#jaz.writing

[jaz-it-up]

Could I please request a Jimmy who grows wings (as in he doesn’t have wings, then he grows some)? Maybe hurt/comfort with Tango helping him through it? And as for setting, maybe during the Empires/Hermitcraft crossover?

Jimmy's back hurts.

Well, no, that's an understatement. It's been hurting for a little while, but now it feels like he's been trampled by, like, a billion ravagers. And just his luck, too; somehow, the Hermits are here, and he really doesn't want to spend whatever little time he'll get with Tango in a ridiculous amount of pain.

He tries to sit up, only for pain to shoot straight up his spine, followed by the sound of fabric tearing. He turns to see what it is-

The world blinks.

When Jimmy opens his eyes, he's looking up at a very worried Tango, pacing the room and talking to someone out of his field of view.

"I don't know," Tango says, glancing over at Jimmy. "He's- oh, oh, he's awake! He's- Jimmy, how are you feeling?"

As if on cue, the pain kicks back in. Jimmy groans, curling up on his bed. The air itself seems to sting against Jimmy's back, though he doesn't remember taking his shirt off.

"He's in rough shape," Tango says softly, sitting down next to him. "Hey, rancher. I'm sure you're hurting right now. You're super strong, alright? I mean, growing wings has to suck for anyone."

Wings? Wings? Since when the hell did he have wings?

"Don't look at them," Tango blurts out, practically reading his mind. "They're still coming out, and they're all sticky and bloody and stuff. And it's gonna hurt. I found you up here and they'd, like, just started poking out, so I called Grian, but he's gonna be a while."

"'S fine," Jimmy mumbles, leaning against him. "You're warm, anyway. Naptime."

Jimmy closes his eyes, drifting off to the feeling of Tango's claws in his hair.

[jaz-it-up]

project life: the watcher drones au

project life was a failed experiment in turning humans into powerful, immortal killing machines. no one outside of those involved in it were even aware of its existence...

until some of the subjects escaped, and the drones came.

these drones, nicknamed "watchers" by the few survivors, destroyed everything and everyone in their paths, hunting for the escaped survivors so they can be recaptured and project life can complete its goal.

the main story would follow the five survivors - grian, jimmy, martyn, pearl and bigb - as they try to evade the watchers, finding small groups to survive in before eventually reuniting at sanctuary, the last standing watcher-proof shelter city.

i honestly hadn't figured out what those groups would be, so if you have ideas for alliances and/or ships, i'm all ears!

please ask me about this au i forgot how much i loved it please please please

[jaz-it-up]

I want majortreebark please :D

Ren was in a situation right now.

You see, he's been a little apprehensive about returning to MCC because he hasn't played in so long and everything's changed and he's going to suck. At first, it was just False pestering him about it, but then False called in the big guns.

His boyfriends, Scott and Martyn.

Now, Ren has never considered himself a particularly strong-willed man. And now he's got two very beautiful men on either side of him, making puppy eyes at him.

"Fine," he sighs, and Martyn immediately leans in to kiss the top of his head with a laugh. "You guys are the worst, y'know that? The absolute worst."

"It's because we love you," Scott says. Ren leans into him, grinning.

"I'm gonna be teamed with you guys, aren't I?"

"Of course."

[jaz-it-up]

for @cathumanthing2

pearl's been drawn to the sun again recently.

recently is a bit of a tricky word to use, actually. it was six months ago, but it was also two years ago, three years ago, a thousand years ago. time is not linear for pearl, not really.

she misses them. that's the issue. gem's right here on hermitcraft, and sausage and fwhip are both on the fantasy server, but she still misses them. she misses her farm, her little arena, the fights and the friends and even the gentle peace she felt withering away in sausage's arms.

those friends, those versions of her friends, have been dead a thousand years. but at least she still has the sun.

(go vote majormoon for more free writing!)

[jaz-it-up]

Free writing :0? May I have a zombiewood please

there is a grave, and there is a sapling. it doesn't matter where, it doesn't matter when. there's just a grave and a sapling.

as the sapling grows, it begins to disturb the dirt of the grave. at first, it does not apologize, for it is a growing sapling and it needs room. it does not care who or what it grows through to survive.

but one day, as the summer dies and makes way for autumn, the grave says, i thought you didn't care for me.

i'm sorry? says the sapling. what do you mean?

i've never had a tree nearby, says the grave. i expected you to leave. you didn't say anything when you sprouted, so i figured you weren't here for long.

i can't really move, the sapling points out. we're kind of stuck together.

so we are, says the grave. and yet it took you so long to speak to me. you don't want to be here, do you? you want to drift on the wind, but you can't. you have roots. you grow attached.

you can't move either, the sapling argues. you're bound to the casket beneath you.

am i? says the grave. i am an unmarked grave. i am bound to nothing but the dirt we share. and so are you, i guess.

you're strange, says the sapling. you are very strange. but i've gotten used to sharing the dirt with you.

that's all i could ask, says the grave.

[jaz-it-up]

umm sorry if im misinterpreting this but could i get some mythicalmoon fluff in the afterlife?

"i'm sorry, pearl," sausage says for the millionth time. pearl takes a moment to stop herself from slapping him upside the head.

"i've told you, sausage, it's okay," she says. "i'm not upset about you not saving me. it was bound to happen one way or another. what matters is that we're both here now."

"do you know... is anyone else coming?"

pearl's heart melts just a little as she says, "no, i designed this place just for you. this is our afterlife. it's just us here."

"just us?" sausage gasps. "oh, pearl, you're too sweet!"

"not for you," pearl responds, giggling when sausage's face turns bright red.

[jaz-it-up]

Hey jaz! Big galaxyduo truther here, i would like smth rancherduo as a drabble :D

"tango."

every hair on the back of tango's neck stands on end. he knows that voice, that tone. he knows that it shouldn't be here.

he knows it sounds angry.

"hi, jimmy," he squeaks. "how you been, man?"

"what is this?!" jimmy cries, whacking him in the back of the head with a wing. "you're making plateup?! without me?!"

"it's not- it's not like that," tango tries to explain. "it's just- i had the idea, and you've only got, like, visiting time, and you're on that server with sausage anyway-"

"relax, relax, i'm not actually mad." jimmy wraps his arms around tango's waist, resting his chin atop the other's head. "this looks amazing already, babe."

"you think so? it's nowhere near done yet, but i like how it looks, too."

"you're such a good builder," jimmy says, pressing a kiss to the top of tango's head. "maybe the best."

"you're not half bad yourself, bird boy." tango looks up at him, the biggest smile on his face. "i'm glad you're here."

"i'm glad you're here, too."

[jaz-it-up]

hey so you know how Scott picks a llama for his familiar in witchcraft smp,,, and Owens a llama in empires smp? I think that could make some fun things.. Maybe added twist of witchcraft! Owen having some ties to outsiders, since death and stuff? (hope this isn't too demanding for just voting majormoon lol)

look, scott knows he's all about the creepy and unsettling aesthetic, but there is something downright disturbing about this llama.

most of the time, the llama just kinda... stares, a thousand-block stare that is so painfully human that if scott still had a heart, it'd hurt.

whenever he summons a demon, though, the llama gets pissed.

it glares and spits at both him and the demon, no matter what kind, as if it has some sort of prejudice or hatred for demons. if that's the case, scott has absolutely no idea why it decided to stick around.

but hey, it's generally pretty nice to him, so he'll take it.

[jaz-it-up]

"But the wicked are like the troubled sea, when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt." -Isaiah 57:20

Or: Ren, Martyn, and the series of increasingly bad decisions surrounding the Red King's coronation.

a gift fic for @apollothetransboy and his fic, spring dawns on an eastern shore!

full fic under the cut!

Ren is waiting.

He knows Martyn faces a difficult choice. He knows that either way, they will both get hurt; either Martyn kills him and leaves, or Martyn stays and they die together, the Red King and his Hand.

"I won't do it!"

Ren freezes. He can't see Martyn, since he's standing behind him, but he sounds terrified. Void, what was he thinking, asking Martyn to do this?

"You took me in when I was just a lowly traveler going across the land, searching the four corners of this world," Martyn continues, his voice high and shaking. "I learned there was nothing in this world for me, nothing but walls, corners, edges. And you know what? You showed me life."

Ren swallows against the lump of guilt in his throat. To have shown such a lively man as Martyn how to live is an honor, surely, and not one he fully believes he deserves.

"As much as I've taken it from you, you've given it back to me in buckets full," Martyn says. "And I just- I- I'm with you. This is us now. This is us."

"It's you and me to the end, Hand," Ren manages to say. "Red Winter is coming!"

And as if on cue, Martyn stumbles off into the carrot fields, hits the ground hard and vomits.

Ren is at his side in a heartbeat, one hand on his shoulder. "Martyn? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm alright, I just-" Martyn retches again, and Ren tries not to flinch at the sound- "tonight's been… a lot. I think-"

He throws up again, and okay, Ren might be a worrywart on occasion, but he's fairly sure that isn't normal. He's too afraid of what might happen if he tries to move Martyn, though, so he settles for kneeling in the carrot patch, rubbing Martyn's back soothingly.

For a moment, it seems to die down. Martyn is on his hands and knees in the dirt, breathing slowly and shallowly, green eyes wide and haunted.

"How are ye, Hand?" Ren murmurs, squeezing his shoulder.

"I almost killed you," Martyn whispers, horrified. "I almost- oh, void-”

He gags, but what little is still in his stomach manages to stay down for the moment. He presses his hand against his mouth, looking extremely nauseous and pale, and Ren can't help the tears that spring to his own eyes. He didn't want Martyn to feel bad about this. He didn't want Martyn to be scared.

“Let's get inside, Hand,” Ren says quietly. “I'm sorry. I would not have asked ye to do this, had I known it would make ye sick.”

Martyn doesn't answer as Ren cautiously pulls him to his feet. He seems lost in his own mind, eyes glassy and face white as a sheet. Ren helps him down the stone steps and into the underbelly of Dogwarts, his eyes never leaving Martyn for a second. 

Ren's a little bit lost in his thoughts, too. He shouldn't have done this to Martyn. He should have thought of a different way, a better way to protect Dogwarts and earn Martyn's trust. Not that he thinks he has it anymore, of course; why would Martyn trust him, after everything he's put him through tonight?

Martyn practically collapses onto one of the beds, hand still covering his mouth. Ren rummages around for a bucket, wordlessly handing it to him. Martyn curls himself around it, clutching it to his chest like his life depends on it.

“I'm sorry, Martyn,” Ren murmurs, his voice ragged. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I wasn't thinking, I just-”

“Don't,” Martyn chokes out. “I know why you did it. I'm not- I’m not mad- shit-”

Martyn coughs harshly into the bucket, and Ren wrinkles his nose at the smell. 

“That still doesn't mean I should’ve done it.”

“Quit- quit that.” Martyn exhales shakily. “You said it y-yourself. Sometimes i-in life, you gots to do things that hurt.”

“Rest now,” Ren says quietly, not wanting to continue the conversation. “It will not undo the harm I caused ye, but I might hope it will help in healing it.”

Martyn slowly lays back, setting the bucket next to him on the floor. He closes his eyes, but he's still so pale that-

Well, in all honesty, he looks like a corpse.

“Sleep on yer left, laddie,” Ren says. “Helps the nausea, or so I’m told. Shout if ye need me.”

“Mhm.”

…

The sun is rising and Ren is tending to the crops when a bloodcurdling scream reaches his ears. It's a scream of pure terror, something raw and instinctual. It sounds like shattering glass and shattered trust, like someone who has lost everything and can do nothing but scream for its loss. 

Ren's on his feet in an instant, farming tools forgotten in the dirt. There's only one other person within the walls of Dogwarts, one person that scream could have come from.

Martyn.

He barely stops himself from sprinting downstairs, his claws scratching uncomfortably against the stone stairs. Martyn is once again hunched over the bucket, though he does look minimally better.

“Sorry, my lord,” Martyn says breathlessly. “Just- just a nightmare. You can- you can-” he throws up yet again- “sorry, you can go. It should get better af-after this.”

“I'm staying here,” Ren says without a moment's hesitation. “I didn't know anyone could scream like that.”

“I-”

“Don't apologize,” Ren says quickly. “Don't. Please. I should be apologizing, if anything. I did that to you. You're getting nightmares about something I asked you to do.”

Martyn swallows and looks away. Ren thinks it might feel better to be decapitated again.

“I'll get you some water,” Ren murmurs. “You must be dehydrated.”

When Ren returns, a glass water bottle in his hand, Martyn has drifted off again. His brows are creased in worry, even in sleep. Ren brushes a loose strand of hair out of Martyn's face, careful not to actually touch him, just in case he's a light sleeper.

Yeah. Definitely not because Ren doubts that Martyn will ever want anything to do with him again after what he did.

They spend most of the day like that - Martyn either sleeping or on the verge of a panic attack, and Ren at his side, trying to help and too afraid to talk about what happened. 

It's a strange shift, Ren protecting Martyn, but one that Ren welcomes. He'll do anything for Martyn.

He's even got his gear all in one place for when Martyn asks him to leave.

He doesn't really know where he'll go. He's not sure he has anywhere to go; maybe Etho's wool castle, way out in the swamp, or maybe he'll find some far-off corner to hide in until he dies. 

Now that he's red, maybe he'll get lucky and the mobs will get him before he has the chance.

That thought sends goosebumps up his arms and down his back. He's thinking about dying, and he's thinking about wanting to die. That's- that's not good.

He really shouldn't have done what he did tonight.

The moon is high amongst the stars when Martyn properly wakes again. He looks exhausted - still pale, but not worryingly so, and his green eyes are rimmed red from crying. Ren nearly starts crying himself when he sees Martyn, but he forces himself to keep it together at least long enough to finish the soup he's making. He's never been the best cook, but it's something he can do for Martyn, so he'll do it.

“Good, uh- what time is it, my lord?” Martyn asks, his voice scratchy and rough.

“About 10 at night, if I were to guess,” Ren says. Part of him wants to ask Martyn why he's still bothering to refer to him by title after everything he did, but instead, he just holds up the bowl in his arms. “I made soup, if you're hungry.”

“I- how long was I asleep, then?” 

“Most of the-” Ren’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat- “most of the day. I'm sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Martyn asks. “I had a shitty reaction. That's not your fault. It'd be dumb to be mad at you for how I react to things.”

Ren sets down the soup. He has a feeling it'll go cold before it's eaten. “I triggered that reaction, though.”

“Still not your fault.” Martyn sits up a little more, though Ren doesn't miss the way his hands shake. “You didn't know. Plus, I would have told you if I really didn't want to do it.”

“We both know that's a lie,” Ren says softly. “We'd both do anything for each other at the cost of ourselves.”

“Why are you so dead set on believing you did something wrong?” Martyn snaps. “You didn't! If you're looking for forgiveness, you're not going to get it, because there's nothing to forgive. I'm not mad. Am I upset that I reacted the way I did? Sure. Am I going to have nightmares about chopping your head off for the rest of my life? Yeah, probably! But here's the thing: I get it. I get why you did it, and I get that you feel bad about it. This has turned into a death game, and everyone has something they're going to feel bad about. The last thing I want is to see you destroy yourself over it. Okay?”

Ren bursts into tears.

“Oh, Ren,” Martyn says, his voice impossibly soft. “Come here. Come here, my liege.”

Ren doesn't quite fall into Martyn's arms, but it feels like he does, and part of him hates the way the two of them fit together, like they were meant to stay with each other. They both hold each other like their lives depend on it, and Ren knows they're both crying. 

If the circumstances were better, he'd want to stay here forever.

“I hate this,” Ren gasps between sobs. “I hate it. I want to- I want to go home.”

“I know, my lord,” Martyn murmurs. “I would take you there if I could.”

“I don't deserve you,” Ren mumbles, burying his face in Martyn's hair. “You're too good to me, Hand.”

“And I don't deserve you,” Martyn replies. “But we have each other, so let's ignore that for now and get some sleep, yeah?”

Ren lays back, pulling Martyn with him. Martyn turns over so Ren's chest is pressed against his back, and he tugs Ren's arm over his body like a shield.

Ren tries not to cry even more at that.

“Goodnight, my lord,” Martyn whispers. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Ren whispers back. “Goodnight, Hand.”

Martyn falls asleep.

Ren does not.

Peace is not to wicked men.

[jaz-it-up]

pretty please any cute treebark reunion fluff, maybe like. the first morning they wake up together when they meet again (post-life series, on hermitcraft or in a new season, whatever works)? 🥺

Martyn spots Ren the second he logs on, all the way on the other side of the lobby.

You can't blame him for that. He spent nearly two months having his life completely upended in the best way possible by Ren, it only makes sense he'd be able to find him anywhere.

Scott had to know, when he was putting the teams together, exactly what the hell he was doing.

It takes everything in Martyn's power not to run up and almost tackle-hug him. Ren's arms are open for him, anyway, and Martyn just closes his eyes and takes it in. Ren is here, on the MCC server, and they don't have to kill anyone (yet), and they can just hold each other.

"I missed you," Martyn breathes into Ren's shoulder. "I missed you so much."

"I missed you, too, Hand," Ren says, and if he can feel Martyn's tears soaking into his shirt, he doesn't comment on it.

This is the closest Martyn thinks he'll ever get to being home.

[jaz-it-up]

@mcyt-drabble-exchange gift for @yoshiintheweb ! i hope it's alright :3

Etho, through no fault of his own, tends to be the weirdest thing in any town. He's not sure why; as far as he's aware, he's a normal human.

This place, however… it's different.

It looked strange on the map, surrounded by flowers in a circle. The people stare at him, too. Expressionless gazes follow him through the streets. Well, most people did.

There's two that didn't.

He can't look at them. They're always just a glimpse of pink and green, but they follow him everywhere.

Forget the job. Etho has to figure out what was up with this town.

[jaz-it-up]

would you have done it?: a lautski poem

(also featuring a playlist by the lovely @arcadecarpetgay)

if i hadn't asked,

would you have done it?

if i had just knelt before you on the turf without saying a word,

unable to see the halo of the stadium lights behind you, marking you as the angel you are,

would you have done it?

if i hadn't said that i knew what they wanted,

if i hadn't known you were going to try,

if i had just stood there or sat among the empty bleachers,

would you have done it?

or worse, if i had grabbed the gun,

would i have done it?

you had no one left but me. it might've been kinder.

but would i have done it?

would i have thrown weeks of effort away to save the world?

would i have dropped to my knees on the turf as you bled,

holding you closer than i ever had the courage to while you were alive?

no.

no, i don’t think i would have. i don't think i could have lived with the guilt.

but you?

if she hadn't been there,

if he hadn't caught it,

if i hadn't asked you,

would you have done it?

[jaz-it-up]

oh yeah i meant to send this! can you write something about scar and joe? platonic, romantic, or somewhere in-between are all fine

"So... which one do I look at?"

"The puppet!" The cheerfulness in Joe's tone was clear as glass, despite the inability to change expression due to being made of felt. "Don't mind the body. That's technically also me, but I'm not too sure whether I'm getting back into that anymore."

"Back into... your body," Scar clarified.

"Yep!" Joe nodded, strings of yarn-hair falling into eir face. "Keralis was right, y'know. Being a puppet is way easier than keeping up with the countless needs of the flesh."

Joe said that like Scar didn't know that, in a much worse sense. Ey said that like Scar didn't live for years with a mask on his face, sinking its little claws deeper and deeper into his soul until they were inseparable; like Scar was unaware of how dragging a corpse felt, especially your own.

"I can imagine," Scar replied, because he knew if he said anything else he would maybe start breaking down and make this whole thing much more awkward than it needed to be.

"You ought to give it a try sometime," Joe offered. "Becoming a felt puppet. Or a sock puppet. Or any kind of fabric puppet, really. Only if you want to, though. You seem to be thinking awfully loud in a language I don't think you want me to understand."

If Scar hadn't already been sitting in his wheelchair, he'd have sat right down on the grass by his train and just... stared into the distance. Did Joe really know what he was thinking? Did ey happen to guess based on prior experience?

What a strange puppet, that Joe Hills. A strange, strange puppet.

[jaz-it-up]

Hello :D I voted for majorwoof bc you said you'd write something for anyone who did (and I am very easily bribed /silly)

Could I get some impdubs angst or hurt/comfort? Double life rewired the neurons in my brain ✨

Thank you!

Impulse's eyes have always been a warm brown, almost honey-colored in the right light. They're one of Bdubs' favorite things to look at.

But not right now.

Right now, on a world so distant from bloodstained grass and a stone brick tower, Impulse's eyes are cold, dark and frightened, laser-focused on the chain clipped to the belt loops of Bdubs' pants.

A chain with a clock dangling from it.

Bdubs fidgets with the back panel of the one in his hand, acutely aware of how Impulse's gaze flits between the two.

"I... can't help but notice what you're holding, there," Impulse says tightly.

"Oh, this?" Bdubs holds the clock up for a moment before tucking it into his inventory. "It's- uh, it's not the clock, if you're wondering."

"And the other one?"

Bdubs hesitates. The one on the chain is the clock Scar gave him. He hasn't quite gotten all of Impulse's blood off of it yet.

The hesitation seems to say more than enough to Impulse, who offers him a thin, tight-lipped smile and says, "Well, it was nice running into you, Bdubs."

"No, hey, it's not- it's not like that anymore," Bdubs insists. "It's not. That was a different world. And if- if I really had a choice, I wouldn't have done it."

He's not sure if he's telling the truth, but if it prevents Impulse from holding as much of a grudge, then he'll gladly lie.

"Really?"

"Really."

"You should come over sometime," Bdubs blurts out before he can stop himself. "If you want."

Impulse considers it for a moment, those dark eyes of his searching Bdubs for something he doesn't know or understand. Bdubs is about to apologize, to tell him that the place isn't much right now, and then Impulse says, "Sure. I'll come over... later tonight, if that works?"

"Y-yeah." Bdubs breathes out a sigh of relief. "That works."

[jaz-it-up]

it's time for another @sweetspicybingo fill! prompts are "i can't breathe" + comfort the dying

warnings: major character death, cliffhanger, blood, trafficshipping, cursing

pairing: ldshadowlady/ethoslab

this is an old evo/life series dystopia au of mine where the watchers are hunting down the former evo members using drones to try and recapture them.

"Liz," Etho wheezes, "Lizzie, I can't... I can't breathe."

"Take your mask off, dummy." Lizzie brushes Etho's hair out of his eyes, hooking her fingers under one of the straps of his mask in the process. "If you don't want me to see your face, tough luck. Sorry."

"I do that for the bit," Etho whispers, and if it weren't for the blood spilling between his fingers where they're pressed against his side, she'd smack him.

"You're something else," Lizzie says fondly, taking his mask the rest of the way off. She presses a light kiss to his nose, just because she can.

Etho's hand weakly wraps around her wrist, tugging her closer. His other hand reaches up toward her face, leaving smears of blood and redstone on her cheek.

"I know I don't ask this often," Etho breathes, "but can I kiss you?"

There's something in his tone, something desperate and terrified, that makes Lizzie wonder if he's hiding just how hard the drone hit him. Why it was even going for him in the first place is beyond her; she knows who they're looking for, and they'd have a much better shot at getting to any of them through her.

Lizzie leans down and kisses Etho, not caring if her hair gets wet with his blood. His lips are inexplicably soft, and he tastes like smoke and citrus and blood and it's a horrible combination of things, but she can't bring herself to care. It's Etho. She'd kiss Etho for the rest of time if she could.

"Thanks," Etho breathes. "Wanted one more... before I die."

"Etho, you're-" Lizzie stops herself mid-sentence. Who is she kidding? They're in the middle of the city, probably not even five miles from the warehouse where the drones are made and stored. If she's lucky, the drones will get her, too; if she's not, she'll get kidnapped, and whoever owns the little fuckers will torture her for anyone's whereabouts until she dies.

"Don't be too sad without me, okay?" Lizzie asks. "I shouldn't be too long."

"No, hey," Etho wheezes. He coughs weakly, blood spattering his lips. "I'm- you're not..."

Something buzzes at the other end of the alley, and Lizzie, barely thinking, practically slaps her hand over Etho's mouth, shifting to block him from whatever's approaching. Etho doesn't protest.

He doesn't even breathe against her hand.

"Etho?"

[jaz-it-up]

cat xisuma for the swap art i think it’d be funny?

-vaish titiro

ren leans over bdubs' shoulder, occasionally casting worried glances across the room.

"bdubs," he says quietly, "you may want to put the pointer away. i know you've worked really hard on this powerpoint, and it's a great plotline idea, but uh..."

bdubs follows ren's gaze to where-

oh, goodness.

xisuma is leaning on the table, tail swishing back and forth, eyes locked on the little red dot on the screen. cleo and joe are on either side of him, trying their best to stop him from launching himself across the table at it.

"yeah, yeah, i will," bdubs says, trying just as hard not to laugh. "i will. that's funny, though."

he turns it off and xisuma whirls toward him, blinking for a moment.

"did i miss something?" he asks.

bdubs cracks up at that, and then cleo and joe start laughing, and nothing gets done for the rest of the meeting.