#high evo

[sprout-222]

If rocket raccoon had a nickle for everytime he's defeated a purple homicidal maniacal who destroyed entire Worlds for insane reasons he'd have two nickles; which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happend twice

[mudboowl]

Bunch of Grian designs!! (Watcher, Cuteguy, Evosmp, Tokyo Soul)

Full versions:

[young--just-us]

I cannot be convinced thst the kids did not have to share beds while the mansion was being rebuilt

Scene I'm referencing under the cut bc the visual gag struck me

Season 3 episode 3 "Mainstream"

Also one of my fav episodes so far, I'll always love the conflict of the kids navigating their lives after being revealed

[yoxnire]

Uninvited Guest

Cannibal murder mystery brain rot 😋

[bamfwizard]

my favorite thing about Gambit's design is that depending on how gracious the artist in said piece of media is, he either has the best or the worst barber known to man

[llamahearted]

chicks dig the fuzzy dude (it's 2002 and they are nine years old and someday they will realize they wanted his exact gender the entire time)

prints ✩ track

[yzegem]

Description of an encounter with a summerfolk, taken from a letter sent by the diplomat Isji Fan to his superior:

My lord of the eastern tributary province, I send you this letter as an update on the unsuccessful negotiations with Osdu da Lag, the summerfolk warlord of the Yukas valley, on the subject of granting safe passage to our merchants and peasants through this region.

We first sent a summerfolk envoy to his hidden hill fortress, who was treated with respect and arranged a date for our meeting.

The summerfolk of the lowlands and specially da Lag are known for their brutality against their enemies but hospitality with messengers, so I was only accompanied by two lance bearing local soldiers and a translator, as a way of not raising any tensions.

My translator was Enkida, a girl from Four Ports, knowledgeable of many languages spoken by men and summerfolk of the region alike and loyal to our cause.

We arrived in the set location at the arranged time and waited sitting on portable stools. The place was a rocky clearing of the forest next to a weak shallow creek, with dense vegetation all around us, wich made it hard to see beyond the tree line.

After nervous waiting for about half an hour the sudden sound of pebbles sliding over one another warned us of our visitor, who had until now managed to move it's massive body through the vegetation unnoticed.

He was tall even for one of his kind, his thin body a moving palm trunck, and his frizzy hair, styled into many knots and intertwined with feathers and beads made his head look even more like the foliage of said tree. He beared full red warpaint on his face and most shocking of all, he lacked the typical large cloak of his people and exposed his pitch black naked body.

Before we even said a word, he sat down in front of us, with his legs, as long as a laying man could span, spread surrounding our group.

This action, my lord, wich you could find common to do in front of your guests, is extremely rare among the summerfolk and gave us a clear message. See, those of his kind rarely sit down and prefer to eat, work, talk and even sleep standing up, as, given their stature, lifting their body quickly from the ground makes their head ache and even faint.

Da Lag was showing clear vulnerability, sitting naked and unarmed in front of us, still, I'm ashamed that my reaction was that of fright, my lord. He was not afraid of us one bit, and felt safe even immobile and unarmed.

[macnsamuel]

watcher grian! :3

[living-dead-guyy]

Elves (Speculative Biology)

If elves were real, what do you think they’d descend from? Personally I find them being a subspecies to be a little bit boring. Please lmk!! I’m considering for my fantasy world

[avocadish0w0]

Ello everyone! Lux here!

I need information, who exactly is Xelqua, and how is it related to Grian's character, because I always see the name mentioned but I don't understand why, my lore knowledge ends in EvoSMP and a small bit of YHS (Also if anyone can explain it to me I'd be grateful)

That's it! Have a good day/afternoon/night and bu bye!!

[2r4d1kal4y0u]

MCYT PAPERCRAFTS PT 4!!

yeah- more mobs. one more thing of mobs before getting to the regular ones

[sleepy0s]

Is it dead?

YHS!Grian: YHS!Sam won’t wake up, what do I do?

YHS!Taurtis: Did you try kicking them?

YHS!Grian: Yes.

YHS!Taurtis: I’m out of ideas.

I havent written in a while this might be shit. Apologies. 

316  Words

~~~

Sam had returned to the house at around 2:00 am, left the door wide open, and then promptly passed out on the floor. This is a very common scenario, this happens a lot. Usually, he wakes up around 2 hours later and drags himself to someone's bed. Or the sofa. 

Which is why it is slightly worrying when Taurtis drags himself down the stairs at 12:00 pm, only to trip over Sam’s body. 

“Uhm. GRIAN! Sam’s on the floor!” He yelled, hoping Grian could hear him from the upstairs bathroom. 

“WHAT? How’d you know?” Came the muffled response, 

“I tripped over him.” 

Footsteps could be heard as Grian made his way to the top of the staircase, looking down. Toothbrush still in his hand. “Oh, are you alright?”

“Mm… yeah.”

So the two went back to their morning routines. Grian went back to the bathroom, brushing his teeth, basic skin care, getting dressed and ready for the day, etc. etc. Taurtis sat on the sofa, playing games and eating his slice of toast and toritos. 

Neither really cared too much about Sam’s unconscious body, until it was time to go to school.

Grian had his bag over his shoulder, and stood in the living room, staring down at Sam. He prodded him with his finger a couple times, before giving him a harsh kick in the rib. Nothing, no response. 

“Sam won’t wake up, what do I do?” He asked, as Taurtis joined him near the door. Taurtis stared down at Sam, tilting his head. “Have you tried kicking him?”

“Yep.”

“Oh.” Tautis shrugged, kicking Sam’s shoulder,” I’m out of ideas then.”

It was quiet for a bit as the two thought about what to do with their ‘sleeping’ roommate.

“Maybe he’s dead..” Taurtis hummed.

“I hope he’s dead.” Was Grian’s immediate response.

Taurtis sighed, “Same.”

In the end, the two left him there. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/49225816/chapters/159840139

[m00n-d34r3st]

Charbee fankid this, charbee baby that bla bla convoluted explanation, ala ala tragic backstory for adopted kid....

~Descends from the sky like a fry box dropped by a seagull~

What if Charlie knocks bee up, but making his spark so full it makes a new spark?

Does it sound sane? No. Would that likely make the sparkling a partial or complete copy of Bee? Maybe. Would it open up a medical pandora's box for Ratchet to deal with? Definitely. But, would it be super wholesome and give a whole new meaning to a baby being made of live and would make for stories to would drown them in chessiness? Hell yeah..

[cactusringsystem]

i had a dream where grian made a video with taurtis and dom and all the old gang and then i woke up and realized it wasn't real and got so sad

[trashcanflagic]

What if...

What if when Grian was put in witness protection after Yandere High School, he had been given a new name, Xelqua? What if the person who gave it to him was a Watcher who had taken an interest in him, choosing to follow him? What if he had been given a grave with the name Grian on it? What if none of the Hermits knew, not even Pearl, as by the time Evo started it was safe for him and Taurtis to go by their original names? What if Etho was the only one to know because he lived in Japan and saw a grave with the name Grian? What if that was why he reacted strangely to meeting Grian the first time because to him, Grian was dead?

[thetomorrowshow]

you will return to the hospital bed

febuwhump day 8: bleeding out

fandom: life series smp

part of my series six billion moths flying toward it, which begins in a war-ravaged world that grian manages to escape from, bringing the evo members with him to their own world, where they have infinite respawns and peace.

cw: mild gore, violence, war

~

Jimmy isn’t the best soldier.

“Left! Left!”

He isn’t the best marksman, yeah, but he also isn’t very agile, but he’s also Deaf and can never really tell who’s giving out instructions and what for (at this point, he’s really just cannon fodder, which is . . . not a nice thought).

Is the general yelling at him or someone else?

There’s really no way to know, but Jimmy just hopes he’s following orders and crawls left, his hands scraping against exposed tree roots and little chunks of dirt and rock. He’s just in time—a shell lands close to where he just was, blowing apart the ground with an earth-rattling explosion.

Whoever is behind Jimmy shoves him to the ground to get over him, Jimmy’s chin knocking against the dirt, a knee digging into his kidney. He bites back whatever he wants to yell at the soldier; the first rule of war is no in-fighting while you’re in an active battle.

He hates the trenches. Maybe one of these days, he’ll finally contract trench fever and he’ll be able to get out of all this.

Grian promised to get him out, but it doesn’t look like it’s gonna happen. He’s been here for—what, two years? Too long. There isn’t a clean escape route; he’s either going to have to get injured or sick or he’s going to have to die.

He should probably poke his head up and take a shot anywhere he can, just to do something. They’re all hiding in their own trenches, though, waiting for him to do just that. He sure isn’t going to be the first person to check if they can take a quick shot. That’s how you die in this business.

He hates this. He hates how commonplace it’s become to just be shot at, yet how scared he is to this day every time he marches out.

He’s been here all day, choking on gunsmoke and trying to see through teary eyes, a miserable existence when any day could be his last.

“We’re gonna die,” someone cries out—Jimmy can’t tell who or from where, especially with all the explosions and gunshots going on, but he just ignores it and keeps crawling through the dirt, the hot sun pounding down on his shoulders.

He tries, at least, but before he can go far, someone grabs his leg by the ankle and pulls.

Jimmy spins around—it’s another soldier, of course, a man probably close to his age or younger, and he looks terrified. His face is almost green under the dirt and soot, his eyes wide and bloodshot, tears and sweat streaking down his cheeks.

“We’re gonna die,” he says. “I—I can’t—I’m just a kid, dude, I gotta get out of here!”

Jimmy knows that feeling. The shock, the overwhelming fear, the sense of displacement. It’s never quite left him, and to this day he feels all jittery and awful and scared in every battle that he gets sent out to fight in, but he doesn’t know how to tell the kid that he’ll be okay when there isn’t any guarantee that he will be.

Jimmy’s seen people die. Friends, bunkmates, shot as they crouched right beside him and were just slightly less lucky than he. There’s a good chance that this kid—

There’s so much yelling, he can’t even think, but he can’t distinguish any of the voices or anything and—

BLAM!

Jimmy has a moment of blinding white—

Of red—

Of looking down at himself and thinking, oh, that’s way too much blood to be healthy.

Of looking down at himself and realizing that most of his body was missing.

That he simply does not have legs, and he can see into his stomach, and one of his arms is mostly blown off, part of the bone of his upper arm sticking out of dirty, bloody flesh.

Beside him, where his arm should be, is the head of that kid, his eyelids still fluttering.

Jimmy has another moment, where he breathes and it feels wrong, where he’s hit by blinding pain and disgust and horror all at once, where he feels his heart try to leap out of his chest, where he tries to scream but blood just gurgles out of a hole in his throat.

He’s—there’s so much blood—he didn’t—

Everyone always says that your life flashes before your eyes when you die. All Jimmy sees, though, is the house he grew up in.

His home there, the evening growing late, children playing in the front yard to catch moths in jars as they flock toward the porchlight, his mother poking her head through the curtains to make sure they’re safe.

He’s floating away, like a balloon released, watching the scene grow smaller and smaller below him.

Then it all fades away into a near-silent high-pitched squeal, and nausea washed over all the pain and Jimmy’s vision goes grainy then blinks out completely.

He falls into darkness, and he doesn’t return.

-

The darkness is calm. Quiet, with little specks of light scattered throughout.

Jimmy wasn’t brought up believing in an afterlife, and he kind of thought that when he died, he wouldn’t have any sort of consciousness. His code would split up and tie itself back into the universe, and that would be that.

This . . . this doesn’t feel like that.

Why is he here? Not, like, physically (he isn’t sure he’s anywhere physically), but he’s definitely somewhere to some extent, and he’s not sure how he feels about it.

He doesn’t like it, he decides a moment later, as the darkness begins to weigh heavily on him. How does it feel like that, like it’s absolutely suffocating him, like he can’t breathe, when he doesn’t have a body to react to any sort of pressure?

Then it weighs down more, and more, and it hurts—

It hurts his legs, so badly that he wants to scream, building up and up and up—and his arm, and his stomach, and his chest, and head, and hands, and throat—

There’s a sound, then, something that’s like the high-pitched whine of his death, echoing through his ears and it hurts just as badly as everything else, like his hearing aids are malfunctioning worse than they ever have.

There are voices beyond it. People are talking past the pain, past the noise, and Jimmy strains to breathe and manages it.

He’s breathing?

His eyelids feel way too heavy. He can’t open them, he can’t see a thing, he can’t do anything.

It hurts. Every part of him is in agony, and he gasps for breath again and again and eventually realizes that the awful whine in his ears is coming from his own throat.

What’s happening? He—he died, didn’t he, didn’t he die?

He blew up, his body was a collection of bits, chunks of flesh scattered across the trench, and he can only remember that and smell the blood and dirt and gunpowder and he shouldn’t be alive—

He pushes.

He pushes to open his eyes, even though it’s the most difficult thing that he’s ever done, and his vision is flooded with too-bright light and he immediately closes them again.

A voice says something.

His skin hurts, the actual skin of his chest—and then there’s something cold on his pec and Jimmy jolts, which just sends another wave of pain across his whole body.

He opens his eyes again—easier, this time—and squints against the brightness, trying to focus on the dark shape hovering over him.

It’s a person, who is touching him, and Jimmy blinks and blinks until he gets some kind of focus through the blurriness.

He can see their lips, at least, which helps him to understand what they’re saying.

“There we go, you’re all right. You’re back.”

Jimmy can’t speak. He tries, swallows, but words won’t come out in any intelligible form.

Some strange rasp comes out of his mouth, and the person—a doctor?—nods.

“Lungs sound good,” they say, moving off his chest. “Do you remember what happened?”

Jimmy shakes his head, a slight side-to-side movement.

Well, he kind of does. He remembers dying. He remembers being dead.

“You’ve been respawned,” the doctor says slowly. “Someone high-up must think you’re worth it. “

They clap him on the shoulder, a flood of agony surging out from the contact, and stand, turning away to fiddle with a blanket draped over Jimmy’s legs (his legs?). “You should . . . get back in the fight soon. Take a day to rest here . . . sure that everything went well.”

Respawn. A forgone conclusion; nobody ever got respawned. Not unless they were the best of the best, and Jimmy certainly wasn’t that. He can aim a gun and pull the trigger, but—

He’s . . . he’s Deaf. Why would they want him?

He died.

He knows why he got respawned.

He also knows he shouldn’t have been.

There are so many better people, so many skilled soldiers and tacticians and able-bodied people who have died—like the kid in the trench with him, who got hit by the same shell.

It shouldn’t have been him. It shouldn’t have been him, not when it’s millions of dollars just for one respawn. He’s already damaged, he isn’t good at anything, he was so completely dead and he just wants to lie down and let the darkness take him again.

He was dead.

It isn’t right to be back. It doesn’t feel right; it feels like he’s been dragged unwilling from his grave, all his pieces forced back together and shoved into a uniform. He doesn’t—he doesn’t want to be here. He shouldn’t have been brought back.

It probably should have been anyone else.

But Jimmy’s back, now, and he has to stop hurting and get back to the fight.

He doesn’t have another choice.