the small wins. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if Christopher tried to put him in a shirt and tie today. Thrown a fit, probably. 

Cass is focussed on watching a neck and neck race between two particularly tenacious rivulets when Christopher pulls into a gravel car park, turning the engine off. “Here we are.”

To call it a car park is generous. It’s more of a worn-down patch off the side of the road, loosely bordered with the sawn-off trunks of some old gums. Cass' eyes slide to Christopher, making no move to unbuckle, “Where? The side of the road?”

Christopher sighs, clearly tired of the attitude, but not annoyed enough to rise to it. “We’re going for a walk. Out you get.”

Cass looks out the window as Christopher steps out of the car. He can see a worn down path through the trees, low ferns and bush scrub giving away to yellowed dirt. Christopher can’t actually be fucking serious. A bush hike? When walking ten steps makes him ache?

By the time Christopher opens his door for him, he’s tucked himself even more tightly into the passenger seat.

“Out you get, darling.”

Cass stares at his hands, picking at the dead skin around his finger nails, “Get fucked.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m not going for a walk with you.”

“I have something I want to show you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t be silly. We’ve driven all this way-”

“You’ve driven all this way. I’ve just sat where you put me.”

There's another tired sigh, “Get out of the car, Cassius.”

“No.”

The sounds of the bush fill up the quiet that follows. Slender leaves brushing against each other on thin branches. The call and squawk of a flock of galahs. Fairy wrens darting in the scrub. The constant pitch of a bellbird somewhere in the distance.

Christopher sighs a final time. “Fine.”

The car door closes sharply, cutting the sound of the world off with it. The boot opens. Then it closes. And then, in the reflection of the rear view mirror, Cass watches as Christopher walks away from the car, down the worn-down path, a picnic basket in his hand and a bag slung over his shoulder. Cass keeps watching, waiting for him to stop and call over his shoulder. And then waiting for him to come back. But he just disappears into the bush without looking back.

Everything feels more silent without him there. Like the car has its own atmosphere. He can’t hear the trees or the wind or the birds. He can see the galahs, pink against the eucalyptus. But the whole world is muted. Excised by tinted glass. His ears start to ring with the quiet of it all. And he sighs just to hear his breath. He shifts in his seat just to hear the rustle of fabric. The movement shoots pain through him that makes him wince. And reminds him why he's been so pissed off in the first place.

One minute Christopher had been beside him at the party, laughter bubbling, hand on his waist like usual. The next he’d been left alone in a room with a dozen strangers, a bit of rope, and far too much fucking booze.

He still doesn’t know where Christopher had gone in the hours in between. Just that they’d left for the party right after dinner. That he'd been given a pill in the car on the way there. That someone, at some point, thought it would be funny to have a competition to make him scream the loudest.

By the time they were coming home, he had an ache right the way through him, blank spots in his memory, and the sun was rising over the trees.

And everything just felt horrible. And he felt dirty and used and awful.

Has all week since.

Cass tilts his head back and looks through the windscreen, up the road that winds up the hills and around a corner into more scrub. Were there houses up here? Maybe. It looked like a truck road, more than anything. There for carting cargo more than people.

Still, though. He could get out. Try to walk it. Find someone. Hitchhike. Run away.

He could be gone before Christopher even knows he's missing. He could be over the state line before nightfall. He could slip away. Never go back. Find someone else's bed to warm. Some other place to stay. Some other person to be. No Cassius Drake, no brother to think about, no record to work off. Just another stranger on the street.

He watches as a white ute approaches up the curving road, bigger and bigger the closer it gets. He could get out. He could flag them down. It gets bigger and bigger. Closer and closer. He could tell them he broke down. Needs a lift. They wouldn't ask any questions.

The car gets bigger, bigger, bigger on the horizon as it approaches. Bigger, bigger, bigger… and then it passes by and around the corner and he can't see it anymore. Cass looks back to the galahs. And then he closes his eyes. He's not going anywhere. Christopher knew that when he left.

The better part of half an hour passes before he sees Christopher reappear on the beaten down track. He watches him approach in the rearview mirror. Bigger, bigger, bigger.

Cass’ only movement is to shift his eyes to stare forward out the windshield, hands curled tight around his seatbelt as Christopher approaches. He braces for a fight. But the door opens and Christopher doesn't say a word. He reaches down and over, and Cass barely has time to process what he's doing before his seatbelt is being unclicked and he's being scooped up and out of the car, door shut with the swing of Christopher's foot behind them.

"Hey."

Christopher doesn't say anything, or even really acknowledge that Cass has spoken. He readjusts him slightly to have a better hold and keeps walking, back down the same path he'd disappeared down earlier. It takes Cass a minute or two to process properly what's happening. It's so far from what he expected Christopher to do he feels disoriented by it.

"I didn't ask to be carried."

"Tell me to put you down," Christopher replies calmly, still walking. “And I will.”

For a moment, Cass chews his cheek. Even if Christopher refused. It'd be as easy as naming him. It would always be as easy as naming him. But he doesn't. He tucks in close, head against Christopher's chest, hand curling in his shirt, and lets himself be carried.

They walk in silence for a little while, up a slope and down again, across a fence line that declares private property, down through denser bush. Cass eyes the swaying trees and the set line of Christopher’s jaw intermittently as they go. Occasionally a bird calls overhead. Occasionally the wind picks up. Aside from that, it’s as silent between them as the car ride had been.

He notices the break in the tree line first, sky a little more visible as the gums open out into a wider sprawl. He adjusts his grip around Christopher’s neck and looks down to see the scrub giving way to rock, tightly packed sand, and a small, still body of water.

Christopher walks them to where he’s set up the picnic under a tree on the banks and sets Cass down on it. The blanket is already splayed out, the basket unpacked: cheese, wine, a neatly wrapped lunch. There’s even a little thermos of something.

Cass is unmoved by it. Or he tries to be, arms wrapped around himself in silent, moody protest. Hell of a way to go for a picnic lunch. The view isn’t even that good.

Apart from the little dam thing maybe. The water's prettier than he wants to admit. Strikingly blue. So blue it almost doesn’t look real.

Christopher gives the elbow of his sweater a brief tug, before starting to take off his own cable knit cardigan, “Strip, darling.”

Cass looks at him with complete incredulity and scoffs a laugh, bitter and angry. A fuck in the bush is it? “Oh fuck off.”

Christopher sighs, folding his cardigan and laying it down on the picnic blanket, before moving to take off his watch, “I don’t want to fight, Cassius. Just strip.”

He kicks a stone and it skitters to a stop before it can make it to the water. “Fucking make me-”

“Cassius.” Christopher’s voice is stern enough to cut Cass off, head jerking up to look at him. He almost never yells. And it always strikes Cass through with as much fear as the sharp snap of leather.

But Christopher looks more tired than angry. And then he sighs again, hands palm up and half pleading. “I don’t want to fight. This is meant to be a nice thing. Just let it be a nice thing.”

Cass stares at him for a few beats. He considers refusing. He considers ruining the whole fucking day. He considers protesting, arguing, throwing insults. Making Christopher angry enough to slam his head against the rocks over and over until he stains that pretty little lake red.

But Christopher is tired. And if he’s honest, he is too. 

They haven’t fucked since Saturday. And they haven’t really spoken either. The silent treatment is as exhausting to give as it is to get, it turns out. If nothing else, it’s achingly lonely. He doesn’t know how Christopher stands it.

And right now, when Cass reaches out… all Christopher seems to want right now is just a truly nice day. A rest. A glass of wine. A reset. It’s hard not to give in to that.

Cass strips the jumper, dropping it in the sand at his feet, and then kicks off his shoes, his socks, the soft drawstring pants. The air is cold enough on its own but the wind properly chills him, his skin pricking with goosebumps. He wraps his arms back around himself, looking back to Christopher, half undressed himself and dusting sand and dirt from Cassius’ clothing before re-folding it on the picnic blanket.

Christopher nods to the water, “In you get.”

Cass stares at him. “It’s fucking freezing.”

“Mmhmm,” Christopher agrees. And then he smiles gently, almost playful, and nods again to the water. “In you get.”

Cass frowns, contemplating arguing for a moment or two before relenting, approaching the water’s edge like someone might an angry snake. The water is so still and so blue. Almost milky, even. It barely looks natural. He looks back over his shoulder to Christopher, who is watching him with a mild smile as he undoes his own belt. “Go on, darling.”

He takes a few more steps forward, brings his foot into to the water and-

He flinches back, looking over his shoulder with wide eyes, “...It’s warm.”

Christopher’s smile widens, and he nods. “Hot springs.”

Cass looks back to the water, fascinated. He brings his foot back to the surface, dragging his toe through the water, and then stepping in. One foot. And then the next. It’s warm as bath water.

“Is it real?”

Christopher exhales a laugh, “You’re standing in it, my love. What do you think?”

“No, I mean like… did they make it? Or is it-”

“Oh, I see,” Christopher says. “It’s natural, yes. As far as the story goes, anyway. A friend of mine owns the property. The family stumbled across it a decade or two ago. They thought about commercialising it for a while before deciding it was more special to keep it private. Their own little family sanctuary. You and I are two of about a dozen people in the whole world who knows it exists.”

Cass barely takes in the story. He’s sure it’s meant to sound impressive or interesting but frankly how the fuck is he meant to give a shit when he’s standing in something this beautiful? This unreal?

It's so, so blue. He wades into the water, over ankles, up his shins, to his knees, before looking back again to Christopher, who’s watching him with fondness. He gestures to the water, “Can I…?”

It earns him a smile, “Of course, darling.”

He dives under, a shallow skim under the surface. And when he opens his eyes the water is clear enough that he can see weak winter sunlight dappling the stones below. It’s so weird. It’s so weird and so cool and so nice. It’s like a fucking magic swimming pool, carved into the middle of the bush.

He's always loved swimming. Always, always, always. The weightlessness and the water around him. The movement and the tide. It washes him clean in a way nothing else does. Makes his body feel realer than anything other than sex. It's so easy to forget until he's in the water again.

He’d grown up by the beach. And the worst part of it was always the icy cold. And the worst part of a pool was the smell. And this place had neither. Just peace and water and eucalyptus and warmth. It’s like the rest of the whole world has stopped. Like this place erupted from the earth just for him. Just to hold him.

It soothes the ache in his body and the twist in his chest and when he emerges again from the water, for the first time all week -- all fucking week -- he feels like he can breathe.

He pushes wet curls back from his face to find Christopher seated on a towel laid out on the rocks, one foot trailing in the water, smiling soft as he watches him, “Nice?”

Cass relaxes onto his back to float and drags his fingers through the water —  warm, warm water — and laughs for the first time since the party, “This is fucking insane.”

Christopher laughs too, “Insane good?”

“This is a spa in the middle of the bush.”

“I suppose it is.”

Cass holds his gaze for a moment, feeling the thrum of satisfaction coming off of him. This is all he wanted, wasn't it? All he wanted was to see Cass enjoy this. He dares to give him a smile, “You gonna join me?”

“I might in a minute,” Christopher says. “I need a rest first.”

“Tired already, old man?”

“My arms are a little. I just carried you for about half a kilometer, didn’t I?”

 Cass flips onto his belly so he can paddle over a little closer, “Well maybe if you come in I’ll make it up to you.”

“Just maybe?”

Cass gives him a grin and splashes water up at him in a shining sheet before sinking below entirely. There’s a thrilling delight at hearing the muffled sound of Christopher’s shocked laughter through the water, right before the splashing sound of him coming in after.

-

They eat lunch on the rocks with their feet in the water, Cass wrapped in Christopher’s cardigan. The food is good because of course it is. And the wine is better because of course it is. But there is a soft glow of recognition when Cass realises that the food’s that has been packed is more or less a collection of his favourites. The crusts have even been neatly sliced off his sandwich. It’s weird to realise how well Christopher knows him.

He ends up back in the water not long after, and when Christopher settles again on the rocks, Cass lays himself back in the shallows with his head against Christopher’s legs like he’s relaxing back in a bath. He watches Christopher watch the lorikeets, his face tilted up to the pale winter sun.

“I didn’t think you liked swimming,” he comments mildly.

Christopher laughs, brows raised in mild surprise and brushes a knuckle down his cheek, “Why would you think that?”

“No pool at the estate,” Cass points out. “And whenever I go to the pool at your hotels, you tell me you’ll meet me at dinner.”

“I came with you at The Maribella.”

“To sit by the pool with a book and a drink.”

“I thought about swimming.”

“You thought about fucking me in the pool you mean.”

“I thought about swimming,” Christopher repeats. He reaches a hand up to tuck a damp curl behind Cass’ ear. “But sometimes I just want to watch you enjoy yourself. Is that so wrong?”

The phrasing almost sours things. It’s dangerously close to what he says right before a guest is over. Right before a party. But Christopher doesn’t mean it like that. He knows he doesn’t. So he tries a smile. He lets it go.

It’s like Christopher’s mind drifts to the same thing, though. Because his face gets soft and sad. He cups Cass’ cheek. He brushes his hair back, “Have you liked today, darling?”

Cass nods. It’s surprisingly easy to give him a soft smile. “Been pretty nice actually.”

Christopher keeps brushing his curls back. Gives him that sad smile in return, “I’m glad to hear that.”

Cass wants the conversation to end there. He wants that to be it. To draw Christopher back into the water for a kiss and a lazy float in the water and then go home. But of course it doesn’t.

“I know I asked a lot from you the other night, darling boy.”

Some tired, angry animal tries to wake up in Cass’ chest. He sedates it with a breath deep enough to make his ribs ache. 

“And I wanted you to know…” Christopher continues. He speaks carefully. Like he’s practised the phrasing. Perfected the sympathetic cadence. “We won’t be seeing those friends again.”

Cass doesn’t know if he believes it. And he doesn’t know if it even matters if he does or not. He stays very still, timing his breath to the strokes of Christopher’s fingers through his hair.

“And I’m glad today has been nice,” he continues softly. “I wanted to find a way to thank you. I know sometimes you struggle to find my gifts sincere.”

The tired, angry animal rolls over. Cass holds his breath for a second so it doesn’t rouse and ruin everything. “Is that what today is, then? A gift?”

Christopher laughs in a way that would probably sound self deprecating if Cass didn’t know him better. “It’s.. a gesture. To show you what you mean to me.” He smiles, winding a damp curl about his index finger, letting it lovingly loose back to its natural spiral. “I wanted to give you some of the gentleness you deserve.”

Cass doesn’t know what to say to that. He keeps his eyes on Christopher’s face, tracing the lines of it. The most prominent of his wrinkles are the ones around his eyes. Creasing crows feet that match a merry face. They frame his eyes just right. Strikingly blue. So blue they almost don't look real.

He reaches a hand up before he knows what he’s doing. He cups Christopher’s face. He swipes a damp thumb over his cheek. The shining trail it leaves almost makes it look like he’s crying. Especially when he’s looking at him like that. So soft. Full of a strange kind of longing that has no claws to it. No teeth.

Christopher turns his cheek to press his lips to the side of his boy’s thumb. He presses his cheek into Cass’ hand like a man truly looking to be absolved.

“I love you, darling boy. You know that. Don’t you?”

It’s not an apology.

But it’s close.

Cass cranes his neck up, offering a kiss. Asking for one.

Christopher’s hand cradles his jaw, firm and warm. His thumb brushes damp his hair back along his temple. His tongue slides into his mouth. It’s deep and passionate. But for once it’s not hungry. Cass breathes into it.

Maybe there was a kind of power in this. In being loved like this. In having a man like this love him.

In these moments… it feels worth it. All of it. The hurt, the pressure, the asking too much. He presses and presses and pushes and pushes but then, at the brink of things, he always knows to release. He knows to soothe and pull back and reset. He knows how much give there is before the break.

Cass doesn’t remember falling asleep on the rocks. But he must. Because he rouses as he’s being lifted from the picnic blanket and cradled against Christopher’s chest like some precious thing.

It makes him think of being a little kid. Of pretending to fall asleep in the backseat, hoping to be carried inside and tucked into bed. He can’t remember if anyone ever actually did that for him back then. He can’t remember if anyone ever held him this gently. It’s nice. It’s so, so nice.

"You said your arms were sore," Cass mumbles in quiet protest, head against Christopher's chest. He can feel the vibration of every footfall as they walk.

"I'll survive, my love."

When they get back to the car, Christopher sits him down gently in the passenger seat. He buckles him in. He kisses his hair. He even fetches a blanket from the back of the car and tucks it over his lap.

It’s The Decemberists instead of Nat King Cole on the way back down the mountain.

The heater blows soft and gentle on his face. He watches a flock of carellas careen their way over the backroads. They turn on to the main roads and Christopher takes his hand, gently kisses his knuckles.

As they roll back up the winding entry road of the estate, the sun is setting over the trees.

And everything feels alright.

[the-final-sif]

Hi, I saw a very dumb image and got pissed off because it was incorrect about sperm whales and also just kinda rubbed me the wrong way by implying that things don't live at the bottom of the ocean & really far down and I wanted to stand up for my marine life pals. So here's a corrected image with some extra bonus context.

[bizlybebo]

yeah dude idk how the trigger warnings wizard got past me .he must have cast minor allusion or something

[sir-fenris]

This is a short scene inspired by this post of @seth-whumps 's whump ask game.

(Using placeholder names for this one)

(Colored sentences are part of the prompt)

Grumpish rescue

Content: non-human whumpee, reluctant caretaker, lady caretaker, bad caretaker, implied physical abuse, referenced neglect, blood, rescue from whumper, threats of violence, a lot of swearing from our caretaker.

(Drabbles' masterlist)

-

Sarah has a terrible habit of taking on her friends' problems. And her friends have a terrible tendency to attract problems.

And as if it weren't enough that the problems chase after them, they also run to meet the problems.

Hence, now she's behind a rock, hiding a dog, or wolf, hybrid from a very ominous woodcutter. Simply because her stupid friend saw the hybrid being mistreated and left outside in a storm and decided that it was of his fucking business. Which made it her fucking business, too.

"I'm going to find you, so you might as well come out... before I get truly angry." The woodcutter's voice is still a bit far away, thank the gods, but they need to leave quickly. Sarah was going to leave this forest with the damm hybrid, one way or another.

When she felt the hybrid tensing upon hearing the man's words, and leaning forward with his mouth open, Sarah slapped a hand over his mouth and pushed him against the rock. "Don't. Say. A word," she hissed.

If the damn brat made this difficult, perhaps it was better to just abandon him here and tell her friend that she couldn't escape the woodcutter.

... Who is she kidding? No fucking way. She never backs down after stepping up for something. Her friend wanted the stupid wolf hybrid? Then he would have his charity pet.

"Don't be fucking stupid, you really believe him? He's gonna cut you open once he finds you." Sarah didn't care about the hybrid's panicked eyes and pale face. As long as he was alive and able to run, he was fine.

...She would deal with the bleeding leg later. He could run, she saw it.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going, stupid mutt?!" Oh, shit. That was closer than before, and much angrier. They needed to move, now.

"You better cooperate or I will be the one cutting you open, yeah?" Sarah whispers to the frightened boy and drags him along to the side of the rock, opposite from where the woodcutter's voice came from.

The man only had an axe, maybe if they made a run for it, they could make it to the car. But if the man was fast, he could catch up before Sarah could get them away...

Better to set a distance.

With a tighter grip than necessary on the boy's upper arm, she carefully led them behind a thick bush. The man's red shirt was easy to find, and it was closer than Sarah would have liked.

She drags the hybrid down the small mound behind them and feels her heart stop when the stupid boy stumbles forward. Sarah hauled him up, acting on pure instinct, but with more force than necessary, if his little yelp was any indication.

Her heart stops for the second time once she hears movement too close to their back.

This stupid fucking boy-

Sarah grabs him as tightly as she can, making sure he doesn't slip out of her grip, and hauls him forward with her. His whimpers of pain and fear are completely ignored as she hurries throught the trees and bushes, pulling him up immediately every time he stumbles or hits something.

She could deal with any injury of his later, right now they needed to get to the fucking car.

"Who the fuck are you?!" Comes the raging yell behind them. Farther than she expected, he wasn't as fast as them.

Sarah ignores both him and the hybrid's cries, sprinting to the open area where she parked the car.

"Get in, now!" She yells at the boy once they're close enough to the car, shoving him toward the back seats before opening the driver's door.

Thank the gods, she hears the door behind her opening and closing as hurried as hers while she starts the car. The hybrid knows where his chances are better.

The man is way too close to the car, but before the axe can hit the hood, she drops her foot on the clutch pedal and pulls the gear lever into reverse.

There was a gasp of surprise and a thud behind her seat as the car lurched backward, but she ignored it to turn the wheel and drive the car as far away from the forest path as possible.

It's only when they're too far away for the man to reach that she sighs and looks at the hybrid from the rearview mirror. He looks terrible. Bags under his tearful eyes, wearing filthy and torn clothing, scars and superficial injuries all around his body, blood running down his leg-

Fuck, she's gonna make her friend clean the damn blood out of her car later.

"Put pressure on your leg and sit down on the floor. If you make me get stopped by the police, I swear to the gods..." She doesn't finish the threat, mostly because it isn't even a real threat, but the boy hurries to obey with a terrified whine.

Sarah reaches to turn on the radio, drowning out his soft whimpers. She can deal with his injuries when they're safe at her friend's house, and her fucking friend can deal with the hybrid's distress and the dirtied seat.

She really has to stop taking on her friends' problems, it's one headache after another.

-

Writing daily is tough when my attention and ability to write seem to come and go in waves whenever they please. But I'm trying, so here we go, another day!

This one was really fun to do, despite the difficulty in starting the writing! :D

-

[spookberry]

I started playing danganronpa v3 and you would not believe the amount of times i missed the important dialogue cuz i was making jokes about Leon Kuwata

[gingerswagfreckles]

Dude I'm pretty sure half of jumblr are atheists. I've never seen any posts here even implying that only christians can be atheists. Who the heck is telling you that???

@legendarycatlover Man you know I started to write something nice and thoughtful out about this before I just decided I'm done arguing with people about this after like 6 hours. You are literally the 17th person to argue with me about this today. Most of the people who have sent me messages have in fact literally been insisting that 100% no ifs and or buts about it Atheists are all culturally Christian and 4 blocked me when I said nope not true there are Jews who will rip your head off if you even mention anything spiritual around them, diversity of culture is amazing. There has been a very clear and overt effort since around 2015 in liberal/leftist circles to frame full throttled atheism as something that purely exists as a trauma response to cultural Christianity. People decided serious 100% no spiritual beliefs at all Atheism is #cringe as a backlash to the 2011 reddit "checkmate religious people" jerks, and we have never recovered from it. This is not at all particular to Jumblr but Jumblr is certainly not exempt from it at all. If this is so baffling to you maybe just search the terms atheism and jumblr and try to find some posts about atheism that don't mention cultural Christianity? Or just block me like I suggested in an earlier post because I'm really getting sick of this.

[dedtoot]

Remember this thing that i made?

Good times, good times

Either way, i actually wrote down a more detailed responses!

Get ready for dat headcanon action!!

I'll type it out in seperate categories

The "thanks" category:

Beat: "Thanks? I don't know what are you trying to achieve here"

Rhyth: "Awww thank you!! I love you too, you're my best friend ❤️❤️"

The "laughs nervously" category:

Yoyo: *pulls up his hood in embarrassment*

Garam: references the "stay cool" line, after which it cuts to him throwing a person in the sewers halfpipe

Doom Rider: runs away in the most goofy way possible (probably falls down the stairs too)

The "I'm sorry" category:

Corn: literally says the thing. Probably also says the rawest line about how this is truly the moment when the leadership gets tested(or whatever that one line was)

The "who doesn't?" category:

K: goes on about that he's aware and but he can't accept the confession, because he prefers his ladies to be cel-shaded

Gum: literally says this after which bombards you with whatever tutorial she has to say to you at this point

The "horrible decision, really" category:

Cube: just her saying this, while sitting in her evil chair in the evil lair while being in the evil mask lit up by evil li-

The "laughs hysterically" category:

Rapid 99: "Hah! What, are you kidding?"(reference to that dialogue when you don't have enough souls)

Love Shocker: laughs, and says "What a joke. KILL THEM GIRLS!!" after which two more LS appear

Hayashi:

The "finger guns" category:

Boogie: optimistic looking *finger guns* (while thinking: "I DO NOT KNOW WHO THEY EVEN ARE")

Jazz: unamused looking *finger guns*(while having a very compressed image of a 😳 in her mind)

Immortals:

The "i know" category:

Roboy: "Well obviously. It couldn't be any other way. Unfortunately i don't date noobs so get out"

Combo: something referencing that post-game line of "be careful not to crush on me" or accuse them of being a goldfish liker

The "why" category:

Soda: literally saying this, but with the most dramatic possible angle and rendering

The "YEET" category:

Clutch: *steals your graffiti souls*

Poison Jam: throws you off a high place and references the "nothing in life is free you gotta work for it" line

Last "if only there was someone who loved you" category:

Zero Beat, Noise Tank and Gouji standing together and silently judging

[evilfarmin]

Ideologically I do not agree with woh but aesthetically those ghosts were serving so much cunt oml 🪭

[mot-hesbian]

The Mondrich storyline in season 3 is so unnecessary, personally I think they should have saved it for Benedict's season bc I find his relationship with them and his advice to be really interesting and would love for it to go both ways with him receiving advice regarding his relationship with Sophie.

[plasticine-paws]

got myself mildly invested in a swap adoption au

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 22 - Bleeding Through Bandages

title: misfortune placed these worlds in us

fandom: limited life smp

welcome back to my bad boys au!! i never expected to write more of it lol now i need to name it

cw: blood and injury, implied/referenced abuse

~

A string of whispered curses is all that escapes Grian’s lips, as he clicks on the dim overhead light.

He isn’t usually the one who gets hurt on missions—usually, it’s Jimmy. Jimmy may be the best shot in all the gang, but he’s clumsier than anyone Grian’s ever known. It’s honestly fitting that the first time they met, Jimmy was bleeding to death from a bullet to the lung.

  But now Grian’s been hit, and if he doesn’t stop it from bleeding, the others will insist on calling the mission here and heading back to the manor, which cannot happen. He already had to let himself get captured—a bullet in the thigh isn’t going to stop him.

Before he does anything—thrown into this locked closet as he was—he spits out his ear piece from where he’d been hiding it in the back of his mouth. Hopefully it still functions.

Then he shimmies his trousers off and sets to taking care of the wound.

The closet they’d put him in is by no means empty—it’s a janitor’s closet, well-stocked with cleaning supplies and essentials, and Grian grabs a roll of toilet paper off the shelf and wraps it around the bullet wound.

The bullet hadn’t gone in far, buried maybe an inch deep into his flesh. If he doesn’t try to pull it out, he should be good to go in an emergency. He can clean it and remove the bullet later—for now, he just needs to staunch the bleeding.

Even wrapping it around five times doesn’t stop the blood that blooms through the paper, so he tosses the roll to the side and roots around on a shelf, digging through the cardboard box there for any sort of rag. There’s nothing there, but the box beside it has a collection of dirty rags, some kind of polish smeared on them.

Is it worse to put this on the wound, or let it bleed freely?

Screw it, it’s got toilet paper on it. Grian puts the rag atop the toilet paper, ties it around his leg. It’s almost tight enough to be a tourniquet, with how short the rag is, which maybe should help? Grian doesn’t know enough about wounds.

He doesn’t get hurt a lot, but when he does, it rarely affects him. Mumbo has always bemoaned his high pain tolerance, ever since they were in high school together and Grian could walk away from a fight without even noticing the bruises and cuts all over him.

That was how he’d gotten a place in the Bad Boys, actually. Sixteen years old, at a corrupt high school and living with an abusive roommate, Grian had fallen into gang fights too young and had eventually gotten picked up by one.

Too many kids got lost to violence like that. Grian was just one example, amid countless others. As soon as he had enough rapport in the Bad Boys, he’d helped to establish the standard that they didn’t work with anyone under eighteen. In the past five years, Jimmy has been the only exception.

Jimmy’s eighteen, now, and he’s chosen to stick with the Bad Boys in light of his recent adulthood, likely to get closer to getting his own apartment.

Everyone has a motivation for joining up—Grian’s had been protection. He’d made far too many enemies in high school, and he’s certain that his old roommate would have no qualms about killing him if he wasn’t associated with one of the most powerful gangs in the area. 

Jimmy’s reason is his sister.

The only time he talked about her was when they first met him. Grian and Joel were fleeing a successful mission, only to find Jimmy on the ground, struggling to breathe around the bullet hole in his chest. He’d mentioned his sister, how much she meant to him, how he needed to get her safe.

As far as Grian knows, he hasn’t managed it yet. Jimmy always looks like he’s carrying a bonfire in his chest, his shoulders weighed down by the logs he keeps feeding it. He’s angry and tired and frustrated, but he never talks about why he feels that way. He just spends hours shooting at practice targets and sparring and moping around the manor, a plastic flosser always jutting out from his mouth. He leaves on weekends, presumably to go home, and always comes back in a worse mood than before.

The only thing that softens the sharp edges of his personality is feeling useful—like being on a mission. That had quickly propelled him into the strike side of the gang, despite his youth. Grian and Joel, already a team, had decided to show him the ropes, and it had turned their team of two into three as they became the only people who would tolerate Jimmy.

He isn’t a bad kid. He isn’t a bad kid at all, he just doesn’t know how to keep a lid on his emotions. He probably didn’t get a lot of attention growing up, poor kid.

Grian shakes himself from his thoughts, checks his watch. Almost midnight. Joel and Jimmy should be doing the final sweep now—they’ll be able to let him out of this closet, then they can pick up any remaining valuables and head out.

It isn’t often the three of them get assigned to a stealth mission. Grian’s not bad at them, but Jimmy’s terrible at sneaking and lying, and Joel’s more suited for sniping, so they usually handle intimidation or company deals. Grian had been relieved for the change of pace—until he was spotted. Now he just has to sit in this closet, waiting for either his team to track him down or the enemy to move him somewhere more secure.

Hopefully his team arrives first.

Grian rubs his earpiece off on his shirt, tucks it into his ear. He’s only had to stick it in his mouth once before, and it had luckily still functioned that time. He can only hope he’s had the same luck.

“Hello?” he whispers, tapping twice on it to activate the mic. “Red to Green and Yellow. Do you copy?”

“We copy,” Joel crackles back immediately. “Thought you were gonna stay silent.”

“Yeah, well. Got myself into a bit of a sticky situation. Check any closets down the fourth hall, yeah?”

“Why, did you leave something?”

“Yeah. Me.”

Jimmy unmutes just to laugh at him.

“I’m flipping you off so hard right now,” Grian says, not actually flipping anyone off. He pulls his trousers back up over his bandaged leg, buttons them. “Yeah, they grabbed me and locked me in here. They thought I was leftover from the recon mission, though, and not the start of a new patrol.”

“So the cover isn’t blown?” Joel asks.

“Nope. They’re even less on their guard, actually.”

“Cool. I’m actually heading down that hall right now. Yellow’s on the second floor, still.”

“Almost done, here,” Jimmy announces. “I’ll be back down soon.”

Grian stuffs the roll of toilet paper into his pocket and stands up, shaking out his feet. It definitely hurts to put weight on his injured leg, but he can walk it off.

The lock clicks and the door swings open just as he’s reaching up for the pull switch on the lightbulb. Joel grins at him, eyes sparkling with mirth behind his lowered sunglasses.

“Little bird locked in a cage?” he asks innocently. Grian shoves him, follows him out. He grabs Joel’s gun from the holster and clips it into his own (where his gun was confiscated from him upon being shoved into that closet).

“Hey!” “Use your spare.”

Jimmy joins them in the stairwell at the end of the hallway, and together they go down the flight of stairs. The rub of his jeans against his leg chafes his injury, but Grian just grits his teeth and rolls with it. They’re almost done, anyway. Just a quick check of the ground floor, then off to the van.

Most of the lights in the building are off, but some reason, there’s one flickering light at the bottom of the stairwell. Grian glares at it, then moves forward to take point—but Joel stops him, grabbing his sleeve and turning him around.

“What’s this?” Joel gestures to his leg.

“It’s nothing,” Grian says easily, shifting to try and hide his leg. Did it bleed through his jeans already? Maybe it’s worse than he thought. . . .

“You’re bleeding, you idiot, did you get hurt?”

“It’s barely a scratch. Come on, we’re—”

Too late. Joel unbuttons Grian’s jeans (Jimmy wolf-whistles obnoxiously), tugs them down just enough to see the dirty rag—now soaked with blood.

“Did you get stabbed?” Joel asks, dumbfounded. “Why are you walking on it?”

“It’s fine,” Grian says. “We can finish the mission, don’t worry about it—”

“You need to get back to the manor, there probably isn’t anything down here—”

Grian casts his eyes around, looking for any sort of way to distract Joel—

Jimmy’s looking on, chewing on one of those constant flossers, and seemingly without his notice, there’s blood trickling down his arm. Perfect.

“Timmy’s bleeding, too,” Grian says, nodding toward him, and Joel immediately drops Grian’s leg to turn toward Jimmy. Grian uses that opportunity to pull his trousers back up.

“What? You too? Am I surrounded by self-sacrificing morons—?”

“What?” Jimmy glances down at his arm. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, then he hides it behind his back. “No. No, I’m not.”

Joel glares at him. “Mate, I just saw it. You’re bleeding.”

“I—” Jimmy glances around, something almost panicked seeping into his expression. “I—yeah, but it isn’t from this. It’s just—it’s just a little cut, don’t worry about it.”

Joel isn’t having any of that. He tugs Jimmy’s jean jacket off, rolls up his shirt sleeve.

Just above Jimmy’s elbow is a white bandage, wrapped around the bicep. Even in the flickering light, it’s clearly soaked through with blood, some of it seeping out around and dripping down his arm.

“What? When did this happen?” Joel asks, confused. Grian wants to know the same thing—Jimmy didn’t report running into any trouble. Was he just carrying bandages on him?

“It’s from yesterday, I’m fine,” Jimmy says. He looks like he wants to talk about it as much as he wants to eat a lemon. He looks like a tiger trying to sleep that keeps getting poked. He looks like he wants to bite Joel’s head off.

“Sorry, but I’m gonna need more information than that.”

“I fell, okay?” says Jimmy. He rolls his shirt sleeve back down, slapping Joel’s hands away. “I tripped, tried to catch myself on a wall, and caught my arm on a door hinge. It isn’t deep. Let’s keep going.”

It worked as a distraction, apparently, because Joel just shakes his head and mutters something about needing to be careful, before leading the way into the basement. But, for all it got him, Grian just feels like something’s squirming in the depths of his stomach.

Jimmy’s lying.

He won’t meet Grian’s eyes, he would barely even look at Joel. His temper, usually subdued on a mission, had flared briefly, and his hands are still clenched into fists.

He’s lying.

He didn’t fall onto a door hinge.

He probably got into a fight.

You’re supposed to report if you get into any fights with rival gangs, but most people don’t do that. Sometimes it’s embarrassment, sometimes it’s out of fear of punishment, sometimes it’s because they don’t want to be stopped from retaliating.

With Jimmy, it’s probably the latter.

So when they get back to the van, and Joel’s driving them to the manor, Grian speaks up.

“Tim, who’d you get in a fight with?”

Grian sees him stiffen in the front seat. Usually, Grian sits there, but Joel had banished him to the back in order to put his leg up.

“I—I didn’t.”

He’s definitely lying.

“Sure, and I totally didn’t get shot in the leg.”

“Wait, you got shot?” Joel demands. “I thought—geez, Grian, you should have told me, I thought it was just a stab wound or something—”

“Timmy—”

“I didn’t get in a fight,” Jimmy says hotly, turning to look out the window. “I swore I wouldn’t, remember?”

“Yeah, well, that injury wasn’t caused by a door hinge,” Grian scoffs. “People don’t fall onto door hinges, what kind of excuse is that?”

“You weren’t there! And I said—I tripped, and—”

“Sure. You just tripped badly enough that—”

“Grian?” Joel interrupts, a note of warning in his voice. “Shut up.”

The surprise of the command is enough to cause Grian to fall silent. Jimmy keeps looking out the window, uncharacteristically quiet.

No one speaks for the rest of the ride. Grian gets settled into medical and Jimmy disappears, likely for his usual bed (or, perhaps, for the gym, where he can beat on the punching bag until he’s too exhausted to be angry).

“What was that about?” Grian asks, once he and Joel are alone (and he’s hooked up to some IV fluids, his leg properly stitched up).

Joel rubs a hand across his face. “Jimmy’s definitely lying,” he says. “But . . . I don’t think he fought anyone, either. Jimmy would tell us if he got in a fight, wouldn’t he?”

“I mean, maybe. You never know with Tim.”

“Look, Grian—” Joel sits down next to him. There’s something oddly solemn in his face, something that gives Grian pause. “I—I had a friend in high school,” Joel starts. Grian restrains the snarky comment that rises to his lips.

“His name was Oli. Every time I saw him, he had a new bruise. And every time, he made up some excuse—that he walked into a door, or tripped down his front steps, or . . . or tripped, and fell onto a door hinge. Things like that, you know? It was like that every day. Until CPS got called on his family, and I never saw him again.”

The letters CPS sink deep into Grian’s mind. He gapes. Joel shifts uncomfortably.

“He still lives at home, doesn’t he?” Joel says. “He’s just a kid. And whenever he ever mentions his sister, it’s about getting an apartment so he can get her safe. I just—”

“You—you think his parents . . . what, hit him?” Grian asks, cringing.

An awkward sadness weighs down Joel’s shoulders as he shrugs. “I think . . . I think it’s possible. Really, really possible.”

That isn’t rare. In this profession, it’s not a surprise to hear of child abuse.

But . . . Jimmy?

How could anyone hurt Jimmy?

It . . . it adds up, if he thinks about it. It adds up, because isn’t Jimmy always coming in after the weekend with new bruises? Isn’t he always grumbling about clumsiness and accidents? Hasn’t Grian confronted him several times about getting into fights, and each time Jimmy had just argued with him until they both stormed out of the room?

Grian feels sick just to think of it. If Jimmy’s not safe at home, how bad had it been to incite him to seek out gang protection?

“If you’re right—and I’m not saying you are—we should help him with that apartment,” Grian says. Joel nods his agreement.

“Yeah. And soon.”

[teapot-of-tyrahn]

My payment for the ficlet:

Could I just get Zedaph being a silly? Thanks!

S.O.S / 88

words: 2,587 warnings: implied robot injury / abandonment a03 link! (i have an a03 now!!)

When Zedaph had first found her in the scrapyard, she’d been little more than a telegraph sounder. She wasn't even capable of making dihs or dahs, just dots and dashes. She was, by every definition of the word, useless; discarded, unuseable, utterly inutile… Broken. But Zedaph had never believed in such a word. Things were never really broken; just… temporarily decommissioned! They could be in states of disrepair, but never beyond repair. Everything could always be mended, rebuilt, improved; everything could always be fixed. That was why he came to the scrapyard in the first place. Zedaph knew what it was like to feel broken. He felt sympathy for every machine discarded by its creator in a wasteland of flotsam and jetsam, deserted and dejected. And so, whenever he wandered across one of these poor orphaned apparatuses, he felt it was his duty to try to give them what their inventor had not: A home. A purpose. Besides, it was much easier to fix an abandoned machine than to make one from scratch, especially back when he hadn't had the funding to afford his own materials. Upon closer inspection, it looked like her developer had intended for her to be a translator of sorts. A humanoid polygotic interpreter AI which had been designed to serve as an assistant to foreign diplomats and ambassadors. Scavengers had had their way with her, however, and so she didn't even have the tools left to serve as a functional morse code transliterator, let alone a functional world-wide translator. There was a twisted sort of irony in the fact that the AI meant to translate for others was unable to even properly translate her own thoughts and feelings into words, able to process the words being spoken but never able to understand them. Able to talk but never able to speak. A translator who couldn't even translate herself.

For the first few weeks when Zed had been working on fixing her transmitter, she always kept repeating the same string of sounds: Dot, dot, dash. Dot, dot, dash. She made the noise so often, it became an association, and Zed decided that was just what he would call her in meantime - a bit of a mouthful, sure, but wasn't Dot Dot Dash a better name then Unnamed Abandoned Appartus Number 21? It was just a temporary title until he found a way to get her communications sorted and she could come up with their own name, anyway. Though it turns out, she had been saying her own name, in a way: Dot, dot, dash. E-E-T. Ease-Enhancing Translator. Her hostname. He'd only figured that out when he found the marque on her forehead about three weeks into her repair. For a genius, he could be a little bit stupid, sometimes. Maybe really stupid. When he did finally figure out how to repair her transmissions, for about a month she was stuck only speaking in Dutch, because he'd accidentally selected the system's default of Netherlandic as his preferred language instead of his own of English in his excitement to get her up and running. And, with her operating system now in a foreign language, it was incredibly difficult to figure out how to turn on her bilateralism. Not his brightest moment. But it didn't mean it didn't lead to bright moments. Even though they couldn't communicate, at least not through language, that didn't mean they couldn't communicate in other ways. That didn't mean that, over that month, he didn't learn that she was an absolute menace at Mario Kart (Guess the Dash part of her name really rung true!), that she'd become an immediate fanatic of Hamilton, and that Sesame Street was her favourite comfort show. Just because they couldn't exchange words didn't mean they couldn't exchange glances, exchange touches, exchange laughs, exchange smiles. Just because he couldn't understand a word she said didn't mean he couldn't understand that he was falling head over heels for her. It took an embarrassing amount of time and effort, but eventually, inevitably, he finally managed to repair her communication system. And, finally, they managed to have their first conversation.

"So… what's your name?" It was a bit odd, asking the question; such a simple, innocent question, but it felt wrong. It was the sort of thing you asked somebody you just met. But they hadn't just met… not really. It felt like they'd known each other for years. All their lives. And, yet, these were the first words they'd ever spoken to each other. He - literally - knew her innerworkings inside and out, and yet, he didn't even know her name. They knew everything about each other, but at the same time, nothing at all. The robot replied with a simple answer to a simple question: "Dot, Dot, Dash." "Oh — oh my goddess, oh dear, oh no — did I accidentally set you back to Morse Code again?!" Oh, this was horrendous, he'd been trying to help but he'd put her back all the way back to square one— "No, no," A jittery, high-pitched sound came out of the android's voicebox, a soft laugh as she reeled Zed's hand away from her inner panel. "That's my name." "It is?" Zed asked, baffled and still slightly breathless from the scare, before he jumped slightly with the startled realisation, "Oh — oh! Oooh, Because, that's what I've been calling you — no, no, nonono, that's — that doesn't have to be your name, you see, I just… well, it felt awful drab calling you by a model number, and you always used to go dot, dot, dash!, So I was just using it as a placeholder, which, I… which I am realising, was perhaps slightly insensitive, it's little better then calling you boop beep bop, now that I'm thinking about it, it would be like naming a dog woof woof… Oh my gosh, I am so sorry—" "— I like it." "—Oh, I'm such a dunce, imagine calling a duck quack quack, or a chicken cluck clu— wait, you… what?" "Yeah!" She smiled. "It's silly! Who cares if it's a bit on-the-nose?" She booped his nose for emphasis before she continued, "It feels like me." "O—oh! Well… well, in that case. It's… It's nice to meet you, Dot Dot Dash! I'm Zedaph." He held a hand out for her to shake out of cordiality. Dot stared at his outstretched hand dubiously, her features almost betraying offence at his attempt at courtesy, enough to make him almost begin to worry it had been a test to see if he'd fall for calling her such an offensive name and he'd fallen for it, like an idiot… and before he had a chance to profusely apologise again and retract both his hand and his statement, she abruptly grabbed him by his offered hand and pulled him in… …to a hug. "Zedaph… I've watched you fling an oreo from your forehead into your mouth on multiple occasions, you once bit into an onion like an apple and then rubbed it on your face to make yourself cry, you sleep with a mint condition package of Minions playing cards underneath your pillow, your favourite colour is red even though everything you own is pink… I already know you, Zed. And you know me. Just because we didn't know each others' names doesn't mean we didn't know each other… and it certainly doesn't mean this is our first time meeting. This isn't an introduction… it's just… finally getting a chance to say hello." "O—oh." Zed felt his voice crack. There was nothing between them now, no barrier, language or otherwise. His voice was soft as he whispered, "Hello." Her voice was softer, a smile on her lips, as she whispered back, "Hallo."

Not another word fell from either of their lips. They didn't need words. Sometimes, actions were more powerful than words. And their lips' actions spoke louder than any sentence they could have strung.

.. / .-.. --- …- . / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.-

Safe to say, everybody on Hermitcraft loved Dot. And not just because she was one of the most talented people on the server - which she was, indisputably. She'd been built as an interpreter, but her skills were far from confined to linguistics…. she made the most thrilling commercials and logos for the shops in the Shopping District in all of it's history: Lookie Lookie at My Bookie, Shade-E-E's, Beefy Stores, Lamps Plus, ODEA… that was just to name a few successful bussinesses' whose success could wholly be attributed to Dot. She was also an absolute marvel when it came to the political field, somehow simultaneously making adverts for both Mumbo, Scar, and Plopper's mayor campaigns without either party realizing she was also advertising for every opposition, playing every side of the spectrum. And then, later, she pulled the exact same thing with HEP, The Podzol Party, and The Mycelium Resistance… This feat was one that could either be attributed to her astounding intelligence or the Hermits' astounding lack of intelligence. She was also a stupefying film director, and, in a similar vein, a stupefying music video director! Maybe too stupefying of a music video director. He still had nightmares about Bohemian Keralisody. And he couldn't help but still be a little lingeringly offended that both Poultry Man and Iskallman got their own fan edits but Wormman, the significantly cooler superhero of the server, got ziltch. Not that it was personal, just an astute observation from an outsider with no stakes in the superhero business whatsoever. He really didn't get why Poultryman of all people was her favourite superhero… to the point she'd requested he manufacture her a pair of bionic chicken wings. She even had him provide her with a chicken soundboard so she could communicate with her new brethern… which she had specifically requested not be made with real chickens' voices, as they could not consent to being recorded and doing so would infringe upon their rights, so the soundboard ended up just being Zed going buck, buck, buckawk! into a microphone for her at various pitches and inflections to use as she saw fit. She even ended up making an alter ego by the name of Stanley in an attempt to become Poultryman's sidekick, despite the fact there were much cooler superheroes out there to sidekick for besides a chicken in a trenchcoat. For completely random example: Wormman. Wormman was much cooler! And actually looking for sidekicks! Not that Zed was jealous. Not at all! Just a third-party observation.

Anyways. You'd think, surely, being the top graphic designer, commercial producer, film producer, and music video producer in the game was impressive enough of a resume… no, her awesomeness didn't stop there, not even close. She also dabbled in the armour stand business, and even further, became one of the server's best castle architects. Which was quite was a feat, given it seemed every season at least somebody had to build a grand castle of some sorts. But her castles were better than all of them - better then the NHO Castle, The Red Sky Bay Castle, Coe's Quest Castle, Wels' Cathedral, Bdubs' Castle, The Area 77 Castle, Stress' Ice Castle, RentheKing's Castle, The… wow, Zed was just realizing, Hermitcraft really did have a lot of castles. But, digressing! Her castles were the best castles. And that wasn't even just him being biased in his girlfriend's favour - that was just a fact. If monarchy on Hermitcraft didn't have a reputation for ending with a HoTgUy to the face, he would have crowned her Queen of Hermitcraft. It seemed the only thing she couldn't do was hit the high note in Hamilton's Burn… an feat she was coming closer and closer to achieving every day, which terrified Zed, for he was sure once she did so she'd become the epitome of perfection on all fronts and would transcend this mortal plane in a state of sublime quintessence.

Luckily for Zed, though, Dot had no intent to transcend. As much as Zed raved about her accomplishments, which were impressive in their own right, she wasn't going anywhere while she hadn't completed her greatest accomplishment of all. Her life's mission. Dot wanted to make sure nobody ever struggled like she had again. Words, vocabulary, verbality… Language itself was it's own 55-pin ladder puzzle. She was built to be a translator, and a translator she would be… not just for other languages, but for languages within languages, for inflections and undertones and connotations and implications that might as well have been their own language. She didn't want to let linguistic barriers to prevent somebody from living their best life… from saying hi to the love of their life. If she'd given up trying to speak English, she'd have never gotten the chance to tell Zed she loved him in words he would understand. And if he had given up on repairing her auditory processor, she'd have never gotten the chance to understand when he told her he loved her in words she'd understand. She still had a long way to go to be the global translator she was built to be, she didn't speak near seven-thousand languages nor with the fluency she would have liked, but that was okay. Because one of the languages she could speak was English - and, if anybody struggled with the language, just like she used to, she wanted to be there to help. To be what Zed had been to her — a teacher, a friend, and a crutch. The first person she helped, of course — coming full-circle — was Zedaph himself. The conversation went a little something like this: "Zed, dear, could you bring Danny's leash downstairs?" "Hm?" "I asked if could you bring Danny's leash downs—" "Come again?" "I SAID COULD YOU BRING DANNY'S LE—" "PARDON??" And that was how they learned that being in constant proximity to loud industrial machinery and exploding himself for comedic effect on a near-daily basis was not very good for his eardrums. It didn't take her long to diagnosis him with partial hearing loss, prescribe him with proper ear protection, and invent something to help. CCs she called it, or Closed Captions. Not a very original name, but it got the point across! She never really understood Zed's tendency to give things elaborate names like The Chickenerator, or Zombie Plinko, or The Celestial Cosmodrome… well, actually, she supposed she couldn't blame him for that one, but, the point with the first two still stood! The CCs were a simple device; a pair of contact-lenses that provided real time, accurate translations of what was being said in the corner of the wearer's vision. It was even toggleable! A subtle way to get subtitles in your subsidiary. And it wasn't soon after she'd made Zedaph his pair that word spread, and GeminiTay appeared at her doorstep to politely inquire what it could cost to have a similar device manufactured for herself. Gem didn't suffer from quite the same plight as Zed, but instead with an auditory processing disorder, which made Dot realise how helpful her invention could actually be to the Hermit masses… whether hard-of-hearing hermits, second-language hermits, hermits with auditory processing disorders, or even just hermits who preferred reading over listening… She was helping people. Even if only two, the fact she could even just help two people struggle a little bit less with the language she had struggled with for so long made it worth it. It made it so, when Zed praised her for how indisputably awesome she was, she could smile, and say, without hesitation, "I know!"

[clonerightsagenda]

Have accidentally read two books exploring speculative anarchist futures almost back to back so far this year and the whole time I cannot stop thinking "cool utopia you've got here. what happens to the disabled people btw"

[wheucto]

with that new revelation in ii2 e16, i feel like there's... a lot less to know about the world of ii. at least, not to know for sure.

because, before then, you could extract some information from passing comments. remember the french or whatever pizza delivery guy who tried to pass as italian, but spoke spanish instead? from that, you could determine that 1. france, spain, and italy are places that exist and 2. if those countries exist, why not all the countries in the world?

but. but, according to what cobs said at least, mephone4 seems to have made everything. he made the weird looking grass. if he made that, then why not anything else? did that guy exist before he came onto the show? probably not! and if he was made that day, was the concept of "france," "spain," and "italy" made that day too?

there's no way for us to know what the normal world of ii looks like. do they have parallel countries to us? well, we know their continents aren't parallel. it follows that their countries wouldn't be, either. who knows what their history is like? how the normal objects are like? will we know?

[6kate1bishop6]

“Junior,” It sang, “You’re all grown up now. But you’d know better than to forget about me, wouldn’t you?”

---

neil starts hallucinating during his lecture

whumptober day 4: hallucinations | hypnosis | sensory deprivation | "you're still alive in my head"